ISN’T IT ABOUT TIME?

There were people sitting on each of the benches in King Square when I walked round the outside of the park on my way back home from saying goodbye at the station:
- two women and a pram;
- three men drinking;
- a man on his own facing Jamaica Street;
- woman with a dog.

‘You should do something about those,’ shouted one of the drinking men. ‘My friend’s getting an erection.’
‘That’s his problem not mine,’ said the woman pulling her cardigan across her chest. She crouched down by the pushchair and reached underneath at something on the tray.
‘It didn’t used to be,’ said the man.
He laughed loudly and waved the can of Special Brew he had in his hand towards her. His friend, the one sat on his left, took a swig of white cider from a green plastic bottle.
‘Yeh, well things change,’ she said. ‘I wanted to do something different.’
She stopped what she was doing, stood up and looked over at the three drinkers the third of whom sat on the grass scratching his leg.
‘Isn’t it about time you lot did something different?’ she said.