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gbj_tester
A couple of Autumns ago I was having a tidy up:
the innards of a bed settee being the biggest lump.
I took it and some other stuff to a 'recycling yard'.
'Its iron mate, no good to me',
realising I was close to living a Billy Bragg song title,
[Arguing about metallurgy with the scrap man],
I visited another place who offered me £3,
but claimed they could only issue cheques for at least £5.
I went home and remembered i had some copper and brass bits,
from plumbing, and from dissecting abandoned gas boilers found in skips,
(I was trying to find a flat plate heat exchanger),
and some bits of scrap aluminium.
As I was carrying these across the pavement to the Espace,
a clean, new hire van pulled up alongside me.
Surprisingly it was some freelance street cleaners,
(round here they tend to use near-MOT failure Transit pickups with a scrawny
school age kid on the roof of the cab looking over the fences).
A bit of bargaining was ended when one answered the phone
and said t'other,'We gotta go, one of our dogs just got shot'.