On the white top of a pillar supporting the front gate of a house, I spot a tiny snail, about two centimeters from head to tail when fully extended beneath its little shell. It makes its way across the square expanse of plaster. Out of my pocket comes my camera. I put it into macro focus and take two photographs. "Hullo, Joe" says a voice, addressing me, I realize; " what are you doing? It is a friend. I tell her what I am doing. Together we marvel at this little creature. We are joined by an elderly gentleman, who seems to be anxious to enter the house. It is his house and, we amiably agree, his snail. I promise to send him a print.
In the still soggy vegetable garden, the bronze sun flowers have collapsed, and lean on one another like drunks. Some have fallen over, and the stems have twisted upwards so that the flowers can, somehow, face the sun as they are supposed to do.
There is an automatic machine in the supermarket, which counts and sorts coins. It is called Constar and is, I imagine, designed to help people, who hoard coins in piggy banks and the like. "Bring your jar, pour in your coins, get cash," a notice urges. My attention is drawn to it by a noise like a metallic waterfall. A man is standing in front of it. He is feeding it with money from the gaping pockets of his coat. It crashes and clatters with the contentment of an animal enjoying a good meal.