Waiting at a pedestrian crossing in Frant Road this afternoon I indulge in one of my favourite movie clichés, when someone in a hurry, driven to get to the other side of the road, by lust, grief or fear, charges through the traffic, vaulting car bonnets or dances in between it like a matador drawing in his stomach as sweeping mudguards and bumpers all but knock him flat. Alas even if driven by any of the requisite emotions, I have lost every vestige of the agility (and irresponsibility) needed to accomplish such an escapade.
In the window of the posh gardening shop in Chapel Place I gaze at an implement called a "behind cupboard brush". It is shaped like a very fine, shepherds' crook, with the hook at the top edged with a crop of fine bristles which run down a few inches down the handle, a bit like a Mohican haircut. Most of our cupboards are fitted, though I can see that it might be good behind radiators and the odd free-standing bookshelf. I enjoy looking at it, but much as I love tools of all sorts, I can place it pretty high on the growing list of tools that I do not want.
A pair of sandal-clad feet in motion. 
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