Essexshedlove

I've long been fascinated by this aggregation of sheds, garages and jerry-built structures nestling behind the substantial fence running alongside the main road near my home. Given the height of the fence it's hard to see whether they belong in separate, but adjacent, properties or whether some visionary has been gradually accruing  these suburban folk structures. Some days they give off the appearance of pure storage for the excess of middle-class homes, ready for the dump or charity shop when the lady of the house decides enough is enough. At other times it seems to be a complex of some sort. At certain times of the day it takes on the character of a hastily constructed temple complex. Very occasionally a gate in the fence at the back of the green shed opens and there has been a garage sale of sorts. I have always been late for some appointment or other and unable to stop at that precise moment. I wonder if, unconsciously, I might not want to know what is inside.
There's a scrapman who lives locally and walks his alsatian down our road every day. He's got a trailer parked alongside the railway track on the otherside of the houses in the back ground of the picture. Periodically it fills up with bits of metal, old domestic appliances and other detritus. For the purposes of fiction and understanding the world I've called him Barry Claghen and turned him into a human magpie. In my mind he collects everything that's forgotten. He tidies away the refuse from our rounds of perpetual consumption. He finds use and value in the discarded. He reads the obits in the local paper and miraculously appears as the undertakers are removing the body, enquiring ever so politely, if you would be needing anything taken away once, y'know, you're over it? Astonishingly there is an endless stream of unwanted objects, held dear by the dear departed but loathed and despised by their beloved families. 'I've had to live with that eyesore for years. Gave me a headache to look at it. Take it away. I don't care what you do with it.' Some people even pay him to clear every single item accumulated by their family member over their lifetime and never see it again.
Barry has, in spite of his appearance as an aging rocker, something of the priest in his manner. He's curiously formal in his manner with punters and most people respond by telling him far more than they intended. Even in drink Barry rarely lets slip any of the secrets he's privy to.