On Fridays, the waste's left out on the pavement on Cinnamon street. With the glass and the carton in separate compartments, washed out and drying in the breeze. While this suburb is still snoring Grease jumps off a lorry, swings it, and puts it back, neat. Then, after his shift he undoes the steel clips and slips out of his old dungarees. But this isn't him. No, he's never been sure why bright kids like him never did well at his school He doesn't feel well. He can't say why. He isn't complete till he wakes up on Sunday to do what he does every week, where the odds and ends meet. He packs up his boxes with the boys from the hostel and stacks them in the boot with a push. He bombs down the 127 – windows down, heavy metal – past the pop-up car wash that went bust. Turning into a field there is a summer steward in high vis who asks for ten quid for sellers with cars. Grease parks up in a corner, clocks who got here before him, and assembles his table from it parts. Next to it, on the grass, he flattens a huge square of sheet PVC and lines up the usual suspects: the clip frames; the TV-cum-DVD; knock off perfume; collectable trains; a vinyl carousel... For the rest of the morning he's holding his breath and hoping like hell that these odds and ends sell. Opposite, the Afghans wearing their parent's caftans (their exotic USP) are selling a truckload of once-used shoes and clothes thrown out by NW3. With their hand-painted armies and their dismembered barbies the twinkle twins are out to make their fortune, while Tanner stage 3 hot-panted teens practice hula and make cats cradles with glo-loom. Kids sticky with My Whippy crouch down to see heat rising up through the air. The loyal and louche lapdogs snooze in the shade of cheap folding chairs. The turkish trailer man is sweating pints as he shaves off hot meat for the weak men who cheat and still fail and seek weekly retreat where the odds and ends eat. Soon these unbelievers who skip church for the Jesus of bargains-you-just-can't-beat drive home to their lunches and the fresh sucker-punches of another working week. Temps from Poland incinerate the litter, which infuriates Grease with his waste-not mantra. For six days the grass is faded and flat, the only trace that any of this happened. When Grease is ready to leave, he sweeps what remains into one rag doll box. He regards them: they are each heavy with stories, these bits and these bobs. He makes a few pounds from his new stuff but these waifs and strays are always left behind. Like him, they are waiting for a better time where the odds and ends shine.