Sometimes we forget to look up.
On the lid of a rubbish bin in The Grove two rolls of flowered wall paper lie side by side still in their cellophane wrapping.
Chimes emerge from the frail body of an aged man sitting at the bus stop. For a long time he ignores it. You begin to doubt if the mobile telephone is his. He is not the sort of person who would possess one. But eventually he searches in this pocket for the offending hardware. With difficulty he switches it on and brings it up to his ear. "I can't hear you," he says.