I stepped around, and behind, the bloke with his trews hanging so low they exposed his jockeys, and lent back against the light post, deep in the shadow of Perry Lane. The afternoon lengthened, I could hear the stores clanging closed for the day. Another long weekend done; more tyre-kickers than shoppers. All hands, no pockets. I sensed her presence, rather than saw her. Maybe it was the half-gurgled intake of air, perhaps the stench of day-old beer, strained through stale sweat.
Buy the worst house in the street, but avoid walking the dingiest lane in the suburb, even a suburb like this: trendy, expensive, sought after. She kept pushing her matted hair from her slits-for-eyes, not taking them off me. Or my camera. Instinctively patting my back-pack, I stepped closer to the wall. and focussed.
'Don't touch dem beer bottles,' she wheezed.