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Inside the book

A town scene where every sound is hand-lettered into the air. A jogger thumps past a girl skipping, a man reads a newspaper on a bench, a hot dog cart sizzles under a striped umbrella, and roadworkers drill behind traffic cones. A scooter vrooms by a fire station and a woman asks directions to the airport in French, the words drifting across the pavement in white speech shapes.
A boy in ear defenders and a yellow coat hurries away from a coffee house clutching a red toy octopus, his face tight. A great cloud of hand-lettered noise chases him across the pavement — SLAM, RING, CLANG, DING DONG, CRASH, BUZZ, snatches of overheard conversation — while a woman in an orange coat calls after him and a pigeon flaps up out of the way.
A boy sits hunched at the foot of a grey brick wall with his knees drawn up and his hands pressed over his ear defenders, eyes shut and his red octopus tucked behind him. Bright orange and purple bushes crowd in on either side, and the last of the noise — SWISH, BEEP, VROOOM, CRUNCH — drifts away small and pale at the left.
Close on a boy sitting in a wooden pew with his eyes closed, hands folded in his lap and a small contented smile. His ear defenders lie on the seat beside him and his red toy octopus rests on the pew back, smiling with its eyes shut in exactly the same way.