If streets could talk, this one would have some stories to tell, I'm sure. And not the kind you find in city guide books, telling you on what date such-and-such a famous person marched down it; not history, but something more tangible and currently real.

It would tell of the early morning, when it begins to hum to life as the shops along its length unlock their doors and prepare to welcome customers. It would tell of pretty university-aged shop assistants with ponytails that swish like pendulums when they walk, and their fashionable shoes that click satisfactorily across its cobbles. It could describe the rays of the sunrise glinting off the glassy surface of the windows, creating small rainbows of refraction that flicker and dart.

The street could tell you how a new pot of coffee smells, as business men queue to purchase that one little cup that will lend them the energy to stay awake until lunchtime. It could tell you about the tune the little old lady hums as she makes her way to the post office to buy sweeties and stamps and pick up her pension. It could tell you about the workmen who paint the iron fence around the graveyard every year, and the noisy machines that take up half the pavement to blast-clean gum off its surface.

It would talk about buses, their schedules and routes, and the sound they greet the street with: a gentle exhalation of greasy air and a screech of the brakes.

It could also tell you a gritting tale of accidents and mishaps and ambulances; of cars and broken bones and losing something you never thought could be taken.

It can tell you the story of the beggar, a rag-and-bones man, with a skin-and-bones mutt, dozing outside the trendy CD store, asking you for spare change in silence. Or the one who leans on a wall near an ATM, waving his Big Issue about in a way that makes your emotions pendulum between disgust and pity.

It could speak a moment about late-night shopping, when teenagers and working mothers in freshly ironed blouses buy last minute gifts for events on the weekend while toddlers stamp their feet, asking Daddy to buy them a toy.

It might talk about the Saturday nights, when the shops are empty but the bars are full, and broken glass lines the gutters, and crunches in tune to the raucous singing of the drunks.

It could talk about couples coming out of the cinema, holding hands as they guide each other to a secluded spot. It could tell you what they talk about, and how her perfume smells, and whether they return the next week or not.

It might choose to talk about any number of things, if it only had a voice. Still, next time you are in town, lend an ear and an eye to the sound of the street, and it will tell you its own story in its ever silent way.