It’s ten o’clock in the morning.

Overcast.

A man on Hunger Hill draws on his cigarette. He’s wearing an orange high-vis overall. He looks me up and down, stalling his gaze ever so slightly on the green and white keffiyeh I’m wearing. We say nothing to each other as I pass.

On Union Street, of all places, I see my first Union Flag of the morning. It flaps with the weary obedience of the person who put it there. I get all deep and philosophical about how this flag embodies the town today – faded pride, neglect, decline – I’ll commit it to memory and find a better way to phrase it in a blog when I get home.

I continue on to the town centre.

Eerily quiet.

A homeless man sleeps across my path by Poundland. Another a dozen or so metres down.

I pass through the market and join the queue at the bakery. Three more men in high vis, a tattooed woman in a vest, then me. I always seem to remember bodies and clothing – never faces.

The woman orders a sandwich and the baker disappears off to make it. The woman slurs something incomprehensible. She repeats it. And again. Then perhaps something else. She’s looking down. Is she talking to me; herself; Jesus? The baker returns and requests payment. The woman slurs again. And again. Then looks up at the baker.

The baker requests payment again.

“Sorry love, just give me a minute so I can pay this woman”, she says to nobody in particular. I figure there must be an earpiece in her other ear. Thank heavens, she’s not missing her marbles, just rude.

As I leave the bakery, sandwich in one hand, coffee in the other, I’m nearly mowed down on the promenade by a middle-aged man on a mobility scooter. He turns the corner from Crown Street to Corn Market, two wheels off the ground, at a blistering eight miles an hour. He has the courtesy to be playing loud music from a portable speaker, which gives me just enough warning to avoid being road kill. I consider what affliction he might have that warrants use of a turbo-charged mobility scooter before catching myself being judgemental. Not all disabilities are visible.

Another Union Flag.

This place, my hometown, feels miserable today. The lyrics to We’ll Live and Die in These Towns by The Enemy come into my head. Not sure why.

I mosey through a few charity shops. Mind has closed down. Oxfam is decent. If I buy any more books my other half will kill me. I briefly consider the gold dinner jacket for a fiver. I’ll never wear it, but it’ll get a few seconds of laughter from the missus before going back in the donation bag. That’s worth a fiver, right?

A few pawn shops later and I’m swinging back down to Woolshops. The weather improves and so does my mood.

To the Library. I sign up and wonder around. There are a few people here. The staff are pleasant. I head into the square.

The Piece Hall always makes me happy, too. Concerts in the square draw people – and their money – from all over the country. Christmas and seasonal markets give the town a much-needed heartbeat. Both the library and Piece Hall were regenerated with money from the local council.

My mood drops again.

Last week the disillusioned people here voted-in a Reform UK majority council; a party hell-bent on the headline of cutting council tax – by cutting council spending. I wonder if that’s the nail in the coffin for any further rejuvenation here.

Sad.

As I leave the town, I catch a glimpse of somebody watching me through the car dealership window. It’s a very old, very good friend. We catch up for a short while until he’s called off to do something.

My spirits are lifted again. This town is full of good people wanting to get on in life. Modern history has dealt this place a bad hand. It’s completely dead. But it doesn’t have to be this way. The pillars of Yorkshire stone are not the legs of Ozymandias just yet. There is entrepreneurial spirit here, too.

It’s going to take good governance, smart investment and perhaps a four mile an our speed limit on the promenade to make this town pleasant again. I’m not clever enough to figure it all out.

But I know it’s not going to be made easier by cutting local spending.

Another Union Flag limps against a lamp post.

This place will always be my home, but it desperately needs some love.