An extract from 'Degrid' by Jack Burston

Exit car left and of course turn right, dapper shoes and a cane from my right hand; sure, the shorts were on but the dinner jacket remained along with the previously mentioned shoes/cane and surplus to this: sunglasses, brass britches and a crassly worn bandana. It was not the expected mess of a trip to work but it was degrading in the sharply coming rain. I was rustling in my pocket, sure, searching for a couple of coins and a cough mint; awful chance of a cold in this weather, sure.
“Off to the shore Degrid?”
“To work Slacedy, seen Zach today?”
“Nah, sure he’s about, at the cards again probably.”
“He’s Top Ten!”
“Yes Degrid, a tune, pure tune.”
Slacedy was a former neighbour, and he was a fellow follower of Zach, the eternal card player, whose boots would occasionally come close to being hung by a new job or a new woman, but they never quite reached the hook. I simmered down towards the bus and journeyed to town, bonus, sure, up the stairs and out hours later. In recollection: work becomes a full stop, sure.