We're living in the city. Our second-story window looks down onto the roofs of the double-decker buses rumbling down Harper's Lane. When Leeds United win at Elland Road, we hear roving bands sing it in the streets. And our our city-center flat shares a small triangular block with a dozen ground-floor businesses: a betting bookie, a penny casino, a cafe, a credit union, a hair salon, an indie photo studio, a post office, a few vacant storefronts. And a Domino's Pizza. In the evenings, the central courtyard is busy with young drivers shuttling pizza orders out to their delivery vehicles and employees taking a smoke break in the back. When I first climbed up onto our building roof to check out the view, I discovered the hot, yeasty vent gasses from the pizza ovens four stories below. It's part of our neighborhood, and looking down on the street from our window, I often see folks walking around after an evening at the pub, balancing a pizza box with one hand and eating a slice with the other. Classic. It's easy to imagine the circumstances that led to this pizza, flipped perfectly onto the pavement below our place. By mid-morning, a flock of native Common Starlings discovered this prize, and had a manic pizza party in the street.
