I was brought up in a small town called Tallensbury, a town distinguished by a street at one end of which stands a chestnut tree, and at the other end of which is a house with a rickety shed and a broken sundial. With this much to define it, I might be talking about any town, and perhaps the particular Tallensbury I remember no longer exists. But there are a thousand towns like Tallensbury, each of which can only be individualised by those who live within it, and only explained to others who have lived there too.

In the morning Tallensbury calls us to rub our eyes, to finish our drinks from the night before, to argue, to make up, to hang out the washing, at which time you see clearly the long, straight road over the low hills. And then the first cars of the day start to pass through Tallensbury, and they get stared at because there’s nothing else to do. The church bells ring; the bars open their doors; the street cleaner looks long and hard at a pile of vomit, not wanting it on his brush, but not knowing how to shift it otherwise. And the shops put up their shutters, and the litter bins are righted, and men get into cars parked on backstreets, cursing at their buckled doors and broken mirrors, and there’s a scuffle, and the man from the sandwich shop is running down the street shouting, and we open the papers to read that a beggar was beaten, and someone lost an eye.

But Tallensbury makes no light of all that happened the night before, since it doesn’t care who we are that live within it and give it meaning; if it happened here, then it could have happened anywhere, and if it happens anywhere, then why should Tallensbury be any different? Either way, it doesn’t matter, because this is not what Tallensbury is really about. Tallensbury is about propitious evenings and the dull days they renew, filling them with dress trousers and perfume and promises, belching and abortions, dreams and lies. Tallensbury is about the beat of music and the blur of lights against the sky and youths swaggering in the streets, joyful and bereft; Tallensbury is about the gutters all of us stoop to kiss, at one time or another, for the harsh memories they carry away, and for the fact they are real and endure beyond us and have a purpose.

And, many hours later, Tallensbury is about the calm desolation before dawn, through which, as though shuffled forth a little beyond their day, the late night taxis that fail to stop at red lights swarm warily with their spittle and stained seats, before settling beneath a chestnut tree or a house with a rickety shed and a broken sundial which someone once tried to climb on, and then fell flat on his back and laughed loud and long at the stars, as if he had changed something forever, and now everyone would remember, and remember that it was him.

But that was last night or some time ago, not now, which is already the best part of tomorrow. Now or soon or tomorrow things will be different, even if the space between here and there is dreamless and you only recognise yourself at the end of it by the things you know you have forgotten. When you awaken Tallensbury will call you to rub your eyes, finish your drinks from the night before, argue and make up and hang out your washing. And, as you do so, you will see clearly for what feels like the first time the long, straight road over the low hills, that is the beginning and end of Tallensbury.