We need concrete changes from State

ONCE upon a time, long ago, I spent a summer employed as a yardman in a concrete mixing depot in north London. It was a serious operation in which sand and gravel were transported to the depot by train, unloaded, and fed into the mixer by a JCB. I had a handy number, but so did the man driving the JCB, a native of Killarney who went by the name of Fran.

He was quiet in the mornings but steady behind the wheel of the JCB. After disappearing for a few hours at lunchtime he returned with a smile that saw him through the afternoon, but his driving was no longer steady.

At the back of the yard, there was a large pit into which was thrown the waste that was surplus to requirements or for one reason or another, had gone wrong in the mix. Every so often a flatbed truck arrived in the yard, and Fran duly bucketed the muck into the truck.