Hands aching we walked out of work, never to come back.
Now feeling proud of our stand and efficient we're trying to get the van fixed up for the journey south.
The wrecker's yard's dusty, the machine shop oil and sweat and banging of metal on metal. I'm standing uncomfortably, waiting to be noticed, resisting the urge to touch the matt rubber tyres or shiny smooth cold gas cylinders. I can still taste the barbecue sauce topping the cold pizza we ate as we walked out of the farm.
