The sun is out and a flurry of cars pass the end of the road, windows open. Mr and Mrs Bluebird are hopping through the velvet branches of the staghorn tree and there is laughter in the little park. At the corner, a man with his shirt sleeves rolled up arranges a drink with a colleague, speaking into his mobile phone with a voice that is bright and certain. I hear the clip clop of high heel shoes and the sound of a hosepipe from next door’s patio. There is not a solitary cloud in the sky.
The Prime Minister…
MW Bewick 