—Bloody ’ell, mate, it’s warm, innit?
—Shhh.
—Eh?
—I bloody love this weather. I don’t want it to bugger off.
—Bit of a sun worshipper, are ya, Joe?
—I am, yeah.
—I was thinkin’.
—I thought I saw smoke comin’ out o’ yer ears.
—Fuck off, you.
—Go on then, amaze me.
—Shall we ’av cold ones? Yer know, ’cos it’s warm?
—Er, mebbe.
—There’s another reason. ’Av yer spotted?
—Ah, shit.
—Yep. Sylvia’s on. The coffee’ll taste smoky.
—What d’you fancy?
—Can o’ Coke?
—Righto. I’ll get ’em.
—Ta, Bob. I ain’t ’ad a can o’ pop fer a while.
—Yer know wha’ she said?
—Go on.
—She said, “I see you two on the ’ard stuff today.”
—Wot she mean by tha’?
—Fuck knows. Still, cheers.
—’Ottest day o’ the year yesterday.
—Was it?
—Yep.
—I thought me feet were a bit warm. I ’ad me winter socks on still.
—Yeah, I ’ad a thermal vest on. Thought I was cookin’.
—’Ere, Joe, did yer see tha’ about fly‑tippers?
—Tossers. No?
—They’re gonna be made to clean up their own shit.
—Ah, not a bad idea, tha’.
—Yeah. They ’av to pay fines as well.
—Sounds good to me.
—Imagine tha’. “Let’s dump all this shit ’ere.” “Nah, if we get caught we’ll ’av to shift it anyway. An’ pay for the privilege.”
—Yeah, I reckon tha’ll work.
—I ’ope so. City’s gettin’ ruined wi’ all the crap lyin’ about.
—Some o’ tha’ ain’t fly‑tippin’, though.
—Well, yeah. Just dirty buggers.
—Yep.
—’Ow’s yer pop?
—Alrigh’, but it’s givin’ me wind.
—Jaysis, we better go. Otherwise, we’ll be fined.
—Eh? Wha’ for?
—Air pollution.
—Bollocks, yer cheeky bugger.