The grey pavement is shot with spits and spills and scarred by gum and guano. On each side, buildings rise up; one side a concrete shopping centre and the other a row of three-story mismatched old shops, takeaways and beauty bars; busy by day, empty by night. There is a row of ash trees, their roots buried in bark and plastic mesh and tall, mock, Victorian street lights, from which the council have hung baskets of plants. Throughout the summer, a noisy watering machine will hydrate them into blossoming colour with tendrils of green.
High up, in all the slits and slats, and rafters and crevices of the buildings, the pigeons live. Dark grey and white, rainbow spangled, they glide up and down the street, like a fleet of sailboats over the heads of pedestrians, coming to land regularly to peck up the remains of pastries, burgers and kebabs discarded by the passers-by. Occasionally a lone enterprising bird will strike out and seek new offerings, bobbing and dipping at the ground. Occasionally the whole flock will soar up, when an alarm sounds, sending them, with a thunderclap of beating wings, in perfect formation, for the stone safety above.
They are not the only inhabitants of this street. But the other occupants do not live in the rooftops or the high echelons of the Brutalist monument. They live on the ground, in plastic tents in doorways, with grime-stained bundles of belongings and trash from donated food. Grey and yellow, in unwashed clothes, they huddle on benches drinking beer and cider, smoking joints or passed out on spice, rising regularly to rifle through bins for the remains of pastries, burgers and kebabs discarded by the passers-by. Occasionally a lone enterprising person will wander off, gibbering nonsense or begging for change or scouring the pavement for cigarette butts. Occasionally the whole huddle will rise up, when an altercation breaks out, shouting threats and abuse, pushing and shoving, until the police arrive, in perfect formation, to settle the affray.
People stop to watch from a distance. The pigeons, which had all scattered in fright, return to their feeding.
“Dirty creatures! They’re vermin!” one person says. “They ought to be moved on!”
“But they are part of the ecology of the city!” says another. “Where else would they go?”
In the background, a busker laments a haunting rendition of ‘Wind of Change’ and life in the street goes on.