Along the Embankment in a white Transit knees knocking like marbles sun on the water flashing low H with the Star shielding his eyes can't see my mirror put it down man before you get us all kill dead blood in the gutter blood. 40 Mayfair on the dash The Autobiography of Malcolm X fading neath the windscreen droll old black men and me libertarian types doing removals. Not so old physically active older than they look but with the stoop of the weight of what they are and what they have lifted eyes rheumy from the low bright sun and marijuana don't defer to no-one least of all me drinking Lucozade for energy. Salt marks on my shirt Royal Hospital Fulham Road High Street Ken shit crashin around in the back motorcyclist death wish he an organ donor. This is work because things have to be moved arranged with great care 3D jigsaw puzzle get it all in save a trip then a speed bump and the sound of violent sundering behind our heads only me sweating and knowing the names of things free through an accident of parentage of second generation West Indian vagueness about facts and details. Overladen the Transit in stately transit up Campden Hill Road need a Sherpa for this. Unloading, stopping. Almost done. This is work slowing now as the sun and the effort wear on the bodies of lean-armed almost down stone steps backwards one foot arm in Idi Amin lean-armed wear on the bodies of lean-armed black-skinned men. Slow. Cigarette. Breathe now. Back in the van.