At the end of a long narrow street, a solitary figure can be discerned in the early morning light. The man is rhythmically sweeping with a street cleaner’s brush. He whistles softly to give the lively blackbird, which has been following him from tree to tree, some harmonious accompaniment.  It is a job he would neither have wished for, nor chosen in his homeland; but here, alone, he reminds himself that he has come to London, so as to have what otherwise would not be freely given to him. He stoops to gather up the thoughtlessness of cigarette stubs, crisp-packets and plastic bottles. The rhythm of the sweeping and collecting of leaves he prefers, but as it is not yet Autumn, he must be content with the awkwardness of litter.  Straightening his back he listens, letting his thinking eyes follow the disappearing distance of the street. The blackbird ceases his tree-branch hopping too, and eyes the figure momentarily, before noisily taking flight. Instinctively the man picks up a discarded white paper bag, examines it and lifts it up high and effortlessly with one dark hand.  As he does so, his eyes catch sight of the local council’s signage stating the severe penalties against ‘littering’: the yellow of sunshine lettering against a background of sky blue. He likes these colours of home, and so half smiles at this offence against literacy. Slowly, cautiously, and catching his breath, the man lets go of the paper bag. At the beginning of a long narrow street, the still figure of a man can be seen patiently watching: ...