The Quarry

I pretended to work at a quarry. Huge pieces of yellow machinery littered the rocky floor. All of them were, for me, used for purposes unknown.
I wandered through the piles of rocks, feeling vaguely vulnerable.
Then I could smell cooking, mmm . . .
I came across a line of men at an open air canteen. Lunchtime.
I joined the queue. It was a sort of rough buffet.
I helped myself to a large bacon sandwich and sat down with some dusty workers to enjoy my hardly deserved gains.
This was the life.