I can feel summer losing its sting. The leaves on the plane trees are curling into autumn, their edges fringed a coppery brown. At 6am, there is dew cooling my bike seat. Best of all, the new season triggers our council’s bulk rubbish collection.

Mounds of gubbins have arisen on verges. Outside No. 56, a black Weber kettle from last century is crippled on the grass. Now a lidless bipod, its rusty innards are exposed. A clothes horse, plastic arms peeling, leans against a tree. Teetering on the kerb outside No. 64 is a bar fridge, door half-hinged, seals shredded. The wind blows it open just as a cyclist hurtles down our hill. He jerks away from the kerb as the door swings at his shins. That’s when I notice three frayed fly swats in primary colours propped in a chipped white vase, a local’s Mondrian homage to dead blowflies.