The Eve of Another Return to Worcester

A gathering of police on the street outside. In the freshly fallen night, they are black figures, illumined only by the lights of tiny torches they carry. Across the street, people hang from their windows, necks craning to view the drama.
It all started about an hour ago. Some kind of argument between two men. One of them wanted his 'wallet back' and was very angry about this. There was lots of pushing and shoving between the two men. Standing by the railings of the house where one of them lived, another man. He neither said anything or got involved, but seemed to regard the events with a calm equanimity.
The pushing and shoving erupted into a haphazard violence. The two men circled each other, trading punches. One of them walked back into his house. The other man continued shouting about his wallet. He took out his phone and called somebody. His brother from what I could make out.
By this time I had grown bored of the proceedings, and shut my curtains and resumed eating dinner, fish'n'chips that I had bought on the way home from meeting Pam after work. After a while, there was more shouting again. I think the 'wallet man', even more cross that his wallet had not been forthcoming, was now being cross with members of the public.
I imagine that these members of the public were quite cross themselves, and it would not be beyond imagining to postulate the theory that one of them called the police, who turned up shortly after I had finished my fish'n'chips.

That strange eve before going away again. Packing my stuff for the weekend back in Worcester. There is a strangeness in the air, caused not in part by the sudden drop of temperature of late. It feels more like December than October, but I am quite often time-elapsed that way. Seasons and times feel somehow stronger in the season or time that immediately precedes them. Because I am returning to Worcester tomorrow, I have convinced myself that this feels like the cold of the December of 1997, thirteen years ago.

Well, I suppose I should finish 'packing'. Must remember to look up the address for 'Nostalgia and Comics' in Birmingham. Ever since my interest in old horror comics was re-awakened five years ago (after a dream I had about a horror comic that never existed) I have always veered on the edges of buying an old 1950s original pre-code horror comic... but real life gets in the way, and they aren't cheap, and there is rent to pay and bills, and the council tax, but I have heard there is a large back issue section there now. So maybe, just maybe... And if not there is always the comic mart in a couple of weeks time.
Goodness me. I'm less than a year and a half away from turning 40 and still buying comics?
Ah well...

The dream I had that triggered it all off again. I don't remember anything of the dream but a single image. The image was the cover of a horror comic called 'Forbidden Mysteries'. The logo was in yellow, each letter of the title 'shivering' in that peculiarly pleasing naive way that old horror comics of the 1950s are wont to do.
I realise that that last sentence was probably the clumsiest I have written in quite a while, and that really is saying something, so I apologise. I seem to have lost grasp of the English language tonight. Anyhow, the cover of the comic 'Forbidden Mysteries' showed an illustration of a man fishing from the edge of a pier at night. He was sat on some old boxes under the light of a single street lamp. Hunched over, his face and form was obscured. A horror-comic moon, white and bloated lay reflected in the water.
Somehow this one image captured all the mystery and obscurity of old horror comics. I can't explain why though. I've tried painting the image on countless occasions, and drawn it even more frequently, but nothing seems to quite capture that eeriness of the original illustration.

Anyhow, the evening draws on, and I have things to do.
I can't think what though.