The dog sculpted out of sand ...

"All that once was directly lived has receded into representation"

To my shame, I've become adept at ignoring street people - I harden my heart whenever I'm in Falkland Square - I study my TLS rather than look at the thin dirty figures - I sneak past the Bosnian girl selling the Big Issue -

There's a gentle vagabond who shelters inside the subway, near the bus station - he sits there, in his damp lair, his dog by his side - sometimes he plays a penny whistle, some artless air - I quickly pass him by, hurrying for a latte in The Lighthouse - 

Outside Cafe 34 in the Old High Street, three shambling creatures gather most mornings - one of them plays a splintered guitar - they have leathery anguished faces - 

But despite the hissing lies of Richard Littlejohn, I feel, deep in my heart, a great rage and sadness at such sights - 

I was, therefore, much cheered when I saw a young homeless man sculpt a dog out of sand - it lay, yellowy brown and sleek, upon its rug - a bone made out of sand lay before its muzzle - 

Guy Debord would love this, I thought - there, outside William Hill, opposite Poundland -  there was a spectacle -