Tom couldn’t remember what bus he had to get on to go home. He remembered it was a red one. But this didn’t help, because, that afternoon, as he leaned against the half-seats in a glass and grey bus shelter, with a light drizzle dribbling down from the paper-pulp sky, under which a teenage seagull and clearly well-to-do pigeon-about-town argued impolitely over a gritty wet chip, and the bin that should have been emptied yesterday was still overflowing, it didn’t help because, well, where Tom lives, all of the buses are red. And that was that.