This week's WAG is "Pick a Pocket": Pick someone out of a crowd and describe what (you imagine) is in their pockets.
Every day at 7:30 am, there's a woman who waits at the bus-stop across the street. She's been there each week-day morning since I can remember -- for at least five years now. Stout with a serious mask on her fleshy face, I imagine her sensible denim pockets are stuffed full of practical bits and bobs for the day ahead as a cleaner of Kensington's posh mansions. A band to tie pack her shoulder-length no-nonsense bob; enough change for a packet of crisps for her morning snack. Her mobile makes the pocket bulge, so she transfers it to her jacket, its grey chunky casing so unlike the sleek phones of the City bankers waiting with her. She shoves it away quickly before they can see -- not that she cares what those poncy blokes think of her, anyway. She sighs and pulls out her bus-pass as the red monster lunges up the street towards her. Another day begins.