"A cuppa tea and a piece of carrot cake, darlin' " says the newcomer at the counter of my favourite cafe. He is addressing the wife of the cafe owner, a neat, grey haired lady, not much given to smiling. If I didn't know, I would know that I am in England, and the South of England too.
From the terrace behind Sankey's bar, I look up to a rooftop where, from a washing-line, a pair of very faded jeans swings its legs in the breeze.
With practiced nonchalance, while smoking a cigarette, a grey haired old lady in an electric buggy, steers between pedestrians on the broad, brick pavement of Mount Pleasant.