Day 156: Bollard

Sat on a cold stone bollard outside the expo centre, under a brooding sky, waiting for the go-ahead to start packing down the display. John in the cab of the van checking whether his Ryder Cup bets have come through. Steve wandering in his cut-off shorts. His father off on a reccy somewhere. A dark bird flapping against the wind. Cords tied to metal pipes snapping in the breeze. Concrete and rusted iron girders. Splintering wood. The sounds of private jets taxiing on the runway. Transits and artics snaking into the distance ahead and behind. Marching mashed potato clouds clumped one against the other. Sombre land, utilitarian, sad.

…

Echoey hall emptying of use. Clatter of dropped boards, metal plates. Plastic Coke bottles kicked into aisles. Workmen in hi-vis carrying bits of stands in twos, threes. Clank of ladders. Men in groups, strolling. Other men by themselves, leant on pallets, hunched on the floor, bent over their phones. The scriiitch of duct tape pulled from the roll. Gathering darkness outside the loading bay doors. The melancholy of evenings, of eternal afterwards - after weekends, after Christmases, after all excitement and action completed, the central illusion abandoned - the illusion that the event would save you, would show you something you don’t already know, would provide the glamour and sense of belonging that you have for all of your life lacked. But there is only this. Ripping up cheap carpet and flinging spent screws to the ground. Vinyl stickers torn from their displays. Vans loaded, detritus abandoned, and workmen driving off into dusk without once looking back.