Waiting in the cold October air for the cars to realize they no longer have the road to themselves. Shake the tubs of children's paint. Now convinced the orange will work. It's acid enough for the hard tarmac. Anyone watching? Only the diehards. Good; the less distraction the much, much better: this is a performance for an audience of one. Onlookers tolerated but ignored. Brush in the tub, wiped on the edge, pause, breathe, pause, breathe, reach down to the ground and touch the brush to its surface. Absolutely no stopping from now on: no need, ecstasy ensues. The bristles shiver their way in confidence. So now I'm half an hour and half way through. Legs need oxygen so breathe and breathe and paint and paint. Wrap the strokes around me; love each one. The brain knows it's ending way before it ends so tells me how to start bringing it home and shut it down. Already I'm thinking about the last stroke till it arrives and I'm knackered and full.