I should have given up as soon as I saw the police van pull up outside.

Foolishly, I thought I would sit it out and take my chances. After all, I had the perfect viewpoint to watch them. In fact, to watch everybody. From the fifth floor, I was close enough to determine one shady character from another, and yet high enough to be unobserved. Anonymously present. Like a checkout assistant at any U.K. supermarket chain, where the customer is always boring.

There was nothing but the arrival of the boys and girls in blue to create a serene environment. Even the pigeons took flight for fear of being picked up in dealing stolen breadcrumbs. The two officers cut across the communal ‘gardens’ in what could have otherwise been a still-life image. Well, not quite still life. This place was never truly still unless you counted the council workers. There wasn’t even any curtain twitching by the residents. Not here. Instead, CCTV cameras hung from open windows on selfie sticks.  Observation. People watching.  Police watching.  It seemed an essential tool for staying out of jail and to improve creative writing.  Both of which appealed to me in equal measure. I pulled my stool a little closer to the window and began to document.

The building opposite had forty three courses of mottled red bricks above the top floor window. Apologies.  It wasn’t a window; French doors with a Juliette balcony. The devil is in the detail. Still life. I had begun to take notice of the previously un-noticed. The bland and boring became, or rather remained, bland and boring but with a lot more detail surrounding their nature, thus making them ever more bland and boring. It was all thanks to the purchase of a new creative writing course book. A complete guide. Thick and expensive.

The first lesson: to observe. It wasn’t what I had expected if I’m being straight but I went with it, as you do when you’ve shelled out a fair sum of money. The book urged me to observe. Everything. The contents of my coffee table had never before been so analysed and documented. A single pencil became a Faber Castell 2B graphite and clay blended pencil. There appeared no end to the futility of my observations. That was until I was advised to cast my eye beyond the flat’s four walls and digest every morsel of real life that was served. It took me no longer than a minute to realize that one could easily choke on the finer details of the life hitherto un-noticed.

The police had knocked at a flat on the ground floor. My inner observer told me to clearly define their body language. Hmm, ‘casual with a suggestion of laziness’. They were laughing as he chewed gum and she rested her hands on hips. Her hips, not his. It was difficult not to be led down a path of thought when you already knew the back story. There was always gossip on the estate. Gossip about gossip.

The ground floor residents, let’s call them Suspect A & Suspect B for ease of reference, had some designer clothes stolen from the washing line. Designer clothes. Suspicious, given their low level government based income. Maybe they were good savers. The clothes stolen had actually been shoplifted by Suspect A. It appears that there is no honour among thieves after all. I anticipated that the law were here to kill an hour in their day.  Nothing more.

Such thoughts intruded my thought processes as I tried to focus on the finer details of the uniformed visitors. Suspect B, dressed in her Disney-themed pyjamas had opened the door and inadvertently let ‘Gnasher’ out. I wasn’t sure what the dog was called but it was sweet in a ‘she’s turned out well considering’ kind of way. She was one of those terriers (I get them a bit mixed up) all full of muscle and human legs. Anyway, Gnasher had made a run for it, past the police and across the ‘gardens’. Her attention however was caught by movement to her left. That’s when the fun really started.

For an inner city area we do ok. We have trees. Three of them in our communal ‘gardens’. My wife says they are Cherry trees and so that’s what they must be. Beautiful flowering buggers. The little ASBO-ettes, also referred to as children, appear to be particularly taken with them in the Spring. Throwing missiles into the tree to knock the blossom off provides a respite from less enjoyable activities. But this was December. No blossom.

At the base of Tree 1 however were three branches, maybe six foot in length and half as wide. Their collected position was down to one natural condition: A hound’s instinctual need for a pile of sticks from which to gather, distribute, and collate. However, this was a stick collection on steroids. I have seen body builders with smaller legs than some of those make-shift limbs down there. And who owned such a stash? There were several dogs on the estate. Some wanna-be punk terriers that chased the postman on a daily basis. Miserable bugger anyway. But no dog dared to even cock his leg over the wooden merchandise. This was Gnasher’s stash. Even I made sure that Gnasher wasn’t prowling the ‘gardens’ before I started documenting her human friendly tree products.

Gnasher had already sprinted to the tree. It was a given. Whenever she was out, she made a bee line for it. If she needed a pee she would do so under the burden of balancing a log between her chops. Then she would run. Carefree. Three foot of pure, solid cherry wood protruding each side of her jaws. It was an accident waiting to happen.

In hindsight, I think it must have been the noise of Suspect C’s mobility scooter that enticed Gnasher to charge.

Suspect C was of indeterminate age, she could have been 30, she could have been 50. She wasn’t a slight woman by any sense but insisted on dressing in clothes not befitting her build. In the summer, given a warm day by U.K. standards, se would bask on the lawn between the dog turds and the overflowing bin store. Either two provided a welcome distraction from what was on show. And it was a show. With extras. The matinee was on, the curtains were raised and the audience had been invited onto the stage and then given a full tour of the private dressing rooms. Comprendez? On such occasions my observations on dog shit became refined. Very refined.

Suspect C was known to use a variety of mobility aids ranging from the scooter (assumed use for quicker amphetamine and dope drops), walking frame, and a walking stick. These changed on a daily basis depending on some unknown formula.  Naturally the week would also include three or four days when no such aid was required. She is healed. It was a miracle, of sorts. Everybody had a back story for Suspect C too. She had throat cancer. She had just had a stroke. She had anxiety after her recent burglary. It was all true, of course, it said so on her disability benefit application forms, allegedly. Maybe I do her a dis-service and she is just an unlucky type. Possible.

I still believe it was the high pitched whinny of the electric scooter or the pungent odour of skunk that hung over Suspect C, or a combination of both, that sent Gnasher flying, stick in jaw, into Suspect C’s scooter. We shall never know for sure. What I did learn is that the KickBack Twin 50 mobility scooter can be overturned by a charging dog with a 6 foot battering ram.  Who knew?

Suspect C fell gracefully from the cockpit. Like a veteran sea captain that refusing to leave her ship.  She remained clutching the control stick until the very last.  Alarming, and yet mysteriously beautiful.  Her landing wasn’t so sensitive though and I could see her slipping and sliding in what I had been forced to observe within an inch of it’s foul dog shit life. Sometimes you’re just shit out of luck. Literally. Suspect C was scrabbling to stand up but appeared more anxious about the spilled contents of her buggy basket. I looked closer.

On the path laid a dozen clear bags, their merchandise on show for all and sundry to see. Suspect C, our very own mobile pharmacist.

Maybe it was because Gnasher had been around drugs her entire life but she wagged that little mottled tail and barked, and repeated several times only stopping when the two police officers woke up and sauntered over to see what all the noise was about. Say what you like about Northumbria Police but give them an upturned mobility scooter and they can process the life out of the situation. Suspect C was banged to rights and carted off (without the need for any walking aids).

The devil is in the detail. Suspect C found her devil in Gnasher, and in fairness she had a point. Suspect A&B saw the devil in the police. Not the only ones for sure. The police refuse to make the effort to identify the devil in anyone, resulting in a middle aged lady driving around in a mobility scooter selling drugs. Me? I now see the devil in everyone and everything. Thanks to that bloody thick and expensive book. I don’t like to think about what Exercise 3 will lead to…

What about you my darling readers? I haven’t forgotten you. Did you ever buy such a writer’s guide and how did you fair? And how important are these details to you? I would love to hear about your writing experiences – have you found yourself studying an unusual subject as part of research?  Please send all responses by postcard…

Thank you for reading. If I had a gold star you would get it for sure.