In Northern England during the 1960’s, Monday was washday. The drab back alleys festooned with drying laundry created line after line of billowing sails. The street was transformed, charged with the smells of soap and festival of sound. Geordie Foster, the one-armed coal deliveryman, made very few drops on Mondays, the back alleys made impassable by miles of laundry. This transfiguration of the back lots and alleys became a place to play, fuel for imaginations, space for adventure. A billowing pirate ship or artic icebergs. It was only an alley, but it was ours.