She stands in the doorway and looks into the rain, and then down at the pavement for proof of it's falling. It doesn't stop raining. The toes of her socks go cold with the anticipation of being damp for the eighth day in a row. There is nothing for her to do here other than walk.

Three blocks away the ground is peppered with confetti made from orange cigarette buts. Like tiny abandoned life rafts they bob on the black asphalt sea. Crushed, red, plastic party-poppers are scattered around like the wreckage of a miniature ship. The dark road-sea smells sweet, of bubble gum and piss and tobacco.

The party poppers are still wearing their crumpled, orange paper labels. Their ruined party frocks are bright. Cheerful orange skirts, cracked and warped under so many boots.

The tiny, coloured intestines, spewed out with a gunpowder crack and a blush of heat, are missing. The streamers are long gone, caught like the seeds of a clever tree, in the collars of coats and the hoods of tracksuits. They have wept tiny rainbows onto light coloured fabrics in the rain. They have been taken home in Taxi's or on foot to the houses all around. Efficiently dispersed. They have been pulled from woolen hats, from shoulders and sleeves, and shaken, wet and clinging, from cold, tired hands. They have dissolved in puddles, washed down drains. They have landed in the wet grass around the flats, littered outwards, like nuclear fallout from the party.