was our nickname for the lean-to
squeezed into the bit of square-footage
not monopolised by the lorry,
but it was less the doss-house
of the National Service sitcom
than the grease-monkey version
of a gentleman’s club – we’d withdraw
not for brandy and cigars but tea from a flask
and whatever was packed in our snap bag.
The décor: two seats from a scrapped
Datsun Cherry, an upturned crate
by way of a table, a sink the colour
of hypoid oil, and one tap – cold –
that took bolshy pride in its job description.