What can YOU say in six sentences?
One blonde, soft-cushioned teenager with pushchair whose eyes say she hadn’t reckoned that five irresponsible minutes on her back would lead to eighteen years of responsibility for another.
Two coffee-bean-coloured cats, backlit gold and far too thin, near invisible against the black plastic bin-sack they are casing.
Three fluorescent-jacketed men arrange to hire a car, one good-looking in a careless Italian sort of fashion, dark glasses, curly hair.
Four over-soft and squidgy leather chairs – bucket seats? – deep crimson walls, coffee and cakes with Charlotte.
Five or six tiny tattooed butterflies on the neck of the checkout girl in Tesco’s, her attention torn between customer and waiting friends.
Seven dirty ochre chimney pots, not one of equal size or angle, staging an ever-changing minstrel show of crows and gulls.