It’s one of those beautiful mid summer nights that are impossible to put away. The sun must have set about an hour ago and just over the church tower the sky is still a light blue colour – azure, I think is the word for it. The moon has just set over the tress, a crescent sliver of silver, delicate but fantastically bright. The strongest stars stand out in the semi-darkness. It’s 11pm.

Scene: me in my window in the darkness. Listening to Interpol and doing the two things that I love most in the world (apart from things connected to SD of course): watching the world from this garret and writing. I probably should have the music off, let this summer night silence soak in – but I need to be pushed on or I’d just sit here – listening to the water run down the channel across the street, the taxis buzzing round the roundabout carting people back from Hebden and the rowdy drunken hordes of Todmorden stumble from bar to bar, sorting out their marital problems en route, pissing in doorways, shouting and shagging.

A car rumbles over the cobbles past the flat, black sporty number, crammed with people. Off to a club. The electric guitar tones of Interpol intone some mood to do with cityscapes and neon lit bars. A cooling air is pushing against the still air of the flat; my right side, facing the open window is pleasantly cool, my left dipped in the immovable warm mugginess in the darkness of my living room, darker than outside, like some deep cave, some devil’s lair. I’ve been drinking some shit wine. Pink Le Piad Dor for fuck’s sake! I don’t know who brought it round but they should be shot (Sorry, if you’re reading this and it was you - must try harder.) I can feel my stomach lining rotting but was too lasy earlier to go out and get something else celebrate the start of the weekend with.

I lean out of the window. Who have we got? A long floatie dress, which under the orange lights of the street looks baby pink. It’s a 70s masterpiece, negligee come evening gown. Covered at the shoulder a black throw, blessed with flowing blonde hair. Do you, per chance, dance round standing stones in your spare time? But then, check out her husband, his beer belly squeezed into a grubby t-shirt with an England flag stretched, distorted, across it. They’re passed by a common flock of lads in shirts – not common as in “council” or Neto common, I mean they’re a regular sight here at the weekend. Pink shirts are all the rage at the moment, pink shirts and smart jeans. Then four young lads come staggering down the street, legless on shit tinned beer and eating pizza. They can’t be more than 16. They walk down the street like own the whole road, defying three t-shirted lads to knock through them, which they do of course. Still, they hold the street, like the ghouls in a horror video, lurching drunkenly along with twisted faces under gelled spiky hair. Other people come and go. A gaggle of girls with handbags all over thrown over their right shoulders, walking in rhythm, practicing for their day parading down the aisle of a BA airliner dishing out salted peanuts.

Weirdly, up near the Royal Bank of Scotland cash point, a long legged blonde girl in thigh high white boots is kicking a football around and attempting to do tricks with it. Only in Tod on a Saturday night. She walks past with a respectable (read – cute) young dark haired man who seems at odds next to her in his ill-fitting T shirt. They hold hands as they pass down the street. He looks as giddy as a sand boy (why are sand boy’s giddy?). He can’t believe his luck. She – who just wants to be seen for something more than boobs and boots – can’t believe hers.

A shaggy blond perm on a tall lanky man. A girl with a gold lamé handbag. People meander by and I quickly bash at these keys, not giving a fuck about the spelling, knowing I’ll correct it later, and when I look up they’ve gone and new beings are heading towards or away from me, blissfully unaware I’m up here, in dark, leaning out of the window. Smelling ion the air something like wood burning, something like flowers. And water. Lots of mobile phones pass by. Lads texting. Girls talking. It always seems to be that way around. The blue light in the sky is shifting as I type. It’s moved over the hills to the north now, on and around to the east, where it will brighten again in just four hours time, rip apart this brief darkens and coat the weekend in heat and sunlight.

And then SD phones – exclusive news – he’s met one of the new Big Brother housemates in a “former life”. The news is too hysterical to repeat. The weekend has begun: bring out the tottering girls and lairy football mad lads. Here we go. Here we go. Here we go…