Drawing early this morning I heard a voice. I was standing on the corner of Bridge Street just along from the dip that leads down to a wine bar and then to the sewage treatment works. It was a shouting voice. It swore, it called something ‘nasty’, it sang and then shouted again. It sounded like it was someone lying on their back. I drew hastily as the voice seemed to get louder. Should I go and help the thing, that now sounded like a troll about to appear from its cave? Not sure of what I’d encounter, I decided against it. It wasn’t a shouting of pain, after all, just inconvenience, or maybe disorientation. It was an intoxicated voice, certainly. Was I being unkind?
