Sunday morning. A man lies

Sunday morning. A man lies asleep on a bench outside the post office, wearing only a shirt and jeans. Soon the nights will be too cold for that sort of thing – my guess is that he had too many drinks the night before to coordinate his limbs sufficiently to get himself home. An elderly couple on the next bench act as if he isn’t there.
A watery autumnal sun shines down on the litter scattered across the cathedral green as the bells ring out from the tower to announce the morning service to the waking city. A man sits on a bench under the lime trees rolling a cigarette, and looks up at me as I walk past him. Nearby, a middle aged woman stares vacantly into the middle distance as a young girl walks past on her way to the shops, where workers are unlocking doors and switching off alarms.
A pigeon picks at a discarded sandwich crust.
At the railway station, a mother and daughter speak in high speed Spanish about their plans for the day, clutching their tickets for the Brighton-bound train. Jamie, working the early shift in the coffee shop, gives me a cheery “good morning!” as I pick up my newspaper.
Two men disembark from the train as it rolls to a halt, tweed jackets slung over their shoulders, talking about cars and motor racing as they head to the courtesy bus to the Goodwood Revival Meeting.
The countryside rolls past the window, filled with the sights, sounds and smells of the harvest, as I flick through the stories of war, rape, murder and D-list celebrities. A woman on the next seat wth puffy eyes and tousled hair dozes blearily.
As I arrive at work, the sun becomes stronger – I can feel it on my arms.