Three meat wagons Melissa counted in her street. She flicked the dog end down a drain, lifted the collar of her coat and the police tape passed along on her right. An ad hoc wrestling ring had been constructed outside the newsagent. In the ring was a mêlée of activity, uniformed and boiler suited men and women ran backwards and forwards, a tag team match descended into anarchy. This she took in without looking up from the tarmac, avoiding any eye contact or cameras.
The place was familiar. Not this place in particular but places like it; places with scenes like this. Melissa never travelled. She saw no need. The streets swam around her, presenting variety every day but there were themes, always themes. Rarely did exotic streets appear. Only on a couple of occasions had golden beaches arrived at her feet and only once did a snow covered mountain tower above, before retreating again to a haven of magazines and movies.
But that was long ago. These days it was only London which fussed at her feet, sniffing her shoes and begging for attention. Sometimes it would disappear for a few hours but it always returned at meal times. If she was honest, she liked having it around.
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