moss nails grass

Moss on top of a wall.

Outside a beauty clinic a girl holds up her hands and appears to be waving.  Is she praying?  Or begging? A faint smile perhaps of embarrassment floats by her lips. Then I notice her finger nails. They are bright yellow. She is drying them after they have been lacquered.

Outside the terraced house of Pat the dentist, the verge has grown. I  stop to admire buttercups and daisies, dandelions and alkanite, not usually in evidence among the close cropped grass. |Along comes Pat  on his mobility scooter. I recall that this year he celebrates his 100th birthday. "It's about time they cut the grass," he says.