The butterball botty boy is really getting up my nose.
He’s now not content with staring at me from his desk, this morning he managed to creep behind my desk undetected, stand an inch away from me and, virtually whispering in my ear, request a cigarette.
But he didn’t say, ‘may I have a cigarette?’ or ‘have you got a spare fag?’ (actually he probably wouldn’t say the latter without cupping his hand over his mouth and melting into fits of faux giggles and laughter whilst imagining himself to be Judy Garland or something…) no, he said ‘Oooh, izzzzit owkaaiy if I pinch a ssssscigoirette?’
I jumped out of my skin, how on earth he’s managed to get to get so near to me with me noticing I’ve no idea…I mean it’s not as if he’s not fat. The expression ‘light on his feet’ has just become fully apparent. In fact watching him going to the kitchen he really does move utterly without sound.
I gave him a cigarette and carried on with my ‘work’ for a while until I was forced to make haste to the loos following the familiar weight of detritus land with a soft plop into the lower part of my bowels. I internally masticated the dead child before my waters broke and I was forced to give birth. Following a tremendous and highly toxic delivery I wiped, washed up and left. On exiting the chamber and to my horror the stealthy one was approaching me with some urgency. Before I had a chance to say ‘I wouldn’t’ he breezed past and went in!
The mad fool! No one goes in the loo after I’ve been in there, especially not after one of my excellent chilli’s with extra kidney beans, each one worth three farts and half a burp… I moved away from the bathroom but kept an eye on the door….as sure as eggs is eggs the door flew open after ten seconds, he’d quite clearly attempted to withstand the stench as his need to cack was greater, then realised it wasn’t worth it. Coughing with some force, he cut me a disgruntled glance and moved off towards his desk.
Then I noticed the fool hadn’t closed the door.
It’s worth noting that sitting close to the loos are three girls who work in production. The diabolical odour reached their delicate noses with some speed. ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ one said sweetly, ‘Oh fuck, that’s fucking awful’ exclaimed another gently…I think the third one had passed out.
‘Which cunt did that?’ said one; ‘It was the new boy’ said the other. To help I pointed over at his desk where he was clearly recovering from his unfortunate encounter with my newborn and shook my head. I rolled my eyes as well and did a small ‘tsk’.
Walking cheerfully back to my desk it dawned on me that in addition to the elation of schadenfreude the last place on earth the butterball would wish to be is anywhere near my bottom.
A double whammy and, checking to make sure there were no witnesses, I lightly punched the air.