another antique

 An afternoon visit to the dead mans workshop. This is being cleared out by his son, and what had seemed like an unsurmountable task is making progress. The trees and wild hrubs around the property have been cut back, and the disorderly piles of waste have been turned into orderly piles of waste. The son is still cursing the father for the disorganised mess that he had made during the last thirty years of his lifetime.

There are still five old cars in the workshop, old Opels, over twentyf-ive years old each, they look as if they were made in the eighties of the last century, they are all full of corners where modern cars are rounded. And they are small, even though they are station wagons.

The old man had been working on a monument to himself, a near indestructible concrete grotto, a shrine to his life's work. Like this work, it was unfinished, bare concrete. There was wooden moulding still attached to contain the concrete. Spend an hour removing this, the structure itself will need to be disposed of. And the people taking that kind of thing reguire it to be of one type of waste only. That means concrete and steel, but no wood.

There is an old table from the sixties of the last century, a beautifully made functional formica covered kitchen table. 

Rescue that, it will need cleaning, and it will do well as a kitchen table at home. A strange antique.

The day turned cold, and it was a long slow drive back home, alone with the table in the back of the car.