When I was young I used to help my dad every night after school.
I loved the familiar smell of oil: two-stroke for my motor bike,
Shell oil for topping up the cars. I tidied the spanners
in size order. I'd lift the 13 mil off its hook and hand it to my dad.
I knew exactly where everything was.
The angle grinder's screech hurt my ears as it echoed off the huge
                                                                                      steel doors.
Like a surgeon, Dad would call for mole grips.
I'd pass them into his latexed hands, then watch
him lock clean metal over the rusted hole.
As rain clattered on the asbestos roof, I'd sit on the electric heater
(which was covered in grease from my hands)
watching orange sparks shower around him as he welded metal patches.
The cold made the scars on my hand go purple.
When I got a slight shock from the radiator, my dad would laugh.
We'd have a chuckle together and discuss each other's day.
I don't go there after school any more. Now I play football with my mates,
hang around the village, have a laugh, stay out till late.