The rag and bone man was a significant part of

my childhood experience. Every Wednesday I would

hear the familiar clip-clopping of hooves and the cry of

 

“rag n’ bone” mangled into a two-syllable yelp. He was

genuinely useful, mum would say. He got rid of fridges

and washing-machines far more efficiently than the council.

 

After not seeing or hearing a rag and bone man for years,

they seem to have returned. I’m not really sure why;

maybe TV’s recent obsession with Gypsies has somehow

 

revitalised the industry. The difference now is that they’re

much younger, and I’m much older. The rag and bone

man I remember had wrinkled, bong-water coloured skin,

 

blue-ink prison tattoos and a face that had seen it all,

but he’s a teenager now, racing the horse like it’s a

rally car, tearing around corners and into the traffic

 

with the equine equivalent of a power-slide. The other day,

I watched a guy ride a bike into the side of the cart. He

seemed dazed but unhurt, somehow avoiding serious injury.

 

Luckily, he missed the horse completely. It snorted,

shook its head, and crapped on the road. “I don’t

get paid enough for this shit,” it seemed to be saying.