I endured it all stoically, and was constantly on the look out for those treasured times when Bert would come over with an order to be filled.
 “There you go, son.”
I went like a rocket, across the factory floor beneath the wailing gantries.
 “Watch where yer fuckin’ goin’, Dickhead,” someone bawled at me.
    Unheeding I charged through the huge doors and out onto the gravel of the windswept bleak yard. There the shed beckoned and I ran toward it, thumping in on the bare board floors out of breath.
 “We got an order, Mort!” I cried jubilantly.
    Mort sat in his chair by the table, sad and grimfaced. The whole interior of the shed seemed darker, and immediately I realised why. All around the walls and ceiling there was only bare rusted galvanised iron. I stared in disbelief.
 “The pictures. Them sheilas. Where they all gone?” I gasped.
 “Took ‘em down,” Mort said sadly, “Burned ‘em.”
I thought about it. Maybe the Factory Manager did not like women.
 “Didja have to?”
 “Nar. I’ve given ‘em up, them sheilas. No more for me.”
Mort stood wearily, walked over, took the order and we went together out into the yard.
 “You better congratulate me, son.”
 “What for?”
 “Me and Judy is getting married.”
My mouth gaped open so wide that a fly flew in and, realising its mistake, escaped unscathed.
 “But what about all them things you said,” I gasped.
And Mort Decker smiled:
 “All lies, son. All lies.”