ACTIVATE THE CANNONS

Slung under the belly of the factory is a wide high oblong space, open on one side to the car park and on the other into the huge freightways of the factory’s individual lots. Tall featureless filthy pillars support the roof, obscuring sight across the floor. All around the walls are long food counters, with their contents displayed and explained on bright plastic signs hanging above. Brushed aluminium and low tungsten bulbs speak of the tepid foods held behind the counters. Dim figures move inside those stalls that are in any way lit, busy with confidence. At the hall’s front, a wide drinks stand obscures the light from outside, bulging in to meet the filthiest pillar in a brief oversight of planning. Two women man the stall against the press of workers who swamp the counter. All are buying teas in bags in twos and threes, and the lady at the till could not care less what I think about her customer service.

The abused floor is packed with wide circular tables, each corralled with blue plastic chairs, easily stackable. Here and there are piles of abandoned plates slick with sauces and bristling with the bones of fish and pigs. A little further out and surrounding the drinks stall, groups of friends are eating, happy conversations, good social meetings. Fans try to dispel the heavy wet air, but their ceiling perch is too high, or possibly they are just too tired, for they are stained with toil.

The noise is raucous. From the side open to the corridors of the building, a van cabin protrudes onto the food hall floor from its parking space, the attached ladder protruding farther still.

The young Indian man who serves me is as friendly as all the others I have encountered. Despite my mispronunciations, mumbling and agreement although I don’t understand him, I score a big plate of briyani rice and chicken; I steal the blueprints for Indian coleslaw. He tells me I have paint in my hair, grinning. I tug at it in mock exasperation. Lunch costs me about two-yoyo-fifty.

Later at the bus stop, the wind begins moving all things, even against their wishes. It streaks along the highways, curls upwards from the tar-macadam. Small yellow leaves swirl in my peripherals, and a bruised rainshower marches over the industrial zone to see me home. I haven’t felt rain in weeks. On the bus, a small lady might be singing or praying in thanks (perhaps for the rain), standing up periodically in the aisle to incant with her arms upreached. She never stops grinning. The wind is still streaming from behind the bus, seeing me swiftly home. By the time I alight the rain has topped and I don’t get to feel it after all. Having delivered me, the shower continues on its way bringing all the low-pressure gusts with it. I stop off at the Infant Maze to stand under the trees and smell the cool wet air. Then back to Sam and the house where I’m packing SNG away.