Swings and roundabouts

We left the house last night as it was getting dark, responding to A&L's invitation for a late drink at the Fir Tree. One of our neighbours has installed an industrial wheelie bin on the pavement, and the parking's beginning to fill up as the start of term approaches.

It's going to start feeling oppressive round here soon, I said to M. Maybe we should move somewhere where there aren't kebab boxes in the street, people don't break bits off trees and you can park outside your house. Hmmm, he said. I wonder what I would be like if I lived in the middle of nowhere?

We mused on this further on the way down the hill, hardly noticing a gradual build up of the kind of noise only really large machines get to make.

We swung round the corner onto Cowley Road and it was like something out of Mad Max. The road was closed -- they are raising its level as part of current beautification attempts -- but motorists were squeezing past the barriers and zooming down bits they shouldn't be. Between the cordons there were huge trucks pouring asphalt down onto the road, and big thumperumperers (note: not technical term) with their own floodlights packing it down ready for it to be steamrollered later. It was hot, the noise was immense, and the orange lights bounced off lots of grime-streaked men in fluorescent jackets.

In the middle of all this the Bangla Bazaar had decided to get itself a new window and door, and the staff were packing up in a shop with no front. Just round the corner, in the gap left when they knocked down the Akash, a guy with long grey hair sat cross-legged on the ground painting an anti-corporate mural on the wall.

By the time I got to the pub I'd remembered why it is I live here.

joella