Stepping over the vomit, you remember too late: only a fool would go out into a provincial English town centre late in the evening. It’s night of the living dead out here.
Screams that sound like they come from the Dante-damned. And that’s just from the people who are enjoying themselves.
The lurching zombie threat of violence simmering.
Saw two fights on West Street last night, and a third on Division Street. None of them amounted to much; the second came closest when a girl took off her heels and went for the chap with whom she had her grievance. Police jumped out of a van and intervened, but not before his shirt was ruined.
Later, walking to The Wicker to get a taxi, I attempted some photos of Castle Market.
None of them came out.
