The
first car I collected was a BMW from nearby Tilston, a cobbled red-brick village
decorated with greenery, history and affluence. This I drove to auction in
Doncaster where I was then directed to Kirk Sandall, just a train station away.
On the train, young men in oiled
blue overalls and tatty beards told jokes in poor taste.
I alighted into a neo-Dickensian
scene of grubby metal bridges and buildings bleeding rust, tortured by
industry; coarse umber grass just surviving beside razor wire, the exposed rail
track, and broken pavements. Diesel-choked, oil-spattered stunted trees tried
to grow there.
Leaving in an Audi on that Monday
afternoon, I wondered how many days would pass before I went home.
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