Fall Of Duty: Modern Warfare

Sharon was furious when she saw Steve in the corner, asleep and covered in rubbish. I knew she would be. Blatant company time wasting, disregard of litter and misuse of company property, particularly her own stapler, that was balanced on Steve's shoulder. She wanted to know who was behind it, the work of art that I created by accident, but to my knowledge had been unsuccessful. The Buckaroo on Steve was started by me, but added to by most of the staff, so I wasn't really to blame. Steve was told to go home for a few days and rest. Preferably in his bed, not in the corner of a canteen. Today was his first day back, so I tried not to remind him of the litter-balancing act and focussed my concern on his overtime.


'Glad you've had a few days off, Steve. You were working a hell of a lot.'
'I'm just trying to lose a bit of weight. Keep in shape and that.' He replied, pulling up his belt.

I could tell he was well rested because the bullshit was back. He wasn't trying to lose weight, he just didn't have the nerve to talk back to his mother. But I was still feeling guilty, so I egged him on.

'Good on you.' I smiled.
'Yeah, don't try the milkshake diet I tried.' Alex shook his head. 'Load of rubbish, didn't work.'
'You're supposed to have specific milkshakes, though Alex. Not go to McDonald's every day.'
'I had banana flavour, none of that chocolate stuff!'
'There's still sugar in it.'
'Oh...no wonder I put on two stone in a month. I was having them three times a day.'

Steve rolled his eyes as if he was amongst idiots. I rolled my eyes because I thought I was amongst idiots. Out of the three of us stood there, one had tried to lose weight with fast food and the other was a 46 year old man who's new nickname was, thanks to me, BuckaSteve. I certainly wasn't the idiot.


We were standing around for quite awhile, chatting about different things. Alex kept talking about his night at the cinema with Fran, which went well. Only they couldn't sit together as there were no free seats next to the disabled area. Alex was furious, but Fran got to sit right at the front. A plus side to being in a wheelchair. It seemed odd to me that none of us felt guilty about standing around. But every so often Sharon taps on the window and shakes her hand about, like she was shooing away insects on her Sunday roast. But this time, twenty minutes into a decent debate on films, Sharon tapped violently on the window and pointed at me. Not Alex, not Steve, not even us in general. She pointed at me and ushered me upstairs.

'Oh, what?' Steve motioned up to her silently.
'You're in trouble now!' Alex grinned at me.

We were all stood chatting, why would she single me out? I sheepishly made my way up to the store, the jeers from Alex and Steve behind me getting quieter and quieter. I felt so guilty. Sharon had a great way of making you feel a lot more guilty than you should be when entering her office. She'll sit there in silence, maybe light one of her long cigarettes and glare at you. She always made you speak first, to prove your guilt.

'I'm...we're sorry, Sharon.'
'For what?'

Oh, that was a good trick, too. Making you explain exactly what you've done wrong. Just like High School.

'For, you know...standing.'
'You're sorry for standing?'
'Yeah...and chatting.'
'Oh don't worry about that, dear.' She said gently, tapping the ash into her shiny black tray.
'Really? It was quite a long time. Twenty minutes, nearly.'
'No. What I want to know is, was it you who started the litter game with Steve?'

Oh God. That's why she wanted me in here. I knew I shouldn't have started it, but it was just so tempting. It's in every man's blood. You see a friend fast asleep and you do one of three things:

1) Put stuff on him. Either litter, shaving foam or water.
2) Shave off some or all of his hair.
3) Give him a swift kick in the bollocks.

Sometimes all three. Believe me, I know. I'll always remember that morning I woke up piss wet through with no eyebrows and aching testicles. Not the best way to start your 21st birthday. Sharon wouldn't buy that, though. Being a woman she wouldn't understand. A woman encounters a sleeping woman and they do something weird, like put a duvet over them or turn the telly off. Very strange. But I decided to be honest, the guilt she managed to draw out of me was getting too much.

'Erm...I may have put a can of Fanta on him but, honestly Sharon, I didn't mean for it to...'
'Oh, yours was the Fanta, was it? Good one.'

There were a few moments of stunned silence. Sharon didn't do sarcasm, she'd told me that many times.

'I'm sorry?'
'That was at the bottom. I presumed that belonged to the person who started it.'
'Hang on Sharon. You're not angry about this?'
'I'm angry, yes. He woke up before I could take a good picture!'

I laughed, but not out loud. I still wasn't sure about what she was saying. Then she told me.

'Basically, Dylan. When I saw Steve there, asleep in the corner, my first thought was to put something on him. But as a manager I can't be seen to do it.'
'Chris did it, he's the deputy manager. He put cutlery in his pocket.' I said.
'I know, I've seen his pictures.' She leaned in to me. 'I want you to help me do more. See, I'm not really one for fun, Dylan...'

Shocking.

'...But with it being a slow month and now Darren is in charge of your department, things are a little boring. So I want you to come up with a few more games to play on Steve.'
'Why Steve?'
'Why not Steve?'

Good point. I did have experience in Steve-based practical jokes. At first I thought she was joking. A test to prove my reliability to the department. After a few seconds a little smile cracked on her face, but I still wasn't sure if it was a test or a giddy reaction to possible games she could play.

'You are joking, aren't you? '
'No. Do I joke?' She said bluntly.
'No, you're just asking me to do it for you.'
'Exactly.'
'But what would Margaret think? His own mother?'
'Oh, she's on board too. Gave me a few ideas herself.'

I sat back, put the tips of my fingers together and put on my thinking face. With narrowed eyes I told her I'd get back to her and left the office with a smile. This was amazing, Sharon's hired hit-man for the day. She was right, she didn't do jokes, simply because she probably hadn't encountered any in her life until she saw the BuckaSteve. Then suddenly the joke gene had evolved within her, letting out millions of tiny giggling possibilities. They were still possibilities, of course. Her joke gene hadn't evolved enough for her to come up with actual practical jokes, just the knowledge that there could be jokes in the future. And I was the one called up to come up with them.

An hour later I strolled into her office with a notepad and pen, like a journalist in the editors office who'd bagged a front page story. She spoke first this time. The tables had turned.

'Ah, Dylan, what have you got?'
'A few ideas.' I said, settling myself on the chair.
'Shoot.'

I flicked the notepad pages a few times and began.

'The Name Change...'
'What?'
'Oh, I've decided to give every joke a little title.'
'OK, go ahead...'
'The Name Change: Get everyone to call him Nigel from now on.'
'Right...'
'The Odd Smell: Get everyone to give him a little sniff when they pass him.'

Sharon frowned, but I kept going.

'The Invisible Man: Get everyone to ignore him.'
'These are weak, Dylan!' She interrupted.

Weak? It took me an hour to come up with these. I bought a notepad especially, and that was the abuse I got!

'Petty little jokes! Primary school pranks, Dylan! I want real jokes!'

She'd only discovered jokes four days ago, now she's a joke snob.

'I've got one more.' I winced.
'You've only come up with four? In an hour?'
'I've been working as well.'
'Never mind that, Dylan. What's your last one?'
'The All Fours Fall.'
'What the hell is that?' She barked.

I explained the simple process. We've all done it. You get on all fours behind your friend and get someone to push them so they fall over you. A simple process.

'What's funny about that?'
'Well, falling over is funny, Sharon.'

She stared at me.

'I don't think so.' She scoffed.
'But you're thinking of you falling over. Try thinking of Steve falling over.'

She burst out into laughter.

'OK, OK..' In between spurts of giggles. 'Let's do it!'
'OK, me and Alex will do it.'
'No...I want to do it.'

A shudder of fear ran down my spine. The thought of me on all fours, looking up at Steve's shiny grey ponytail and Sharon thrusting her hands into his chest, making him reel and flounder and panic, before crashing to the floor amongst shrieks of laughter and tears.

That didn't happen. Sharon hadn't changed her mind in a sudden revelation of professionalism, she simply wanted me to do the pushing and her to be on all fours. Which looks funnier, in my opinion. So we made our way down to Steve and Alex, who were still stood in the same place, by the trolley bays, chatting away. Sharon had to stop smirking if she was going to get through this. Suddenly I was professional, the teacher and the student at the University of Jokes.

'Steve. Alex.' She nodded to both of them.
'All right, Sharon.' Alex nodded.
'Listen, Sharon. We're simply having a meeting here.' Steve proclaimed.
'No, no, that's quite all right. Dylan wanted to talk to you about something..'

And so began thirty seconds of wandering, off the point waffling from my mouth, whilst Sharon winked at Alex and slowly knelt down behind Steve, who was stood solid in front of me. We pre-arranged that if something were to go wrong and Steve asked why she was on the floor, she was simply picking something up. I didn't think it would wash, though. Sharon was wearing a pristine light brown pant-suit and would never pick up something off the floor. Especially with three lads there to do it for her.


I started to sweat, repeating myself and staring at Steve's confused face. When Sharon was in position and Alex finally realised what we were up to, I slowly moved towards Steve and nudged him. It was a slight nudge, so he didn't go down straight away. He did that embarrassing I-seem-to-be-falling-over fall were it lasts about twenty minutes, with flailing arms and cries of panic. He finally made contact with Sharon and fell backwards onto the floor.


The ambulance arrived shortly after. Steve had been knocked unconscious, hitting his head on the concrete. He was still unconscious when he was loaded into the back of the ambulance with Sharon shrieking 'I was picking something up off the floor!' Everyone was outside to watch. It's a knee-jerk reaction to seeing an ambulance. Even with a police car or a fire engine, your first instinct is not to panic or worry, it's to get as close to the vehicle and find out what's going on, and then to film it on your mobile phone.

'This is your fault, Dylan.' She pointed at me, with half the colleagues and nearly all the customers glaring at us.
'My fault?'
'It was your idea!'
'You asked me to come up with ideas, you wanted to do it!'

She stared at the ambulance that was now moving off and towards the exit of the car park. Sharon's joke went wrong, but she wanted to make up for it, by changing the joke for another. So she yelled 'Hope you get better soon, Nigel!'

'I'm sure he can hear you, Sharon.'
'Should I have told the paramedic to sniff him?' She panicked.


Her joke gene had a lot of evolving to do.

The Way You Make Me Wheel

Alex had just returned from his holiday and, quite frankly, I was glad to see him back. Steve and his mother were still at each others throats and it seemed odd that they couldn't settle their differences, seeing as they work and live with each other. You spent that much time with someone and you're bound to get it sorted. But Steve was stubborn, and so was Margaret. She had made him do overtime all week and he was knackered. Which was good for me, as he had no strength to bullshit.


Steve was upstairs on his lunch so me and the returning Alex cleared up outside. He had done a lot with his time off, apparently. He was made Godfather at Callum's Christening, best man at Duncan and Jenny's Wedding and worked with his Dad on a building site. Not bad for a lad who's never taken an interest in anything except glue.

Alex collected a few baskets inside the store then made his way back outside. He seemed quiet, but I put it down to it being his first day back. Everyone is always a bit odd at the their first day back from a holiday. They spend the day sighing and in a world of their own. But Alex was always in a world of his own, so he seemed twice as distant.

'All right, Alex?'
'Yeah, yeah. Fine.'

I always had to start the conversation with Alex, it doesn't happen with any other colleague. They talk at you first, mainly out of boredom. But with Alex, I needed to kick-start the chat. I was about to give it another go but he piped up again.

'You know that girl? Off the checkouts?'

Alex needed to narrow it down a little bit more if I was to know. About ninety percent of the checkout team were female.

'Which one?'
'Black hair.'

Seventy percent now.

'Keep going.' I said.
'About my age. Glasses.'

Thirty percent.

'She's in a kind of....wheelchair.'
'Oh, yeah. Fran.'
'Is that her name?'
'Yeah, I think so. Why?'
'I didn't know what her name was. We just got chatting.'

I can't imagine Alex chatting. He didn't have enough vocabulary, surely.

'Oh right, what were you chatting about?'
'Bacon sandwiches.'
'Bacon...sandwiches?'
'Yeah.' Alex smiled.

I waited a second for the words to seep into his brain and correct himself, but nothing happened. He just kept smiling.

'Good conversation, then?'
'It was all right.'

I couldn't tell if 'all right' was good or bad in Alex's mind. Everything seemed 'all right' to him. But he kept going.

'You see, she likes it with brown sauce but I'm a red kind of guy.
'Wow, you want to be careful, mate.' I said sarcastically. 'Next thing you know you want to watch an Arnie film and she wants to see a shit Robin Williams one.'
'Oh, that won't happen, will it? I hate Robin Williams.' Alex winced.
'Differences are differences.'
'What makes you think I want a relationship with her anyway?' He asked, defensively.
'Well do you?'

Alex didn't answer. He just smirked at me.

'Can I ask, Alex. Why didn't you say she was in a wheelchair at first?'
'Eh? Oh, well, you know...it's not a big deal is it?'
'Who are you asking? Me and you?'
'You, of course.'
'Of course it's not. She's a nice girl, Fran.'
'She's mine!' He barked at me.

Wow, suddenly Alex had a bit of spark about him. I liked it. Now he might actually be able to join in other conversations I may want to start in the future. The usual being Desert Island Discs Top 5 Songs, Would You Rather...? and What Would You Do With 10 Million Quid? I tried the last one with Steve but it was boring. For an 'ex-rocker' I didn't expect his to reply to be 'Invest it.' I'm not sure Hendrix invested his earnings, maybe in a bit of crack every now and again.


It was a pretty quiet day so I went up into the canteen for a quick drink, only to find Steve slumped over on a table in the corner. I could only see the top of his head, his face nestled in his forearm. He was tired, working everyday for two weeks. Poor Steve. My sympathy lasted about three seconds. I slammed my can of Fanta on the table and sat down myself down violently.

'All right, Steve!' Nudging him in the arm.

He shot up from his chair and blurted out a noise, looking from side to side. After a few seconds he settled down.

'Oh, Dylan. Morning.'
'Afternoon.'
'Yeah, whatever.' Steve moaned, nestling his head back down to the table.
'You still on your lunch?'
'Still on my breakfast, I think.' He mumbled. 'Didn't get enough sleep last night.'
'You're doing too much, mate.' Sipping my can.
'Naa...I'm just...'

His words fell away, turning into occasional snores and noises. His own mother had forced him to work three times as much as he normally would. He could have refused them, of course. I don't doubt he did refuse at first. But if there's one person who can get you to do something, it's your mother. I stared at his sleeping little pony-tailed head as I finished my can of drink. I'm not very good with sympathy, particularity with Steve. So instead of walking away and letting Steve sleep, I looked at my empty can and placed it on Steve's sleeping shoulder, tucking it in-between his collar and neck. Looking back I don't know why I did it, I thought it was funny at the time. Not knowing what it would turn into.


I made my way back downstairs and along the row of checkouts. Most of the tills were open and complete with a bored colleague staring straight forward. I spotted Alex at the first checkout, a pile of baskets in a trolley beside him, chatting away to Fran.

'I just didn't like Jumanji. And Mrs Doubtfire...rubbish. What do you think?'
'Why are you going on about all the films you hate? Surely the ones you like are worth talking about.' Fran suggested.
'Just checking.'

Fran was a small girl, with short black hair that matched the frames of her glasses. It was nice to know Alex had been thinking about their differences since I'd left him outside earlier. He was right, though. Robin Williams is rubbish.

'So is it dead outside, like it is in here?'
'Yeah, dead. There's something about Thursdays, isn't there? It's never busy.'

I was proud of Alex. He was small talking like a natural. I should have intervened right there, made him quit while he was ahead. But no, I let him carry on.

'I'd rather be in here then out there, though. It's a bit cold out.'
'Ah, it's not so bad.' Alex shrugged.
'I don't understand why you like it so much out there.'
'It's easy work, you get to walk around...'

Fran's face dropped. My face dropped. Alex face finally dropped when he realised what he had said. Fran looked down and Alex looked away, before trying to re-start their small talk.

'Erm...so what time are you on till?'

Good generic question.

'Six.' She replied bluntly, still looking down.
'OK.' Alex nodded.

He looked at me and winced, then walked past me towards the stairs. I couldn't leave him with his embarrassment, so I followed him upstairs and sat on the table where he was slumped.

'Don't worry, Alex.'
'What? Why should I be worried?'
'….It was an honest mistake. You meant no harm.'
'Why did I say that?' Rising up to meet my eye line.
'I don't know. It was just part of the chit-chat. It was an idle chit-chat blunder.'
'An idle chit-chat blunder?' Trying to convince himself.
'Yeah. Just apologise. As I said, it was an honest mistake.'
'I told a girl in a wheelchair it's nice to walk around!'
'You didn't mean it like that!'

Alex scoffed and planted his head back down. He had to find it funny somewhere in his head, but not at the moment. I could tell he really liked her, so he couldn't just leave it like this. You leave it an hour, an hour turns into a day, then a week. Then before you know it you're looking back on an embarrassing statement you said four years ago, and it's too late to repair it.

'Just go and talk to her.' I said slowly.
'She doesn't want to talk to me now, does she?'

He rose back up from his chair, before fixing his eyes on something behind me. I turned around in my seat and scanned the room. I realised what Alex had spotted. Steve, on the table in the corner with 3 or 4 people around him, adding objects to his sleeping body. There were two girls of the grocery department, holding napkins and plastic cups. A member of the cleaning staff carefully placing a sandwich box on Steve's head and, strangely enough, the deputy manager Chris, putting knives and forks into his top pocket. I looked back at Alex, who was giggling at what he was seeing. The I realised I had inadvertently started a game of Buckaroo with my can of Fanta. A sentence I don't say everyday. Steve was still well away. Snoring peacefully whilst covered in assorted litter. A sense of pride suddenly overwhelmed me. Being 23 I hadn't really achieved anything so far in my life. Sure, a degree in Biomedical Sciences is an achievement, but there's very little else. No medals for school football tournaments. No bands I could play in. I didn't even get that certificate in swimming when you swim in your clothes. But I had created a human Buckaroo that even managers were getting involved in. That made me smile for the rest of the day.


The next morning I arrived at 10am, Alex had started earlier and was smiling as I made my way down to the trolley bay.

'I spoke to her.'
'Morning, Alex.'
'Yeah, morning. I spoke to her.'
'Oh yeah?' I said, adding a trolley to his pile.
'Yeah.' He said, his face beaming. 'We're going out tonight.'
'Aw, brilliant. I guess you made up with her, then?'
'Yeah, I apologized. She said it was no problem. To make it up to her I'm going to pay for her cinema ticket.'
'That's nice, Alex. Just make sure she doesn't want to watch that new Robin Williams film.'

His face dropped.

'I better go check with her.' Skipping up to the store.



Ten minutes later he was running down towards me, bellowing that I should come and look at something. I followed him up to the half full canteen and looked to where he was pointing. It was Steve, still asleep in the corner and covered in nearly three times at much litter as we saw yesterday. The night staff had joined in, and done a great job, too. Now on his head and shoulders were bits of cardboard, crisp packets and a stapler. I wanted to shake the hand of whoever put that on him, it looked like a heavy stapler. I felt twice as proud. It's amazing what litter can do to your confidence in life.

Dawn Of The Head

It was another Bullshit Wednesday. But not a Bullshit Wednesday as I knew it.


Steve couldn't bullshit today, his mind couldn't come up with anything. No stories about once knowing the band who supported Europe in 1984, no pretending to be ill or even telling me that the burn on his arm was from setting fire to promotional poster of Phil Collins, even though his Mum told me it was from making a Pot Noodle.

Steve was too busy thinking about Darren and all the bad names he could call him.

'What an arse.'

I laughed.

'Such a tit.'

I smiled.

'I can't believe he made Margaret the Head Porter, what an idiot.'

My eyebrows fell.

'Margaret?'
'Yeah...'
'You mean your mum?'
'Yeah, Margaret.'
'Why are you calling her Margaret? She's your mum.'

My Mum would go mental at me if I called her by her first name, plus it would sound so weird. I know Steve was 46 years old but still, your mum is your mum.

'It's more professional, isn't it?'
'Ah, yes. She's now your superior.'

Steve shrugged and pulled a face. I was right but knew for a fact that he would never agree with me. I worked with Margaret the day before, who was more than delighted to take the role of Head Porter. In her words 'it gives me a chance to wear my new reading glasses when I'm doing the rotas.' She told me Steve tried to persuade her to turn down the role and, in his words 'leave it to the professional.' but she was having none of it. Good on her. A few reasons for Steve's willingness to keep the role was:

1) Doing the rotas takes a long time. Margaret may get tired.
2) Sharon's always on your back about things.
3) You get people ringing you about problems when you're at home.


Statements that were soon undone, when Margaret did her first month's rotas in seven minutes, received a bunch of flowers from Sharon and said she would be glad of a phone call, she loves a good chat. Of course, Steve wasn't happy.

'What a tit. Why would he give her the Head Porters job?'
'I don't know, shake things up a bit? Maybe add some age and experience to the department.'
'She's already added age and experience by being here, I'm The Head Porter.' He protested.
'If you've got a problem with it go and speak to Darren.'

Steve cleared his throat, took a large breath of air and walked up to the store.

Darren hadn't got an office yet. In fact, calling it 'a desk' would be generous. His enrolment earned him a large table in the corner of the personnel offices. Something that Darren seemed happy with, since his course was seemingly 99% paperwork. Steve made his way over to the corner, after dragging a chair across the carpet, making the whole office glare over at him. He sat down and looked at Darren, who was still writing on one of the 57 pieces of paper on his table.

'Darren?'
'Hang on.' He replied quickly.

Darren kept writing for at least fifteen seconds, which felt like a lifetime to Steve.

'Go.' Darren said, finally looking up at him.
'I wondered if I could talk to you about the Head Porters role.'
'Your Mum is doing a great job.' Darren said bluntly.
'Margaret? Yeah, she might be, but if it ever gets too much for her, I'll be OK to take over, for her sake.'
'All she has to do is complete the rotas and let me know of any problems. So far, so good. She handed in the rota yesterday and there are no problems as of yet.'

Darren had summed it all up well. So much so that Steve was now struggling with what to say next. So he came up with a lie.

'She's in hospital.'

Darren dropped his pen.

'What?'
'Yeah, angina attack. She'll be out of work for a while, so...'
'I'm sorry to hear it, Steven.'
'Yeah, so the head porter thing...'
'I'll let Sharon know and I'll find cover for her.' He said, finding out of the many pieces of paper in front of him. 'Do you fancy doing any of her shifts?'
'Erm...well, I'll be visiting Margaret at the hospital.'
'You mean your Mum?'
'Yeah, Margaret.'
'Why do you call her by her first name?'
'Professional.' Steve smiled.
'Oh, well, I'm sure you'll only visit her during visiting hours. The rest of the time you can pick up a few shifts.'

Steve and Darren held their stares. Steve had never done any overtime whilst he worked here. His excuse was that as Head Porter, his job was to find cover not do cover. Now his role was stripped off him, he was obliged to do overtime. Darren managed to wrangle him to do his Mum's shift the day after. Even though Margaret wasn't in Hospital and due to work tomorrow.


Thursday came around and I couldn't wait for Steve to turn up. I worked especially hard to make the car park clear, then stood by the trolley bay and waited for Steve to park in his usual parking space. Half expecting Steve to arrive alone and spiel some bullshit to his Mum about not bothering to work, I was surprised to see Margaret in the passenger seat, smiling at me and Steve parked the skoda.

'Now, Mum. As I said, you wait here and I'll go and speak to Sharon.'
'Shouldn't you speak to Darren?' Taking off her seatbelt.
'Why? Sharon is the manager.'
'Yes but Darren is in charge.'

Steve scoffed, got out of the car and hurried over to me.

'Help me.'
'What do you need?' I smiled.
'I couldn't stop her from coming. She locked herself in the car. Please, think of something I can tell Sharon.'
'You mean Darren?'
'Oh, shut up about Darren!'

He shouted that so loud that Darren heard it. Simply because he was ten metres away, walking towards us, dressed in a pristine white shirt and sky blue tie.

'Come on lads, let's get to work!' He said, in a half-serious voice. 'Steve, how's your Mum doing?'
'Yeah, fine.' Steve replied, trying not to look back at the car.
'Hang on, is that...'

Darren spotted Margaret in Steve's car, who was now enthusiastically waving to Darren, who waved back.

'Hello Margaret!'
'She's holding up.' Steve winced.
'Why is she...?'
'I was going to come and tell you, need to take her to the hospital.'
'I thought she was in hospital?'
'Naa....'

Darren looked at me. I wasn't prepared to help either of them out. Just seeing Steve here on his day off was enough entertainment for me. Now he was trying to squeal his way out of being here with his Mum to a man who was twenty odd years younger. I was enjoying it, and to make it better, Steve started to sweat. And to make it even better, Margaret got out of the car.

'Morning Darren!'
'Morning Margaret. How are you holding up?'
'Oh, not bad. I'm keeping on. I've started the rotas for the next two weeks. No-ones on holiday so there's no changes.'

Steve looked at Darren. I looked at Steve. Margaret looked at me.

'That's great. But shouldn't you be resting?' Darren asked.
'Resting? I'll rest when I'm dead!' She giggled. 'I've got work to be getting on with.'
'Oh my word, you're such a fighter, aren't you? So you're OK to do your shift after all, then?' Darren tilted his head.
'Eh?' Margaret grunted.
'Yep...she's a fighter all right!' Steve smiled and put his arm around his mother.
'She is, Darren.' I smiled and looked at Steve, who was wincing more than ever.
'Steve, why are you in your uniform if you're just dropping her off?' Darren asked.
'That's what I said.' Margaret added.
'Yeah, why are you dressed like that?' I smiled
'What can I say? I'm a professional.'
'You're a fool, more like!' Darren laughed. 'Margaret, come to my office...'
'Table.' Steve corrected him.
'...I think such bravery and reliability deserves an award at the next ceremony.'

We stood and watched Darren and Margaret slowly walk their way up to the store. Steve looked absolutely shattered. I wasn't sure what he was hoping to achieve in locking his mother inside the car. Maybe that she would just sit there silently for eight hours whilst Steve did her shift, hoping both Darren and Sharon wouldn't come outside and notice her.

'She can make her own way home if she's so brave.' Steve muttered.

He stomped his way over to the car and threw himself in. The only way I could describe what I saw next was a little like a mid-life crisis. But instead of it happening over 5 or 6 years, it happened in 5 or 6 minutes. He sat there staring at the steering wheel, his eyes glazing over and glistening. Turning the radio on blurted out some awful 80's rock tune through his tinny speakers. His head was rocking slightly back and forth. Then after a while, he turned off the stereo and rolled down his window.

'Tell her I'll pick her up at five.'


They say there's nothing better than a love for your own mother. Faking her hospitalization and inadvertently making her win an award for doing nothing, that's real love.

He Who Chairs Wins

I told Sharon that Darren would not be handing in his final form because of 'cold feet.' When really it was because Steve had written on it in a moment of madness, in revenge. To be truthful, I never would have thought Steve had the nerve to do what he did. Calling all manager's a 'dick' on a form is a daring move. Darren had really been looking forward to this customer services course and could not pluck up the courage to tell the truth. Well, would you? The professionalism and concentration involved in the interviews, the training and the paperwork, then to throw it all away by saying 'Sharon, he's written all over my form! Tell him!' It was a little bit too primary school for his liking. Sharon didn't believe me, of course. She sensed something was amiss and called a meeting the next day to sort the problem out.


'Right, Darren. Steven. Thank you for coming.'
'Did we have a choice?' Steve asked.
'Yes. Attend this meeting or be suspended.'

Steve nodded and sat back in his chair, whilst Darren, on the other side of Sharon's cream coloured office, sat picking his nails.

'Right, we're sorting this problem out. Steve, would you like to speak first?'
'Yes, does he have to be here?'

'He' was me. Sat next to Sharon on a lovely leather chair, on Sharon's side of the desk. The better side. I felt so important, looking across at Steve and Darren, who, quite rightly were questioning my presence.

'Yes. He is an impartial adjudicator.'
'A what?' Darren asked.
'I'm the peacemaker.' I informed him.
'Well, you're here because we need to sort this and I want the truth. Start taking minutes, Dylan.'
'What?'
'Take minutes.' Nodding down at her pad of paper.
'Oh....erm...two minutes past twelve.' I said, glancing up at the clock.

Sharon glared at me.

'Do you know what 'taking minutes' means?'
'Got no idea, Sharon.'
'That's why you're here!'
'...Yes, but I'm here for more than that, aren't I? I've got this nice leather chair.' I said proudly, tapping the shiny leather arms.
'It's all we had.'

The power of the chair was getting to my head. I found myself laying back, touching together the tips of my fingers and gazing over at Steve with narrowed eyes. 'You're fired!' I could bellow at him. But Sharon would probably shout at me again. This is why people become managers. It's not the good money or the respect. It's the feeling you get sat in a comfortable chair in your own office.

'Steve. Speak.' Sharon said bluntly.

Steve cleared his throat, hunched his body forward and got a small notepad out of his pocket. He looked around the room whilst putting on his reading glasses and paused before finding a starting position.

'I believe Darren Johnson pushed me with a tirade of verbal abuse concerning myself, Steve G. Grady and my own mother and fellow colleague. My actions were completely sane and justified and were in reaction to such abuse.'

Darren rolled his eyes.

'You wrote 'dick' on my form because I took the piss about you working with your Mum.'
'That's correct.' Steve said.
'Is that it?' Sharon shrieked.
'What do you mean? It took me all night to write that!' Pointing at his little notepad.
'Did your mummy help you with it?' Darren said.
'Is this what it's all about? You ruined his form because Margaret works here?' Sharon spat at them.
'Yeah, they were laughing at me, Sharon.'
'Why didn't you ask for another form, Darren?' Sharon asked.
'That's what I said.' I leaned in.
'I didn't think I could have another.'
'Of course you could.'
'I said that.' I nodded.
'Dylan...please.'
'Sorry, Sharon.'

Darren was given another form and was asked to complete it within the hour. Steve was told to grow up, a difficult task to take on when you're with your mother 24 hours a day.

'Consider the problem solved, gentleman. And Steve, Margaret is working with you, get over it. She's an asset to the company and a fine example of how a colleague should be. Where is she, anyway? She's supposed to be working today.'
'Oh, she's staying in the house today, Sharon.' Steve said. 'Her angina tablets haven't kicked in.'


Yes, an asset to the company. A heart condition. So the problem was put to bed, Darren got back to work on his form whilst me and Steve cleaned up outside.

'So, is your Mum all right, then?'
'Yes, yes, can we stop going on about her!' Steve shook his head.
'I'm just asking, you said she has angina.'
'She does. Plus, I told her not to come in.'
'Yeah, probably for the best.'
'Too right, she's handing in her notice in tomorrow.'
'What?'

I stopped a pile of trolley's in my tracks, which Steve bumped into, stubbing his toe on the steel.

'Yeah, she's going to be leaving.'
'But she likes it here.'
'It's not good for her, Dylan!'
'Bullshit, you just don't want her around because she embarrassing you!'


I shouldn't have said 'bullshit' to Steve. Saying 'bullshit' to Steve earned us another meeting with Sharon.

'OK, I haven't got all day with you lads. I thought we'd sorted this.' She frowned.

We both sat on the other side of her desk and I took a second to stare at the chair I was once sat in. The chair I was sitting on now was wooden, with itchy powder blue padding. Not the best I'd been on today. This one didn't even recline. I felt low. Ten minutes ago I was Sharon's noble assistant, now I was getting bollocked by her.

'Steve said Margaret is handing in her notice tomorrow.'
'Is this correct?'
'It's what she told me.' Steve shrugged with his arms crossed.
'It's what you told her.' I stared at him.
'I'm sure I'll speak to her tomorrow, that's if she comes in.'
'I'll give it to you if she doesn't make it, Sharon.' Steve said.
'I'd like to see her do it herself.' I said.
'Why don't you shut your face!?'
'Free speech.'
'I'm Head Porter.'
'I've sat in that chair.' Pointing at the leather seat.
'Gentleman. Get back to work. I'll speak to Margaret in the morning.'

We sheepishly walked down the walkway, like two school children who'd just been sent to the Head Teachers office. We both muttered abuse to each other with blushed faces when Darren called us over in the canteen. His posture had changed quite radically. Sat properly upright at a table full of papers, his movements were more confident.

'Gentleman, please take a seat.'

Gentleman? Only Sharon called us gentleman. Had he forgotten who was the manager was around here? Even I was higher up that him at that point, after all I've sat in the leather chair. I'm going to buy one of those executive chairs when I get paid. I may have to put it together myself but it will look great in my room. I'd need a desk, of course. It was a bit odd just sat in a chair in the middle of my room.

'Say hello to your new manager.'

Me and Steve looked around the canteen after taking a seat. A few night staff we're still in the corner eating chips, and a young lad was sat on his own on the middle table. No sign of any managers.

'Me!' Darren barked.
'What?'
'Eh?'
'Yes. I've spoken to Sharon after handing in my form. My customer services course starts today. My first port of call: Take over the Porters department.'
'Oh, Jesus!' Steve held his head.
'Sounds good to me, Daz.' I nodded.
'Darren. Call me Darren.'

I nodded, a little bit offended but I was chuffed for him. It was a good move by Sharon. All the hassle that comes from Steve was now Darren's problem. If he succeeds, she'll take the credit for trusting him. If not, it's Daz's fault. Oh, sorry, Darren's fault.

'I'm glad I've caught you too. Here's a list of updated rules and regulations that I've drawn up.' Handing a sheet of paper to both of us. 'Take a good look. I'll still be doing my shifts but from now on, all problems, holidays, cover days, sicknesses...you'll come to me.'

Steve frowned and looked at me, before clearing his throat he spoke up.

'Holidays?'
'Yes.'
'But that's the Head Porter's job, Daz.'
'Darren...' He corrected him.
'I normally do the holidays.'

Darren looked down to his sheets, scratched his cheek and began.

'Ah, yes. Second port of call: I've decided to change the Head Porter. I've confirmed it with Sharon.'
'Our manager and Head Porter?' Steve asked, putting the emphasis on the latter as if it was a more important role.
'No, not me Steven.'
'Steve.' He corrected him. 'What, him?' Looking a me. 'He's only just started full time. What does a student know?'

More than a 46 year old bullshitter.

'No, not Dylan.'

I was relieved. No offence but admitting I was a trolley pusher to people was hard enough for me. To say I was the 'Head Trolley Pusher' made it worse. After all, you can't polish a turd.

'Then who? Surely not Alex?'
'No.'
'There's no-one else!'
'Yes there is. Think.'

Steve's eyes glazed over before fixing on Darren's.

'My mum?'
'Correct.'

Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!

'But, you can't!'
'I can. I have.'
'She's old, Darren. She's not staying here for long.'
'She is. Just got off the phone with her. She's delighted to take the role.'
'Darren!'

Darren smiled.

'...Now we'll see who's a dick.'

Prince Of Persia: The Sandwiches of Time

'So he came back from school and I empty his lunch box...'


Margaret was halfway through a story about Steve, who was now wincing in the corner of the trolley bay and looking down to his feet. Darren, Alex and I were all ears.

'...and he'd not eaten his sandwiches. So I said “Steven, what's wrong with these sandwiches?” And he says “They're cut into squares”....'
'Mum, do you have to?' Steve attempted to interrupt.
'”They're cut into squares” He says, “you normally cut them into triangles, I didn't think they were mine!”'

We all burst into laughter. All of us bar Steve, of course.

'It was an easy mistake to make, guys.' He squealed. 'Mum, it wasn't funny when you told Sharon and it's not funny now!'

Steve was right, it's wasn't funny. It was hilarious. Stories like that was one of the many reasons why I recommended his mother to Sharon. She'd done a few shifts so far, a few hours at a time. Working with someone as old as Margaret distilled a calm, relaxed atmosphere, plus hearing a story about Steve pissing the bed doesn't hurt either, does it? Well, it hurt Steve.

'Sharon, she can't work here any more!' Steve barked, sitting down at her desk.
'And why not?'
'It's not on, she's just not up to the work!'
'I'll be the judge of that.'

Sharon lay back in her chair, took a puff of her menthol cigarette and smiled. She knew how Steve felt about his mother working with him, but she was willing to play with him.

'But, as the Head Porter...'
'She was the best of the three I trialled, Dylan told you.'
'She's 68 years old!'
'That's ageist.' Pointing at him.
'That's not ageist. It's impossible to be ageist against your own mother.'
'Then you'll work in perfect harmony.'

Steve sighed heavily, but Sharon kept going.

'She's an asset to the company, enthusiastic, reliable. It's more than I can say for Duncan. Hardly ever turned up. And when he did he stunk of marijuana.'
'It was weed, he smoked.'
'She's a hard worker.
'She's sat outside now, on a bench, eating an apple.'
'I don't want to hear any more about this, Steven. Plus, having a female porter does wonders for my reports.'

Steve's eyes lit up.

'This is what it's about about, isn't it? Ticking boxes and positive discrimination in the workplace. We struggle outside so the suits and the fat cats up here can get their pay rise. You make me sick, Sharon.'

Steve got up from his chair, leaving Sharon open-mouthed at her desk. He turned to leave, but then turned back to her.

'She's making fun of me in front of the lads!' He shrieked, his hands on her desk.
'Tough.' Sharon smirked.

The rain had finally let up by 4pm and Margaret had caught the bus home. Steve walked sheepishly out onto the car park to me and Darren.

'She gone, then?' Darren asked him.
'Who?'

Steve knew who. It was amazing to see him still bullshitting after a morning of embarrassment.

'Don't worry, lads. I'll get someone else in soon. We can't be working with dead weight.'
'No, no. She's great. She's an asset to the company, Steve.'
'Why does everyone keep saying that?' He shrugged.
'Aye, she's a good laugh.' Darren smiled.

This was killing him and we knew it. I decided that it was my aim to keep Margaret on for as long as possible. We all knew she didn't do much work, but it's nice knowing that I wasn't the one doing to least amount. You must have someone like that who works with you. You tolerate them just to make sure you're not thought of as the worst.

'Anyway, I'm off for my tea. Sharon wants a banner putting up.'
'OK, Steve. Are you having sandwiches?' I asked.
'Yeah, I think so.'
'Make sure they're yours.'

Steve snorted and marched up to the store while me and Darren cracked up into laughter. Ten minutes later I was up a ladder, smashing nails into a wooden frame, while Darren, who was meant to be holding the ladder for health and safety reasons, was pacing up and down, staring at a piece of paper.

'I just don't get this question!'
'What is it?' I said, aligning the banner and positioning the nail.
'If you were to be successful, how would your skills and abilities that you have attained in your current position help your growth in a managerial role?' He read out loud.
'Good question.'
'But what does it mean?'

Darren was filling in his last form on his course to become a Customer Services Manager. He'd had three interviews, two and a half weeks of training and this form was the last test. If it were to be approved, he'd be in a suit and tie by Monday morning, telling middle aged woman to open a checkout and serve customers.

'It means, what have you learned as a trolley pusher and why would it help?'
'Oh...I don't think I've learnt anything out here.'
'Write that then.'
'I can't write that. What is there to learn out here?'
'How to stay warm. How to clean a dirty bin where to hide when you want an extra ten minutes on your break.'
'Hmm...I could write that.'
'You could, but you wouldn't get the job.'
'It's not a job. It's a course. A six month course.'
'What? So you don't get a job at the end of all this?' Looking down at him.
'No, I get accepted on the course.'
'Just leave it blank.'
'I can't leave it blank.'
'I'd leave it blank.'
'Leaving it blank means I've got no idea, I've got to write something!'

Darren disappeared into the store soon after, leaving me to put half of the banner up on my own. It had started to rain again and the wind was blowing a gale, which is fun when you're on top of a rickety ladder with no-one holding it at the bottom. I finished the banner and went back out to clear the trolleys. Steve had finished his sandwiches and made his way down to the car. He had just finished work, something I never really understood. When I first started he made up a bullshit story about needing his tea just before clocking off, something that no-one else is allowed to do. 'I've got these allergies, you see. And I need to take my tablets.' he said. Now his Mum was working with him, he's one step away from her wiping his arse. I was expecting him to be sulking when he got to his car. After all, if I got the piss taken out of me by my mum at work, I'd be sulking. But Steve was wearing a smile.

'See you tomorrow, Dylan.' He beamed.
'Yeah, see you tomorrow.'
'Wish Darren good luck from me.'
'What for?'
'His form, for his manager's course. I helped him with his form.'
'Oh right, yes I will.'
'Good.'

Steve shut the door of his skoda and raced off. There was something oddly smug about his departure that was quite unsettling. My first thought was that he'd got his mum fired, but Darren told me soon enough.

'Where's that prick gone?' He spat at me.
'Who?'
'Who? Steve. Have you seen what he's put on this form?'
'What's he put?'

Darren had gone into the canteen whilst I was up the ladder, he didn't want the rain to spoil his paper, but Steve did that for him.

'I asked him to help me out and the prick does this!'

It must have been bad. Steve was a bit of an idiot at times, a bullshitter for most of that time. But I'd hardly call him a prick, especially not twice. Steve offered to fill in his form for him, whilst Darren went over the road to McDonald's. A mistake, obviously, with Steve seeking revenge for taking the piss out of his triangular sandwiches. In the question that Darren was having trouble with, Steve wrote in neat black capital letters.

'MY ROLE OUTSIDE WILL HELP ME AS A MANAGER BECAUSE I'M A DICK, JUST LIKE THE REST OF THE MANAGERS.'

'Well at least it's not blank.'
'Oh, fuck off Dylan!'
'Calm down, just get another form.'
'I can't. This is the only one! And it's wet now!'
'Oh so if it was dry it would be fine!'
'Shut it, you dick!'
'I'm not a manager.'

He punched me in the arm, which made me shut up. Then we made a pact. If Darren was staying outside, so was Margaret.

O Mother, Where Art Thou?

Things had been quiet for a while now. Darren was on his way to becoming a customer services manager but still doing the odd trolley pushing shift in between. According to Steve he was doing pretty well at it, but wondered why he would want to become 'a suit.' My suggestions of a) Better pay. b) More respect. And c) More job opportunities in the future, didn't seem to wash with him. I could have gone on, of course. d) No working in the rain and/or snow. e) No dirty nappies or fag ends to pick up.  And f) No working with middle aged idiots like himself.


With Duncan long gone we all waited for Sharon to employ someone else, considering we were almost two men down. The day finally came, one busy Saturday, with only me, Alex and Steve on, she gathered us outside the store to brief us on her new plan.

'Trials. That's what I'm going to do, gentleman.' She informed us all, in her firm Kilmarnock accent. 'Trials.'
'Trials?'
'Trials, Steven.'

Steve hated it when she used his full first name.

'What are you trialling?' I asked.
'Trolley pushers.'
'Porters is the official term, Sharon.' Steve professed.
'Three trolley pushers over three days.'
'Wow, we're getting three new porters!' Steve grinned.
'No. You're getting one trolley pusher at the end of it. The best one gets the job. They'll do Duncan's old hours.'

It had been a long time coming too. I almost miss those dead arms and nipple twists on a fresh friday morning. Plus I think Alex was getting a little annoyed about Steve asking about his brother. The last thing he told us is that Duncan and Jenny got a flat together, and little Callum was doing fine, even though he was still in that 'punching daddy' phase. Give him one for me, mate. And one from Darren. Make it in the bollocks.

'And the best part is...you'll be one who chooses who gets them!' Sharon said in a high voice, pointing at me.
'Me? Why me?'
'Because we've got three people. Monday. Tuesday and Wednesday. And you are the only one who just happens to work all those days.'
'Oh...I suppose that makes sense.' I shrugged.
'Hang on, Sharon. Head Porter speaking now...' Steve stepped forward. 'Shouldn't I be the one who judges them all?'
'No judging...just recommendations. Plus you're on holiday all next week, how can you have a say?'
'Still...Head Porter.' He sulked.
'Back to work gents.'

Monday - Carl

Carl was seventeen and at college studying for a BTEC in Engineering. He was Sandra's son, the loud woman from the checkouts. I can safely say that nearly half of the colleagues who work here are related to someone. Almost all of them are a brother or a mother or a grandfather to another colleugue. So it was wise not to say anything negative about anyone. Steve found that out last year when he called Anne from the Pharmacy department a 'shrivelled old hag.' He may have been right, but he said it to Warren, the cleaning manager, who happened to be Anne's son.

Being reasonably around Carl's age, I thought I could connect with him on the same level. I asked him about his favourite music whilst we walked around the car park, which was a mistake, as i'd never heard of 'DJ Chronic', 'MC Zanda' and 'Mickman Rue'. I just smiled and said 'Yeah, I prefer their earlier stuff.' He was a small lad, his borrowed yellow coat reaching his knees and an attempted beard still in the early stages. I did my best not to bring up my disliking for his mother, but you wouldn't believe how many times it can come up in conversation. When we were clear outside I went inside to collect a few baskets.

'How's my lad of mine doing outside?'
'He's doing all right, Sandra.'
'You not got a job yet?'
'Yeah, I'm here.'
'Nooo! With your degree and that?'
'Oh no, not yet.'
'What is it you've got again?'
'A degree in biomedical sciences.' I swallowed.
'Ah, biomedical...'

She said the word as if she vaguely recognised it, but her eyes glazed over, looking for the meaning. Fifteen minutes later Carl bounded out of the store and shouted at me.

'What's this I hear about you being a nurse?'
'Eh?'
'My mum says you've got a nursing degree!'
'I've not. I've got a degree in Biomedical Sciences.'
'Medical?'
'Yeah?'
'Gay boy nurse!'

I told Sharon that Carl wouldn't be appropriate for the job.

Tuesday – Trevor

Tuesday was Trevor's day, and after my day with Carl, I wasn't holding out much hope. But I was pleasantly surprised when Sharon introduced me to an old man. He retired from his full time job a year ago and applied for this job after becoming severely bored at home.

'So, Trevor, you live close to here, then?' I asked.
'Yes, just on Beaumont Road.'
'Oh, that's great. Just around the corner. That's convenient, isn't it?'
'Yes, it's good. Only takes a few minutes walk.'

I was good at this small talk thing, I thought I'd keep going.

'So, does your wife still work?'
'I haven't got a wife.'

Oh no, I hit the small talk wall.

'Oh, sorry.' I looked down.
'No, she hasn't passed away or anything. I just haven't got one. I'm not married.' He smiled warmly.

An old man without a wife? Something was gravely amiss. You see an old woman alone on a bus and you don't raise an eyebrow, do you? Their husbands die and they've got years of church and gardening to get on with. But an old man on his own? Oh, no, something was wrong here. Trevor looked like a bog-standard old person. Grey hair, red face and glasses. If it wasn't for his work coat he'd probably be wearing a beige cardigan. Bog-standard old bloke, in my opinion. So what was wrong with him? I found out soon enough. We chatted a bit more whilst clearing out the trolley bay. Trevor stopped and watched a woman parking her car a few feet away from us.

'Look at her...' He nodded.

We watched her aim her black 4x4 into a parking space, then I went back to the trolleys, but Trevor kept watching.

'Why would a woman buy one of those cars?'

I stood still in shock. Why would a woman?...

'She can't drive that thing.'

Trevor was a sexist. A massive sexist. The 4x4 woman set him off into an hour of woman-based ranting. I got all sorts from him. Women with high powered jobs, women presenters on TV, even women voting. Oh, yeah, he was an old school sexist. I told Sharon about his rants, starting off with the 'women with high powered jobs' bit. Then she took great pleasure in telling him he wasn't appropriate for the job.

Wednesday – Margaret

'I haven't been too impressed so far, Dylan.'
'No. Me neither.'
'Last chance. Margaret Grady.' Sharon said, looking down at her papers.

Margaret? A woman? Wow, Trevor would be furious, wouldn't he? A woman trolley pusher? You go, girl!

'Grady? Where have I heard that name before?' I asked her.

She looked down through her glasses at me and smirked. Oh, no. Grady. Steve Grady. It was Steve's mum.

'Morning, Dylan.'
'Morning.'

Margaret was wearing brown trousers, a fuzzy green fleece and ice white training shoes that looked like they'd come straight off the local market. The only thing she was wearing that was 'work' related was her high viability vest which she had tucked into her trousers. I couldn't help but smile.

'So, does Steve know you're up for this job?'
'Oh, no. He wouldn't have it, would he? He thinks I'm out shopping! Now he's on holiday I thought I'd give it a go. Gets me out the house, doesn't it?'
'Oh yeah. Definitely.'

I don't know if you've encountered this before, but the problem with working with a 68 year old was stamina. Every ten minutes she was sat on the bench, holding her feet and breathing heavily. But I was still smiling. It was a nice change to work with her. I say work with her, I did nearly all of the work. Plus, we got to share her flask of soup during our break.

'But how do you cope with all the walking, Dylan?'

By being 23. And not having arthritis. But I couldn't say that, could I?

'I enjoy it. Fresh air.'
'That's true. That's why Steve likes it anyway.'
'Does he talk about this place a lot at home?'
'Oh yeah, won't shut up about it. He's always going on about Sharon, someone called Darren and a student. Can't remember his name, says he's a bit of an idiot.'

I let that go.

'I'd have thought he would talk about his touring days.' I said, before taking a sip of my soup.
'His what?' She smiled.
'You know, his touring. With the bands...in the 70's.'

She burst out into laughter, which made a bit of leek and potato go all over my shirt.

'Touring? With the bands? In the 70's?'
'Yeah.' Wiping my shirt with a tissue.
'He used to be a trucker, Dylan. Since he was in his twenties.'
'Yeah, with the bands, I presume.'

Of course, I always thought he was bullshitting, but when you're talking to the man's mother you have to remain a certain sense of politeness.

'No, with Eddie Stobart. The haulage company.'
'Oh, right.'

Politeness went out the window.

'So what else has he done?'
'Oh all sorts, Dylan. Nothing to do with touring with bands, I can tell you!'



I told Sharon that Margaret would be perfect for the job.

Wanted Dad Or Alive (Part Three)

In soap opera's or those rubbish films you see, predicaments are always drawn out. Swelling orchestral music is played whilst actors stare in the middle distance, looking thoughtful and indecisive. The camera constantly dollying to a parked car, inside a woman looks to her phone and thinks about making that phone call. Then it all comes out, raging arguments filled with pent up aggression and despair. Words flown out of mouths with bite and bitterness, until everything is solved. Someone dies, leaves town or they ultimately make up. But on a car park of your local supermarket, no such things happen. Darren and Duncan couldn't have their argument, their fight, their swollen rise of the orchestra, because one of them had left. Duncan had handed in his notice soon after telling me about his night with Jenny. Alex said he just didn't like the work, but I knew the truth. He just didn't want to be around Darren and face talking to him.


Nine months had passed. Darren spent those months buying 'Daddy' based garments for himself and tiny ones for the baby, Steve had a few holidays, nearly all of them with his mother, and I spent them trying to forget about what I knew. Surely Duncan wasn't working with us any more that would eradicate the problem. But I was still beating myself up over what to do. One way or another there was a baby with two potential fathers. Advice would do the trick, from someone older and wiser that I.

'Sharon, can I come in?'

Sharon's door was ajar, I heard her sigh forcefully before letting me enter. She put out her cigarette as she looked down at her papers.

'I need to talk to you about something.'
'Will it take long?'
'I'm not sure.'
'Go...'
'Well...' I said, sitting down. 'I kind of have a situation. I've found out something recently and I was wondering if you can help me with it.'
'Oh, right...' She said softly, sitting down and looking at me for the first time.
'You see, I've been told by a certain person not to tell anyone. But, I think I have to.'
'Right...'
'It's quite complicated.'
'Often things are.'
'Yes, I know. But I don't want to hurt this person.'
'I see.'

This was strange. She was replying to everything I said as if she understood and had the answers. Surely she didn't know about Jenny being pregnant. Maybe Jenny told her so she could get the time off. Or Darren warned her about having time off in the future.

'See I know something. Something serious. About someone.'
'Ah, and this someone....What does he know?'
'Well, It's hard to tell you because I'm worried about other people's feelings.'
'People's feeling? And what about your feelings?'
'They don't count, really.'
'Of course they do. Your feelings are all that matter!'
'But...'
'This has happened to me before. With my brother.'
'It has?'

Sharon stood up, put her arms on the table and glared at me.

'Just say it.' She barked.
'Say what?'
'What you want to say.'
'I'm not sure...'
'You'll feel better. My brother felt better.'
'Your brother was in this predicament?'
'Oh yes.'
'But did he tell his friend the truth?'
'Oh yes, told everyone.'
'Everyone?'

Hang on. Something was wrong here. I'm not going to tell everyone about Jenny and Darren, surely. And then I realised. She wanted me to confess something...else. Something about me that wasn't true.

'Everyone. Say the words Dylan. Say it proud.' She barked again.

I stood up.

'I think our wires have been crossed. I'm not gay, Sharon.'
'You're...not gay?' She said, tilting her head back.

What was it with me and meetings like this? Why can't I just say what's on my mind? Instead of going through minutes and minutes of excruciating questions and confusion.

'Never mind, Sharon. Thank you anyway.' Standing up out of the chair. 'You didn't think I was actually gay did you?'
'A little bit.' Lighting another cigarette.
'A little bit?'
'Yeah, you know, a little bit gay.'
'I don't listen to Coldplay if Steve's been asking.'
'No, no I know. Say no more. But if you change your mind, my brother would certainly be available. He's about your age, got his own fishing boat.
'No, thanks.'

I left her office feeling relieved of pressure and oddly complemented. And I had nothing to worry about, until Darren got a phone call from Jenny.

'Did you know about Jenny and Duncan?' Darren shouted as he charged his way over to me, pinning my shoulders to the trolley bay, making the perspex clang, attracting customers to the scene.
'What?' I uttered.
'I've just spoke to her. Says the baby is Duncan's! And you. Knew. About. It.' Every word forcing me again into the perspex.

I let out a noise and shook my head from side to side. Darren's eyes were blood shot and filling up with tears, his teeth clamped down together in his head.

'I didn't want to hurt you, Darren.'
'Hurt me!? Hurt me!?'
'Settle down, Daz.' Steve tried.
'Shut it, Steve. Why the fuck didn't you tell me? You knew about them two and you didn't tell me!'
'I didn't want to hu...'
'Hurt me, yeah.' Letting go of me. 'Well I guess it's OK now, isn't it! The baby is Duncans.'
'What?' Steve said.
'It's Duncan's, Dylan. They're together now. Haven't you heard? Oh, I guess you don't know everything!' Darren spat at me.
'I'm so sorry.'
'What baby?' Steve said, looking confused.
'You're sorry? I guess I won't need these now.'

Darren violently scratched around into his coat pocket and pulled out a brand new set of blue coloured baby socks and threw them at me. Certainly the oddest thing ever thrown at me. Being so shocked I let them hit me and watched them fall to the floor. Darren let his shoulders fall and put his hands to his face. I tried to think of something to say, but couldn't find anything. Knowing about it got me into this, I didn't want to know.

'Listen, Darren...' I muttered. Darren was crouching down, still holding his face. 'He told me about that night the way you told me about Jenny being pregnant. He wanted my advice. I told him to tell you. I said he should speak to you.'
'Why didn't you tell me!' He exploded up from the floor.
'It wasn't up to me, this is nothing to do with me!' I squealed, flinching.
'What baby?' Said asked, still confused.

Duncan had left because he didn't want to speak to Darren. The cowards way out. Leaving me to deal with it. He took a test the day the baby was born but Darren was there at the birth, he managed to book the week off especially. Once Jenny found out who the father was she rang Darren. I felt horrible. He started to cry a bit, Steve looked uncomfortable but remained rooted to the spot. And after sobbing a bit more, Darren stomped his way up to the store.

'What baby?'
'Leave it, Steve.' I sighed.

Darren was close to the end of his Customer Services course. I half wondered whether he would pack it all in but he kept going, presumably to keep his mind off things. It meant him staying a few hours later after every shift. I was on my tea break when he sat down at my table. I lifted my head up and glared at him, still chewing my cheese and onion sandwich.

'All right?' I said coyly.
'Yeah.' He sighed.

We sat and ate in silence for about ten minutes. It was the slowest I've ever eaten, carefully taking a bite after every few quiet moments. I decided to go first.

'Listen, Darren...'
'It's fine.' He shook his head. 'You're not to blame.'
'...I'm not?'
'No. It's OK, really.'
'OK. I'm still sorry, though. For not telling you.'
'I know. And I know now so that's what counts.'
'Yeah. What are they?' I asked, trying to break the tension, looking down at Darren's papers.
'Forms for my course. Nearly finished it.'
'Oh, that's good.'
'Yeah.'
'I would have thought you would have stopped that. You know, with what's gone on.'
'No. I didn't do it for Jenny. Or the baby.' He looked up at me. 'I did it for me.'

Sharon walked into the canteen and spotted us at the table, smiling and looking deep into each others eyes.

'Ah, gentleman. Is everything OK?'
'Yes, yes.' Said Darren. 'We're just getting a few things off our chests.'
'Oh, well, looks like you'll be needing my brother's number too.'

Darren looked at me in confusion.

'Ignore her.' I shook my head.
'Say, Darren...' Sharon said, making a cup of coffee. 'Do you enjoy fishing?'

Wanted Dad Or Alive (Part Two)

'She was working late one Thursday a few weeks back, at the hairdressers. I was going out into town the next night so I thought I'd get a haircut. She cut my hair and we chatted and that. I walked her home. Her parent's weren't in.'


Duncan was sweating. If it wasn't for the massive, serious and somehow soap-opera like revelation he was telling me, I'd have been in fits of laughter. Normally he'd start his shift by giving me a dead arm and calling me names, now he was squealing like a a small animal, pacing around me, almost in tears. Duncan said 'Her parent's weren't in.' as if it was the best excuse ever. As if I would reply 'Oh, her parent's weren't in?! Say no more, mate. Tuck in, don't mind about Darren when Jenny's Mum and Dad aren't in the house!'  I didn't quite know how to take it. Just finding out that Jenny was pregnant was enough for me today, let alone being told twice, by two of the potential fathers.

'What were you thinking, Duncan?'
'I don't know. I really don't know.'
'So Jenny said it could be your child?'
'Could be.' Rubbing his sweaty hands.
'Are you going to talk to Darren about it?'
'Oh no, no!'
'Why not?'
'Because he'll kill me, that's why not!'
'You have to talk to him, I think. Before Jenny says something.'
'No, we'll wait until we find out who the Dad is. Then we'll talk. Or just forget about it.'
'But you need to be involved in finding out. And so does Darren. You need tests.'
'Bloody hell, Dylan. How' d you know this stuff?'
'You know why, Dunk. I've got G.C.S.E's.'


I spent the last hour of my shift trying to talk some sense into Duncan. Trying to find out more about that night after his haircut and if I should tell Darren myself. It was an exhausting hour. I realised that I was involved now, they both choose to tell me about Jenny. They chose to tell me about their problems because I was the most educated. That's not fair. Surely the most educated could exclude himself from anything, it's the div kids that need to hear these awful things. They deserve it, for throwing pencils instead of learning History, and looking up porn in I.T lessons.

'So who made the first move, then?' I probed him.
'What?'
'You or Jenny?'
'I'm not going to tell you that, you dick!'
'OK, fair enou...'
'Jenny. She was all over me. Said that Darren didn't understand her.'
'What did she mean by that?'
'She said Darren wanted to work himself up here, be a manager and that. Maybe get a house with her. Well, that was too much for Jenny. She got scared. So....'

I was taken aback by Darren's sudden ambition and drive. And completely blown away by Jenny's short sightedness and stupidity.

'So you slept with her? Because she was scared?'
'Not just that. She's fit as well.'

Terrified and attractive. That's all he needed.

I finished my shift and failed at convincing Duncan and do the right thing. Easier said than done of course. I'd struggle to tell Darren anything quizzical. Last week I struggled to tell him he needed to have his lunch break ten minutes later than usual. Duncan has to say he slept with his girlfriend and the baby he's excited about might not be his.

It was the next morning and I offered to cover Steve's morning shift, he being still 'ill' of course. Duncan was due to join me at 10am but didn't show. It didn't surprise me one bit. I'd like to have thought that he spent the day with Darren and Jenny, talking it over and apologising. But Darren arrived at 5pm and I realised no meeting had taken place. So I imagine Duncan did the usual by spending his day on the Xbox, eating crisps and smoking weed.

'Hey Darren, how are you?'
'Have a look at this...'

Darren unfolded a grey t-shirt in front of me. On it, in big black bold letters, read the words 'WHO'S THE DADDY!?'

'It's a good question.' I uttered
'What?'
'It's a good one that, mate. I take it you're excited about it now?'
'Oh yeah, spent the day on the internet.'
'Say no more.'
'No, not porn. Looking at baby clothes. They're soooo small!'
'I imagine.'

Darren was giddy. Like a child, with an ice cream, on Christmas day. Which happens to be his birthday.

'So you've spoken to Jenny about it, then?'
'Yeah, I've been at hers all day.'
'She excited?'
'Yeah, of course. A bit worried, obviously. After all, the baby is inside her!'

A lot of things have been inside her.

'Great. Darren, are you considering moving your way up here?'
'What d' you mean?' He said, defensively.
'I heard that you want to be a manager here.'
'So what?'

Darren was now holding his daddy shirt close to his chest, his lower lip quivering.

'I'm not having a go, mate. I think it's a great idea.'

He looked me up and down, trying to detect any specks of sarcasm.

'Oh, well.' He said slowly. 'I'll have to now, won't I? Now we've got Alf on the way.'
'Alf? You're sticking with Alf are you?'
'Well, Alfie.'
'Aww, that's nice.'

It wasn't nice. This whole thing wasn't nice. Suddenly I felt guilty for knowing what I knew. I thought of telling Darren right there and then, but it wasn't my responsibility. We'd grown into quite good friends over the last few weeks and I did feel an urge to keep him happy, regardless of the truth. The car park was a mess but we didn't mind the work. There was a lot of both our minds so we got on with it, clearing out each trolley bay and taking the trolleys up. I admired Darren's decision to try and work his way up, so I egged him on.

'It's great what you're planning to do.'
'Yep. Spoke to Sharon earlier. She's putting me on a Customer Services course.'
'Brilliant.'
'It's better pay, if I do become a manager. And I'll need it with Alfie.'
'Even without Alfie, it's a good decision.' I tried.
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'Career wise. How does Jenny feel about it?'
'Well she said it doesn't matter about the money. We'll get a house no problem now she's pregnant, she said.'

Of course. That's the other reason for a having a baby. Time off work and a house.

'But isn't she thrilled about you wanting to become a manager?'

Darren shrugged. It angered me. I wanted to call Jenny right that second, ask her what she was playing at. How could she cheat on Darren, with someone he works with no less. And then have no interest when he tries to better himself at work. But, of course, I didn't have Jenny's number. And asking Darren for it was out of the question. If I did ring her she'd think I'd want sex off her, probably. Then she'd have made her way through three trolley pushers. Not a fact to be proud of.


I became tired of thinking about it. The problem was Jenny's, Darren's and Duncan's. So what if I knew about it? Right?....Wrong.

End of part two.

Wanted Dad Or Alive (Part One)

Steve had been off sick for a week. I wouldn't have realised on my own, but Darren informed me that after the week, he would be off on holiday for two more. Well played, Steve. But as we all knew, he wasn't ill. A tickley throat isn't an illness. If it was, everyone in England would be off sick at least 26 times a year.

So It was left to Alex and I to take care of the stock. Every week we get a huge order of bags that needs to be stacked up in the warehouse. I did the stacking whilst Alex proceeded to fill his mouth with a full packet of polos.

'No thanks, Alex.'
'What?' He asked, through a face of white mints.

You know how people say 'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.'? Is it still counted as the lowest when some people don't understand it? Because I think it should be bumped up a few levels.

'So what's your brother up to today?'
'Don't know. He's been on the phone all morning. Sounded a bit worried.'


This was odd. The only time I saw Duncan worried was when he lost his bag of weed. An old lady handed it in to him in the end. She thought it was plant food.

'I wonder why...'
'No idea.' Alex said, picking up the lightest box. 'Sure he'll be OK.'

There was something warm and friendly about Alex. It seemed so odd that he was Duncan's twin. If they weren't brothers it was almost certain they wouldn't be friends, with seemingly nothing in common and totally different personalities. With Duncan, I was quite threatened by his nature. His language. But with Alex, aside from being a little slow on the uptake, was harmless and softly spoken. As if Duncan was making up for it, filling in the gaps.



Darren had just started work and the car park was a bit of a mess, thanks to the morning's stock take. But he wanted to talk to me urgently.

'I need to talk to you about something.'
'I'm flattered, why me?'
'Well, you know, you've got a degree.'
'Right...And what part of Biomedical Sciences does your problem relate to?'

He looked over both shoulders before continuing.

'It's Jenny. She's up the stick.'
'Eh?'
'Up the duff.'
'What?'
'Preggers!'
'Oh right, congratulations! How is that to do with Biomedical Sciences?'
'Well, it's Science isn't it? Reproduction and that...and it's medical. And bio...'
'OK, OK, I get it...'
'All right, what's biomedical sciences then?' Darren spat at me.
'It's the application of biology-based science to medical use. Such as research, heath monitoring or treatment.' I said blankly.
'Fair enough. But, Dylan, it was an accident.' Darren squealed. 'I don't know what to do. We haven't told anyone. My Dad, her parents. No-one!'
'Does Jenny want to keep it?'
'Yeah, course. She wants the time off work.'

Of course. What other possible reason could there be for having a child? Darren sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his head. I looked at him, leaning on the trolley bay, his head down. I could have gone two ways with this. Tell him to get rid of it. He can't be a father. Or man up and deal with it. But both were a bit too harsh for my liking, and so went for the simple, mind and distant approach.

'I'm going to ask you one question.'
'What?' He replied painfully.
'...Do you want a child?'

He thought for a second or two. Then a small smile appeared on his face.

'Yes. Yes I do.'
'That's all you need to know.' I grinned.
'But you can't tell anyone about this, OK?'
'OK, I promise.'


Wow, I was good at this. I seemed to have dealt with it quite quickly. Darren was smiling. He hadn't actually thought about being a father before, just the hassle of dealing with it. Now he was content. I left out my opinion that Jenny and Darren would be possibly the worst parents in the world. Literally the worst. A hairdresser with a thieving streak and a crass, outspoken trolley pusher. But good luck to them. Surely my services should have come with a charge, but I didn't mention it. I was too busy thinking about my own column in the newspaper. 'Dear Dylan' He seemed happy for the rest of the day, occasionally texting Jenny and thinking up baby names. 'Alf' being a popular one. Put it this way, I hope they don't have a son. Unless Jenny gives birth to a 74 year old.


By 5pm we had the car park looking like it's regular self. Two or three trolleys and six or seven depressed looking customers. Darren said his goodbyes and shot off early, out of the sights of Sharon. Duncan was due in about five. But turned up at quarter to six, looking a bit tired and distracted.


'Evening, Dunk.' I said, putting a few empty bottles in the bin.
'Oh, all right Dylan.'
'Alex said you were a bit worried about something...'
'Alex? Did he? What has he been telling you?'
'Nothing really. Just that you were on the phone. Looking worried.'
'You can ignore that prick. Smack him next time I see him.'
'Fair enough.'


It was fair to say that Duncan had a face like a slapped arse, but still wanted to talk to me after a few minutes of silence.

'Dylan, you won't tell anyone this, will you?'

What was it with me today? Suddenly I was an Agony Uncle to the whole of the supermarket. What next? Talking to Sharon about her childhood as she lies on a leather couch? I don't think so. You can't fit a leather couch in her office, and to see a middle aged Scottish woman cry would unsettle me. I could hardly figure out what she says normally, let alone while she's blabbering about her relationship with her father.


Alex was right, Duncan did look worried. He had that kind of face you pull when you suddenly realise you've left the oven on. Part shock, part worry and part fear. His threatening nature was disarmed as he spoke softly, like his brother.

'What? No, I won't tell anyone....tell anyone what?' I stepped back.
'Well...'
'Hold on. Why are you going to tell me?'
'Well, you know, you're clever and that. You've got G.C.S.E's'
'And a degree in Biomedical Sciences.'
'What that?'
'It's the application of biol..'
'Whatever, forget it.'
'Go on...'
'I was on the phone to Jenny this morning.'
'Daz's Jenny?'
'Yeah.'
'Why? Did she tell you the big news too?'
'Big news?'
'About being pregnant?'
'Yeah, how did you know?'
'Daz told me, why did Jenny tell you?'

Oh God. I knew before he even told me. I could see it in his eyes.


'She said it could be my baby.'

His face went from 'Oh God, I think I've left the oven on...' to 'Oh God, I've left the oven on, blown up the house, blown up all the houses on the street and killed everyone inside.'


'What? How? When?....What?' I uttered

All valid questions.

'It was an accident.'

That's what Darren said. Funny, that. Duncan didn't seem to find it amusing.



End of part one.

It's Tip To Be Square

Another Wednesday. Another Bullshit Wednesday. Whoopty fucking doo.

Most Wednesday's I have to wait a few minutes for the bullshit to start, but Steve was on fine form today. It was lovely and sunny and the blue sky had beautiful cirrus clouds and plane tracks criss crossed all over it. I clocked on, walked down to the trolley bay to find Steve rooting around the boot of his car. As you probably already know, Steve thinks he's a rocker, obsessed with Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin, but I'm not sure Jimmy Page drives a light green Skoda.


He shut the boot and scuttled over to me, pressing at his throat.

'Might be leaving a bit earlier today, mate.' He grumbled with a scratchy voice.
'Oh, right. OK.'
'About half ten.'
'What? But it's ten past ten now.'
'Yeah, not feeling to good. Throats killing me.'

You see what I mean? Bullshit. And not very good bullshit either. A sore throat? That's one of the most piss weak aliments in history. It's right up there next to Mild Asthma and Athlete's Foot. You wouldn't catch Freddie Murcury cancelling a U.S tour with a bit of a tickley throat.


I accepted the bullshit and collected a few trolleys. The far bay was full, but I spotted a trolley at the back with a handbag hooked onto it. It happens a few times a month. People leave umbrellas, coats, even their child in one case, but I think they meant to do that, he was ginger. I took the handbag into customer services desk. Steve and the others would probably take it home and keep it. But when I'm working I consider it the only thing to do is to hand it in. Plus, I'd look a bit odd going home on the bus with a hand bag over my shoulder...again.


Hilary was on the phone at the desk. She was a lovely woman. Bubbly but not in a Lonely Hearts column sort of way. Quite a large lady with a permanent smile and red cheeks. Her smile wasn't showing when I walked up to her, she was on the phone to quite an annoyed customer.


'OK, OK, we can offer a refund if you bring in the receipt and the pizza....yeah...yeah, you have to have the receipt with you, yeah. I understand, sir...I know, I know, I don't know why we wouldn't put a topping on it....yeah...yeah...OK, sir If you bring it in, with your...'

Hilary's face turned from a tolerant frown to an amused smile.

'That's good. OK...bye bye.'

She put the phone down and shook her head.

'What can I help you with, Dylan?'
'What was that about?'
'A customer said he bought a pizza today from here. When he opened it the pizza had no topping...'
'Right...'
'He just realised he had it upside down.'

We both laughed. It was maybe the first genuine laugh since I started working there.

'I've found this.' Putting the bag on the counter.
'Suits you.'
'Cheers. Maybe it's got a contact number in or something.'
'OK, thanks Dylan. You know it's times like that that makes you laugh at working here.' Pointing at the phone.


Hilary was right. Working here wasn't as bad as I sometimes thought. Until I went back outside to Steve. He was really notching up the bullshit now, still pressing his throat and gargling water. According to him, he'd been at a karaoke bar in town last night. He did all the classics, Since You Been Gone, Fat Bottomed Girls and Whole Lotta Love Seemingly, Steve only sings to songs that would feature on a Father's Day Jeremy Clarkson Driving CD. But he had to cut his 'set' after four songs after the barman said he was 'ruining it for the amateurs.'


Bullshit.


It was a quiet day. The sun was shining so we assumed people had lives and had gone to the beach or something. We walked down to the bottom of the car park, along the side of a row of stores. A massive one that sold carpets, an electrical store and a music shop. Grace was walking towards us, a girl who works in the music shop and gets on brilliantly with Steve. Sometimes they stand together and talk for half an hour, about nothing really. Steve really likes her, I can tell. But he would never admit that. Grace got to us and Steve pushed his trolleys at me, which banged into mine, trapping my fingers in the steel. I let out a yelp but Steve wasn't listening, he was deep in conversation already.


'How you doing, love? You all right?' Steve grinned.


He looked at me, in a way that wanted me to walk on, leaving them to chat. But I didn't. I also noticed his voice had heeled itself within seconds. A miracle. Grace and Steve chatted away about all sorts. Her mother, the weather and the latest AC/DC album. Her hair was short with a blonde streak in it, and her face had an array of piercings which made her look a lot younger than her early thirties. Fifteen minutes into it I wandered off. It was quite fascinating watching them. Usually when two people meet up and speak together, at least one of them is not really interested, looking away into the foreground and thinking about other things. But Steve and Grace were right into it, looking deep into each other's eyes and smiling. It was a pity she was engaged to someone else.

'Yeah...' Steve said, as we walked away. 'Seeing a bank manager. The suit. Listens to Stereophonics. He's an idiot.'
'Sounds like it.'
'Yeah.'

Steve looked shy. As if his description of the fiancée was all I needed to know. But I kept going.

'So how long have you been having these little chats?'
'Little chats? We're just mates. Relax, dude.' He said, scrunching up his shoulders.
'I'm just asking.'
'I know you are.'

There was a silence as we walked back down to the store. Steve was breathing heavily, as if he was trying to answer questions in his head that I hadn't asked yet.

'She's just a friend, calm down!'
'I didn't say anything!'
'You want to though, don't you?! Eh!'

I shrugged and smiled. If he was trying to hide his love for Grace, he was doing a shit job.


We went to put the trolleys we had collected into the bay when old lady stepped in front of us. Steve cursed her under his breath for being in the way.

'Excuse me, gentleman.'
'Yes?' I said.
'Which one of you handed in my handbag?'

She pointed at her arm, with the same handbag I handed in hooked around it.

'That would be me, madam.' I said.
'Why thank you. The lady at the desk said it was one of you too. Thank you very much. Here...'

The old lady held out her hand as if to shake mine. I looked at it and raised my hand. A handshake? It was a bit formal, wasn't it? She smiled as our hands touched and thanked me again. Looking down I realised she'd give me a rolled up twenty pound note.

'No, no. It's OK, I don't want...'
'No, I insist. I've got all sorts in here. I'd hate to have lost it for good.'

I protested a bit more but it didn't work. She got back into her car and her husband drove off.

'A twenty pound note?!' Steve yelled.
'I know. Good isn't it.'
'We're going to have to split that.'
'I'm sorry? Why? I found the handbag.'
'No, as your superior you're under my responsibility, so technically...'
'Shouldn't you be at home now?'
'Eh?'
'Your tickly throat? You said you have to go early.'
'Oh, oh...' Clutching his throat. 'Still a bit scratchy.'
'I bet it is. After speaking to Grace.' I grinned.
'Shove off! Student!'


You'd think getting a tip off a lovely old lady would make you smile for the rest of the day. But oh no, Steve told almost everybody. Darren was the first.

'Why are you getting cash for doing your job, Dylan?'

Then Duncan.

'What this I hear about you getting twenty quid off grannies?'

Then Sandra off the checkouts.

'Twenty quid, eh, Dylan? What did she get for that?'
'Why would Steve tell you? What interest is that to you?'
'Well, you start getting handouts off old ladies and people start talking.'
'I handed in her handbag.'
'I bet you did.'

She said that as if I'd said something rude and could be construed into some awful sex act with an innocent pensioner. She was disgusting. Sandra, not the pensioner. Bloody hell, for a guy with a sore throat Steve's doing pretty well and talking.

'Why are you telling people about the tip?'
'Is that what you're calling it?' Steve grinned.
'Shut up with that! Sandra did that!'
'I bet she did.'
'Oh fuck off, Steve!'


God, you do one nice thing and it blows back into your face....oh, don't you start! The nice thing blows back into my face, nothing rude. Next thing you know and Sharon will get hold of it.


'Sit down, Dylan.' Sharon told me, two minutes after getting hold of it.
'This isn't a big deal, Sharon.'
'I beg to differ. Taking money off people in the car park is against the rules.'
'It was a 'thank you.' For helping her out. For handing in her handbag.'
'You should have refused to take it.'
'I tried!'
'What if you comes back tomorrow and says someone had stolen her money. It's her word against yours. You've got twenty quid in your pocket. You're the thief!'
'Thief?'
'It was hypothetical.'
'Listen, Sharon. It was a tip for helping her out. She forced it on me.'
'I bet she did.'

I got a written warning for almost telling her to fuck off. One more strike and I'm out.

Here's hoping.