After breakfast, our bonuses in the bag,

time sheets collected, the weekend begins.

Down by the battered garages

near the burnt-out Escort,

our apprentices go for it: first to find one

gets chips for his dinner.

Stanway says to take it behind

that steel-shuttered house, top of the estate,

and for all of us to be there, midday.

In the unkempt garden, we watch Stanway –

56, kids at uni, wife a pharmacist –

chucking bricks. The wider the screen,

he says, the bigger the bang.

One of the lads promises

an old black and white from his nana’s

spare room, at last taking a real

interest, can’t wait for next week.