Leaf cutting bee

The work of the leaf cutting bee artfully arranged into a beautiful homemade xmas present by my genius wife.

and now back to the story...
It was past midnight when Little legs pulled into the car park. He climbed in the back pulled out his sleeping bag, crawled in and fell asleep instantly. The dawn chorus woke him up, the pigeons seemingly right next to his ear. He wiped away the condensation from the window and looked out. No one about. He checked his watch-5.30. He lay back enjoying the sensation of being awake but without commitments. For a moment he felt something akin to pure joy until he remembered the phone call. He couldn’t relax after that and decided to get up. A bracing wash in the station toilets, followed by the first cig of the day on the deserted platform and he was ready. The sun was just starting to warm and a couple of early commuters pulled into the car park giving him glares and ostentatiously locking their cars. He decided to stop attracting unwelcome attention and take a stroll.
It was amazing how little Lytham had changed. It seemed however, after meeting a few, that the residents probably wanted it that way. To Little legs, with his life of turbulence and upheaval, it seemed fossilised somehow. He started to become dispirited and after buying a newspaper and eating an extremely unhealthy but not particularly unusual breakfast of hula hoops and coke he set off back to the car with a vague plan to see if Blackpool had something more exciting to offer. The drive was short and uneventful and because it was so early and out of season there was loads of space to park on the golden mile. He pulled over a few hundred yards from the central pier. The weather was brisk but not unpleasant and he decided to start the day again with a walk along the drift line seeing what the tide had thrown up. He felt better; there was something about Blackpool’s dirty energy that cheered him up. He stared for a long time at a starfish wrapped around a faded fairy liquid bottle. It was tangled up in a pile of blackened seaweed, broken shells, and other multicoloured bits of plastic bric a brac. It seemed significant in some way though he couldn’t quite articulate it.
“I am a stranded starfish.” he speculated
There was no one to hear his piece of confused philosophy which was probably just as well.
The rest of the day was spent in a pleasingly directionless fashion wandering around Blackpool’s off season entertainments interspersed with cigarette breaks on benches, a Yankee in the bookies (two winners and a third) and a disappointing rock and chips in a deserted café. It was made worse by the owners reminiscing and bad breath.
“It was alright here until the bloody Romanians arrived “was one of his many fetidly tainted comments
Little legs didn’t get it. What was wrong with the Romanians anyway? There was Rudy at the taxis. He worked really hard, was always smiling and never moaned. Maybe that was the problem People hated being reminded that they too could get up off their arse and work hard and do well. Easier to stay put and moan. Not that he could talk...  ? 
 
 
 
 
Early evening found him sat cosily in the womb like red plush of the Mariners arms, a pint, some nuts and apparently according to a tatty homemade poster pinned to the wall some live music later on. The peace was broken by the door slamming open followed by what appeared to be a gaggle of punks led by their enormous toad lord.