I’m at a service station on the M5, there is a woman sat outside on the kerbside.
She is holding a cardboard sign in front of her shawl-covered knees. The sign reads M50-Cardiff.
Multiple cars and lorries pass her by, likewise motorbikes and camper vans, each without a glance in her direction.
There is a long queue at Costa Coffee, yet the logjams at the alternative vendors are equally elongated, hence, I have settled for Costa, I rather enjoy their decaffeinated coffee and it is getting late.
Im sat consuming a coffee and a little piece of chocolate in a busy deli-eatery. The chocolate I am consuming is an easter egg reduced to half-price by a shop who’s marketing strategy failed to maximise revenue from the crucifixion.
There is a young boy, no older than 6 years of age sat at a table close to where I am located. He is sat with his father and is striving to engage him in child like activity, in a historical game derived from the nursery rhyme ‘pat-a-cake’. He is persistently wrestling with the clasped hands of his father trying to pry them apart for play.