When I’m feeling cheap, which has happened a lot lately, I shop at Asda. (I know, I know, but they’re all bad in their own ways.) The most pleasant way there, not that there is a great deal of choice in routes, is down Clive Lane, which is marked on maps, though it’s really a back alley between Clive Street and the railway, and its few doors open to pocket gardens and garages. Maybe it justifies having a name because a handful of these appear to be commercial, not that they stretch to anything as dignified as name signs. A few weeks ago, I was walking down there and the way was blocked with vehicles. This doesn’t usually happen as it’s not neighbourly to bar egress to someone’s house. As I approached I realised that the main culprit was an ancient, almost antique car, which four people started to push out of the way. Once I got through, I found I’d strayed onto a film set centred round a lock up which could give a bad name to dilapidation. The car was heaved into a side street (not for my benefit; they’d clearly done with it), people stood behind cameras and lights, and others sat in folding chairs. The nearest one said something – he had an American accent and I recognised him. The last time I’d seen him was on a YouTube video where he sang Springtime for Hitler. I thought about mentioning this, but I realised that it was probably a lot more recent for me than for him. So I said nothing, looked about a bit and went on.
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