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.
