Photo: Robert Willson
Pallets were once a big part of my life.
I have a strange affection for them.
I spent five years of my life stacking them.
Moving, lifting them.
The conversations I had with truck drivers as I unloaded them.
The driver with a big red beard and blood shot eyes.
In a way, he was a free man.
On the road with his cassette collection. Rock and roll all day, all night. Smoking as and when he wanted with no boss fuming down his throat.
A rough life with no future.
Carrying pallets out the warehouse doors into a December 5 o'clock. Fire blazing on a piece of waste ground. Me, glad to get away from the boss, his endless boundless enthusiasm for the profit all going his way.
Profit built on credit. Profit built on sand. The Range Rover parked on the waste ground.
A rough life, no future.
Feeding the pallets into the fire. Seeing the boss, the employees, his employees in the yellow light.
The blood shot driver, smoking through his red beard.
A rough life. No future. Infinite guitars.