Catwalk.

It is the month of November. In it, the cold air of morning cracks at your jaw. The glamour of picking up after a dog next to a schoolyard is helped by a group of little girls with painted moustaches, who lean against the fence and agree among themselves, "That's some fine looking fresh poo, right there."

It is the month of November. In it, the late night bites at your neck while the rest of the city sleeps. A woman with a leopard print fur coat appears, smoking outside her stairwell as you pass. You each say a brief hello. But when she looks down at the dog, she greets him with the slow syrup of seduction. "Hello, gorgeous."