In the hottest part of the day a man is weeding his balcony boxes. They run right along the front of his penthouse. His right forearm is covered by a cast or bandage, and his head by a wide-brimmed hat that needs reseating now and then. He wears a dark grey t-shirt. With his left hand he uproots big weed clumps and drops them at his side, and I imagine someone unseen, in the cool depths of the penthouse, who will not be pleased with the mess. Perhaps that’s the point.