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.

When I got in last night the plumber gave me a ring
“Awight mate…” he chimed “’Ows the ‘rads?’ Is tha’ one near the table in the sitting room settled nah?”
“Yes, “ I replied a little suspiciously, surprised he’d called, “it’s all fine now, thanks.”
He expressed his pleasure on hearing the news and rang off.
I wasn’t quite sure why he’d called, it was one of three things, genuine after sales follow-up, prospecting for new business (I’d been informed that really, the best thing to do in the long term would be to scrap the whole system, have an up to date combi-boiler fitted and new ‘rads’ ‘for a couple of graaand, done private’) or guilt that he’d done an inadequate job for a lot of money.
The ‘rad’ nearest the table in the lounge is still quite cool at the bottom; it’s still clearly quite sludged up, so alarm bells were gently ringing…

The timing of his call was slightly ironic as five minutes earlier I’d had the misfortune of bumping into the owner of downstairs, the father of my cunt of a neighbour. Apparently I’d done £200 worth of damage to the downstairs kitchen when my bathroom had flooded on Saturday night, but it was okay, he wasn’t holding it against me. Fucking wanker, there is no kitchen downstairs yet because the whole property is being refurbished and his cunt of a son said the water had merely dribbled down the (unpainted) walls. I explained how I’d caught the leak in time, that a new ‘rad’ had been fitted and that I’d had a power flush. When I told him how much for the flush he did just as I expected and shock his idiot head.
‘Steve [the plumber] would’ve done it much cheaper… Oi Steve, he paid £700 having a ‘Powerflush’!”
Steve appeared briefly in the doorway and uttered something in a cloudy Cornish accent, and disappeared. I’d told the cunts father (without removing my crash helmet) I’d been waiting for Steve for over two months to sort the condensation problem in my loft. I wasn’t in a position to wait indefinitely as my flat filled with wet black shit for him to pull his finger out of his arse and sort my central heating. My face was unseen, save my eyes and I relished the joy of waggling my tongue out at him when he replied. I took notice of what he said; I didn’t give a toss, besides I wanted to get in and empty my back.

The evening passed pleasantly enough, I started painting the bathroom floor listening to the six ‘o clock news on the Radio, it was going to take over seven hours before it was alright to lightly walk on. After that I started to plaster up the ceiling, this work was aborted when one whole tube of Polyfilla failed to fill in half the gap. Bollocks.

After I’d eaten I sat down and watched a fucking awful film, it was so pathetically made (needless to say the DVD box had ‘quotes’ from ‘reputable’ critics, ‘the best film ever made!’ and ‘the entire known universe HAVE to see this film as it’s really fucking genius!’ and suchlike) I won’t lower myself to mentioning it. Giving myself some kudos, I was given the film by a now ex-friend, we’ll have no more contact, they may have given me the fucking clap.

Like everything in life, there is cause and effect, the cause of the film was to enrage my sensibilities, insult my intelligence and waste two precious hours of my life, such was my annoyance I forgot myself.

The effect was to wander muttering into the bathroom and stand in a pool of not-even-a-bit-dry puddle of fucking floor paint.