In their regulation daytime armour that still cracks with the coarse bedroom whisper of yesterdays broken promise, young women push vape shadowed baby carriers pass boarded up pub windows. The world is the local high street, where each day a bitter grey tide shambles downhill towards abandoned blue churches and disappearing city light. And it is here their plastic shoes slap into one off needles that litter paper gutters and where, even on dry days, the pavements are damp.
