The Grove, Tunbridge Wells, at twilight.
Sometime you feel that the package is worth as much as its contents. A particular brand of coffee, which we can no longer afford, comes in cylindrical tins deserving of life after they have outlived their primary use. I used to imagine collecting enough to make legs, filling them with sand to provide stability, and gluing or screwing them together to support a discarded door or sheet of glass or perspex and so make a table. Today I remove from its pack a new handkerchief, which is wrapped round a very serviceable piece of white board. Something to embellish, to make a card or book mark or small picture of. But surely not to discard.
Walking past cash points, where despite the credit crunch, people are queuing for cash, I listen carefully, as the coins in the bank stamp their feet, while the banknotes shuffle and whisper: Christmas, Christmas!