On the trunk is a shadow of a branch.
"I want a cauliflower, " says a woman to her husband at the supermarket, "I just feel like one."
Above the High Street, caught in the wire, which straddles the road, where the Christmas lights are hung in season, is a bouquet of balloons, yellow, mauve and white, which have broken loose. The wind blows the bunch along the wire until it reaches the centre. There it bobs and writhes, a celebration with nothing to celebrate but itself.