The way was down then up then around then down then up then around again and so back. There was mist and the harbour lights through the mist, and a man by the wall looking down at the ships and the pier. There was the neighbour’s window never quite closed, the window sill peeling, ajar on the coldest nights. Down then up then around, an old hound in a doorway, the leviathan groan of the late bus hauling itself round the square. Then the takeaway ready to go on the counter and back out and all in reverse.