Is this reality or a dream?

Apologies in advance, what follows isn't a short story but a series of observations...

Two pedestrian collapsible traffic lights are folded in half, out of use, but oddly still switched on. The light from two upside down men in red illuminate the grass verge on where they rest. It feels like a scene from Alice in Wonderland. A delivery bike shoots past and as the electrics kick in the man's legs appear to be struggling to keep up with the sudden turn of pace. Barriers continue to block pathways but there's no sign that the works have been progressing since they were put up, standing as relics to another job started which causes pedestrians inconvenience and then abandoned to repeat the same process elsewhere. It's a relay team constantly dropping batons at the critical point. 

The head of a large daffodil protrudes through horizontal iron railings, a prisoner held captive shackled to the pot it's bedded into. The bass line from a car stereo reverberates through its frame, an irregular pattern like someone playing with a stretched rubber band between their fingers. 

A muntjac barks sporadically from the wrong side of the road you'd normally find them on at this time of the night like a four legged Delia Smith shouting where are you? Let's be 'avin you! 

The man in his orange donkey work jacket with reflective panels is back, he clearly works the same shift patterns. No cigarette on the go tonight. He doesn't care about his health enough to quit smoking or maybe he has, but he does care enough to press the button on the traffic lights and crosses on the rapid beeps emanating from behind me. 

A front garden is littered with Pound Shop detritus, amongst the items on display; four giant plastic mushrooms, a purple glowing bowl wrapped in fishing net and faux burning lamps. As PT Barnum might have once claimed there's a sucker born every minute. Half a mile down the road another muntjac is barking over and over. They've clearly got their wires crossed somewhere down the line. 

An old couple walk hand in hand, he's a good two foot taller than her at least. He talks in a mutter like an English Marlon Brando in the Godfather. An old man makes his way slowly down the path on a mobility scooter. It squeaks like it has four giant rats attached instead of wheels. It's in dire need of oil, or maybe cheese to stop the cries of hunger. 

It's 10pm but I only hear four bells chime before the sound vanishes behind three storied buildings to my left. A giant shit sits on the path. Could be a dog's, could even be human. I'd not want to pick it up whatever produced it and moreover I'm glad that unlike the snails from Monday night I at least saw it and avoided stepping in it. 

My nostrils feel assaulted, I'm down wind of the sugar beet factory. I fully blame Stephen Fry's ancestor for that crime on my senses. A couple are stood by a car, he nods his head at me before turning back to the woman who has a torch light shone onto something he's holding. Whatever it is she's staring intently at it like a surgeon might when carrying out a vital life saving operation. 

An orange works light flashing reflects in the window of a shop like a crap 1970s DISCO with no music. A car accelerates down a narrow street wheezing like an asthmatic. 

A heavy goods train rumbles by making the exact noise you'd have had read to you as a child in a Thomas the Tank engine book; clickety clack, clickety clack. The obligatory horn as a punctuation mark. 

On the wall of a flat a Frankie Howard poster. Oo er Missus that's a bit niche Pairings moan to each other about different things. One shouts loudly that was 70 quid you bastard. A teenage girl sat on floor of the bus shelter is moaning about her asthma and says the last time she measured her heart rate it was a number I didn't quite catch. The last time I measured mine was at school for an experiment. Times clearly change. I imagine in full flow she sounds like the car from earlier.

No room for any silence tonight, the inns full. Something down the hill is hammering away, could be a generator. Someone's lying in bed composing a strongly worded email that will get sent in the morning. A middle aged couple walk in front of me. They're a few feet to my right before her perfume sucker punches my nostrils up both barrels. I think I preferred the sugar beet which isn't a great advertisement for whatever her skin is drowning in. If he's on a promise when they get home he's going to have to shower in the morning before he leaves for work otherwise he's going to stink like a tarts handbag. 

A ginger cat trots down to the left of where I'm walking like a pony at a gymkhana before rather unhelpfully slowing and walking straight in my path. If it was looking for attention it nearly found it in the form of my size 12s. Luckily for us both it moved out of my way before it found out I'm allergic and the last person it will get any fuss from. 

Must be close to home because my keys have suddenly woken up and I'm clanging like an old fashioned jailer with every step. Suddenly I'm acutely aware of every noise I'm making, I'm irritating myself. The bag on my back makes a rhythmic thumping noise like I'm being followed by soldiers on parade. Gravel scrunches under my trainers. Down the slope of the bridge I go and my keys thump against my leg and the sound echoes against the fence panels either side. My stomach growls trying to compete with the marching and the clanging. My bladder also knows it's nearly home screaming now to be relieved. Is this reality or a dream?