fat little tyres

The streets of Landshut are cold and wet, the ice cold raindrops are falling onto the black basalt cobbles. There is a pigeon strutting along with a twig in it's beak, walking back and forth to avoid being stepped on by the humans. For what is that twig? It is surely much too early in the year and to cold for nest building. And the twig looks really inedible. Perhaps the stupid bird has delusions of being the bearer of olive twigs, but then the rain is not nearly heavy enough for that.

Cross the street and enter the café, stand at the counter and await the attention of the person serving.

A plain croissant and a cup of coffee.

Talk to the son about television sets and computers.

And the rain dribbles down outside in pure grey misery.

A miniature car rushes up the street. It is a radio controlled toy. It then rushes back down again, bouncing over the cobblestones on its fat little tyres.