Tom Cunliffe
In the days of plenty before the Financial Crash, I met a man sitting in a boatyard skip sorting through its contents. I lobbed my bag of mixed rubbish clear of him and we fell into conversation, as one does with strangers in dumps.
‘Looks like rain again,’ I observed neutrally.
‘I think you’re right. I’d better get a move on - can’t let all this stuff get soaked.’
His accent was cultivated, his weatherbeaten face was full of character and I noticed he had the hands of a deep-sea sailor.
‘Which stuff’s that?’ I continued, hoping for a breakthrough. He was eyeing up a piece of metal poking out from under the usual mishmash of polystyrene packing, cardboard boxes and galley rubbish.
‘I’ll just see if I can wrestle this clear,’ he ignored my question and scrabbled about until, with a heave, he dragged
