The scrap men circle. Hungry, dark-eyed lads. Always polite, always grateful for a broken toaster or telly. More filler than metal, their battered chariot speeds through the streets like some hellish ice cream van. Hesitate and they’re gone, cruising over the horizon with their comedy bugle warbling, a nasal plea on loop.
But there are other, older, less frequent visitors. Real deal, old school, rag and bone. One drives, the other strolls alongside the gurgling van – a swaggering barrel-chested bare-knuckle fighter who hollers from the soles of his boots. Hear his cry from streets away. Marvel at the roar.
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