We sip hot Chi in high vis, lost in a bright green garden.
Lyca radio is drowned out by the sound of blue tits, Tik Toks, and calls to and from India.
Here I am: a coconut amongst freshies. We might look the same, only I’m a bit taller in height but shorter in stature. We don’t speak the same language, but we do share the dust and the dirt in our beards and up our noses. For we are the demolition crew.
How many freshies does it take to shift a freestanding bathtub up a narrow staircase? Five, well, five including a coconut. And long may it remain for the next 30 to 40 years, probably. Who cares? As long as we’re not bringing it down.
The ping of the microwave tells us it’s lunchtime.
A torn down curtain is shook clean, bright and vibrant under all the dust. It’s given a new lease of life as both table mat and chairs for the men at work.
A colourful spread of heated up Tupperware curries and chapatis are propped up on an old DeWalt Cordless box. They sit huddled on the floor and around the food like the telling of a ghost story. The coconut sit separately taking bites out of his cold but familiar meal deal.
I overhear one of them say in my broken eared Punjabi, "why do the English insist on cold food for lunch."
Todays Gugan’s brought samosas in; his visa has been renewed for another five years. He makes a speech—I imagine he talks about his aspirations and future plans.
The stewing coconut thinks, if England hasn’t worked for me, it’s not gonna work for you? I nod his way and fake a smile: I mean a warm delicious samosa is a warm delicious samosa. But I’m taller.
It’s 3pm o’clock and the day's final break. We cover over the dry extension leads welcoming the fresh rain water.
Sundu pours me a Chi in a provocative mug, the kind where her clothes disappear dependent on how hot you can get her. I spill most of it as I jump at the bark of an uncle’s sneeze. No one flinches but me, a titter of laughs shoot my way. I don’t mind the laughter, it's nice to be involved.
For weeks they let me continue to ask Sundu about his Sonia, only to later find out his girlfriend was actually a prostitute by the airport. It must be lonely here, in the rain, the rubble and the wreck. And it is. It’s Friday so they let me play some English music, they like Meatloaf the best.
Home time, and we wash our hands and faces with an outside tap. We get changed silently in the garage, out of sight. The freshies cram into a small car and wave me off in my large heated seated lease car. I pause for a moment and consider the immigrant story and the tight, claustrophobic, optimistic space in their car. Distracted by beer, I think nothing of it.
Plus, I’d never fit in that car anyway cause, well…
I’m taller.
Indy Jan is a television comedy producer from London. More of a storyteller than a poet. Prefers to write from the perspective of an arsehole.
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