A youngish woman came into work to ask the time.
"Four!" she said. "It's too busy to be four!"
(Nevertheless, it was four.)
"Have you noticed that everything is getting busier? I don't like crowds. I don't like people."
As she left she farted. It sounded like somebody sneezing into a clarinet.
An oldish man carrying reusable shopping bags approached me in the street.
"Jeez, Doncaster's only about a hundred yards from here!"
I joined him in gazing upon the white tower of Doncaster Shoppo on its hilltop at least two kilometres away.
"Jeez," he said again and swished his shopping bags through the air.
The man had surgical wounds on his face and scalp. Perhaps they had taken out something that was killing him, and perhaps that wasn't all they took.