factory

I was a factory worker, though trade was slack and there were fewer and fewer designs coming in those days. Others had been laid off as the orders slowed down, and the lucky few who stayed on had to work harder to make up for all the idle machines still costing money. Looking up from the machine, where once there were rows of co workers, now there were odd arrangements of work stations, walkways cluttered with disused equipment. No-one knew how to operate it; could tell if it was working properly; or even how it was supposed to work.

At break time a walk through buildings, past dusty offices and storerooms, followed by the click and hum of automatic lighting firing up. Not so much for the change of scenery as to service the habit, the comfort of the familiar. A moment sitting on cold steel treads, watched only by the blinking PIR and CCTV. The smell of old cardboard and young pine, pallets and packing cases.