Craig Taylor's playlets, which began as a column in The Guardian newspaper, are so exquisitely observed that they often read like snatches of real-life conversation.
And then you come across moments that could only be the work of a fine comic writer: a farmer in Kent sits on a tractor, opining on musical genre ("Drum and bass is dead to me, mate. It's dead to me."); a middle-aged man reflects on his divorce ("It was amicable. For me."); a Polish hairdresser spooks her clients ("I hate all this touching hair. I used to work in … what is the word? I kill animals by hitting them on head.").
There is pathos here too: Taylor participates in that peculiarly British tradition in which comedy is laced with sadness. There are shades of Alan Bennett, and even The Office.