On my way to work, a creeping headache sneaks in, alongside the familiar ring of anxiety dyslexia.
I wait at a red traffic-light, next to a dark old bridge stained and streaked with pigeon-poo. There is a defaced notice on it, the words almost obliterated by smears of urban guano.
'Birdge', I read, anxiety-dyslexiacally. Good name for a city bridge, under the circumstances: every neighbourhood has its stenching quota of pigeon-fragranced railway bridges.