It's Sunday morning, the the tin boxes are usually quiet. There is some movement at Maxwell's. Tall thin Maxwell slowly emerges, squinting into the morning light from the dark side of his van. All the vans point north, therefore before midday, the left side is gloom. Max is a tall slow man, never in a hurry, never fired up.
He slowly approaches the two tier shed at the back of his van, opens the doors and then, methodically walks away. He comes back again with an arm load of bundled clothing, which he shoves at waist height, into his shed.
Acrylic on rag paper, detail
What's going on? There's an unusual flurry of activity here, the quiet man drags out a barbeque, wooden shelving, a tool box, a small tumble dryer, a port a loo but no cuddly toy!
His wife and her friend pull up in her little, fluorescent green beetle and survey the scene with distain. The girls (old girls) go inside, Max closes the shed doors and follows them, his head bowed as if in reverence.
He stays in-van long enough for a brew, which I suspect he made, returning to his shed just at the time the shed doors burst open and a big white washing machine flies out, still on wash cycle, still connected, spraying water and suds in all directions.
What does our calm hero do? He picks up the machine as if it was an empty cardboard box, shoves it back in the shed, crams all the brick-a-brack back in it's cubby hole, closes the doors. Then slowly walks away.