‘It’s not like in Calais’, says one.
‘Nah, we’re all legal here’, says another. ‘Even him.’ He grins and points at the odd-jobs guy.
The Albanian. When he’s alone on the site, he listens to Albanian radio. Pelting songs in minor keys. He sings to the North London chimney pots. He dances arms aloft on the new flat roof. He sips a mug of muddy tea beneath the plastic shelter. Drizzle falls. No, he thinks, it’s not like Calais here.