A hot wind blows down the street. I hate the wind. It makes me feel unsettled. Unruly. The local meat wholesalers have dressed up their factory in tinsel. Discount ham for Christmas; cheap meat on Greeves Street.

Buster the dog has been left in my care and I take him outside to go to the toilet. I use an old mobile phone charger in the absence of a lead. The loose brown fur of his puppyhood gathers in rolls across his neck, gleaming in the sun. The heat wafts his puppy scent towards me. He’s a good dog.

The guys across the road make furniture and are outside spraying varnish on their raw wood tables. They always glance up when activities on the street get particularly unusual but they are immune to the spectacle and go quickly back to their business.

K. tells me she hears noise in her head. She means the voices that talk to her but I tell her it’s the sander the guys are using now and we laugh.

The street is bare. I guess the heat keeps the girls inside until later and that the corners are full only in the cool ends of the day. The ones that do walk come in burnt, looking for cold drinks and iceblocks. We really have to buy some sunscreen. We had some but someone took it. Someone always takes everything.

Cop cars are drawing lazy circles of the sex streets, booking the few that emerge as the afternoon wears on. They are suss of me and my camera, stopping to talk about the weather. Hot. Yes it is. There is a blitz on. S. gets booked twice, mouthing off loudly about the slagcopbitchfromhellhowfuckingdareshe.

Some mug wanders past and checks to see if I’m selling. Eyes me appreciatively. I roll my eyes as he loiters in the shade. He seems to need to work up the courage to ask one of the girls a price. K. intervenes and tells him to piss off. Solidarity. He says he is waiting for a man. We don’t believe him.

Ugly Mug reports blow around in the wind. There is something in that, an analogy probably, but I’m blank, tired. I’ve eaten a Mars Bar. We have them in the cupboard here and sometimes I sneak one and it always makes me feel sick. I have no idea why I do it. I’m tired I guess and they lure me with the promise of a cheap sugar high.

I’m not really in the mood for this today. Don’t really want to talk to anyone. Or have anyone talk to me. I feel stretched thin by the demands of the book whose blank pages nibble at the edge of my mind, greedily coveting my attention. I want to stay at home and write, get some space to process my experiences. There is a list of topics unattended, flagging my attention.

My friend Samala gave me this Robert Frost poem and it has become my favourite.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.

This moment, like the hot wind wafting on across my furrowed brow, is just fleeting. Like a rolling tumbleweed. B. walks past and wishes for my cleavage. I laugh. She has an abscess in her groin from shooting up gone bad. She won’t spend her money filling her antibiotics script, choosing heroin as her pain relief. My miles pale in comparison to hers. Perspective.