Postcard from Belfast

Thud thud thud. Thud thud thud. The sound of rubber against concrete. Protruding sharp ridges built 12 inches apart, designed to torture complex mechanical assemblies.

Thud thud thud. Thud thud thud. And now the low pitched rumble, constant beneath the impacts, begins to recede. The distinct, irregular heartbeat that has echoed round The Cutts for months fades away, those alternate 90 and 150 degree firing intervals now impossible to distinguish.

Then, finally, silence.