Today hangs grey and colourless in muted tones, people quietly rushing, trying to get the day over and done with, commuters walking, phones to their heads, all buisness like no ambling glance to spare. A mother and child shout across the street and the old lady with a perm like the tower of Babel scraping at the grey sky waves back can't stop she says, gotta go.Today is too bland to hang about anywhere but in your own head, people walk oblivious like ghosts or zombies.The council has removed the last flowers from the flowerbeds and the barren brown earth echoes the celestial monotony.
A new traffic warden, pale skinned and fresh faced, red faced in his blue uniform, still getting used to his kit, adjusting straps and hanging ticket dispenser, keen and eager he circles the block, checking the same cars he checked a couple of hours ago, trying to keep himself busy on this uninspiring day with gulls wheeling off into colourless distance overhead, quietly as if muffled by the lack of contrast and sunshine.A chap from the waterboard, his luminous vest in stark contrast with the world walks up to the first house across the way and lifts an inspection cover. He is carrying his kit, a pipe extension, and a long tap wrench. He sets to with well practiced moves, the water gushing brown first then clear from the pipe extension as he leans over for the briefest of instants to read the note stuck to the door of the house alerting any delivery persons to try the pub rather than the old lady next door. Then the tap is off, the cover back on and with his kit in hand the lad is striding on not the time or the weather to hang about today, and he too is gone, moved on.
