—I mowed the lawn. Although “ploughed a fuckin’ field” would be more like wha’ it felt like.
—What for?
—Eh?
—What’d yer mow it for?
—It’s a lawn. Yer ’ave to mow ’em.
—Nah. Bollocks to tha’. I’d do tha’ rewildin’ thing.
—Rewildin’?
—Yeah. It means lettin’ nature do its own thing.
—Just let it all grow?
—Yep.
—It would look a mess.
—Nobody says nature is a mess.
—Yeah, but it’s a garden. Not nature.
—Wha? I don’t get yer.
—Gardens, Joe. They’re supposed to be neat and tidy.
—Says who? The garden police?
—Well, no, I s’pose. But it’s a thing people do.
—Fuck tha’.
—Joe?
—Yeah?
—’Ow long ’ave yer lived in a flat now?
—Ages.
—Righ’, yeah. Anyway, good win for the Sky Blues yesterday.
—Ah yeah. Brill, tha’. Three‑nowt away is a great result.
—Eighty points now, mate. The title is ours.
—Don’t count yer chickens.
—Is this place open on Sundays? We don’t normally come on Sundays.
—Dunno. I thought it was.
—Don’t look like it. Mebbe Brenda’s makin’ a Sunday roast at ’ome.
—Balls. No sarnie an’ coffee today then.
—We could go to tha’ Costa place.
—Pfft.
—Wha?
—They ’ave a menu. For coffee. Wha’s tha’ abou’?
—Well, tha’ ain’t just Costa, to be fair.
—S’pose.
—Still not openin’.
—Nah. Let’s go to the pub.
—Good shout.
—The Larkin?
—That’ll do.