They scream, they whistle, they growl, they roar. Even through the blameless night an occasional flight thunders in - freight, emergencies and the rich.
Then as curfew nears its end, a low mumble builds above the cloud layer. We're up here, they threaten the sleeping world, waiting. On strike of six they pounce, streaming rapid-fire through the languid morning, waking babes, rattling windows, shattering dreams.