A Rush Of Blood To The Head-set (Part Two)

‘Why would we want those little things, Dylan? They make you look like a gay receptionist.’

It was clear Steve wasn’t impressed with the headsets the other trolley pushers were wearing. But that maybe was due to his age; people over forty tend to be wary of hi-tech stuff like that. They put on their reading glasses and wince at it, like they have a bad taste in their mouth. It’s just their generation. But thinking about it, I knew Steve was just worried about looking like a gay receptionist.

‘I think they’re cool.’ I defended them. ‘They look quite space age.’

‘What like on Star Trek?’

‘Yeah.’

‘…Are they silver?’

‘Of course.’

Steve tilted his head to show he was contemplating the thought of wearing a head set. But I don’t think he would suit one. Some people don’t suit headwear. A mate of mine can’t wear caps. It’s not a phobia or anything; he just has a large head. One Size Fits All is a lie, in his opinion.

‘We used to wear headsets on the rock circuits, but they were much bigger. Cost more too.

‘Sure…so you won’t wear these.’

‘Am I a gay receptionist?’

I looked him up and down.

‘You don’t look like one.’ I replied.

‘OK, then.’

‘Maybe one who’s let himself go?’

Steve gave me the angry face, which made me swiftly walk away to my zone. The rain had stopped and a remains of a rainbow was still gleaming over the supermarket. I got a few trolleys together when I heard an ‘Oi!’ coming from the D.I.Y shop. It was Jerry; his hair still slicked back and glistening in the sun. He was walking quite quickly over to me, which make me a little wary of him.

‘What’ve you done with my heat set, mate?’

The ‘mate’ was somewhere in between ‘you’re-not-my-fucking-mate’ and ‘you’re-a-stranger-but-you’re-a-potential-mate’. So I thought for a second before I spoke.

‘I give it to Brian.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Yes…yes I did.’ I stared at him.

‘He said you had it. You walked off with it.’

‘No, I gave it to Brian. He said he’d give it to you when you come out.’

‘He hasn’t got it.’

You should never trust the homeless, or the previously homeless. Why would Brian say that? I did find it a little suspicious when he quickly stuffed the head set into his pocket yesterday. At first I thought it was due to the rain, but obviously, I was wrong. Those headsets looked pretty expensive. Brian has been cashing in on them. Ten minutes later I was in the manager’s office. Not my manager’s office, Jerry’s manager’s office.

‘Dylan, I’ve heard a lot about you. Do sit.’

The manager’s office was a lot smaller than I imagined it would be. And poorly lit, too. Making it a perfect destination for a questioning.

‘Jerry tells me we’re missing a head set.’

‘I heard.’

‘Do you know anything?’

I turned around in my seat. Jerry was stood behind me, with his hands behind his back, guarding the door with his body.

‘I gave it to Brian. Do you know Brian?’

Of course he knew Brian. He employed the man. Idiot.

‘Yes, I know Brian.’

‘Brummy lad…used to be a tramp.’

‘I know Brian.’ He said.

‘Just making sure.’ 

‘Jerry tells me that Brian said you kept it, and walked away with it.’

‘No. It’s your property. I gave it to Brian.'

I started to sweat a bit, realizing this would be a very circular argument. Also, this manager hadn’t introduced himself to me, yet. No time for pleasantries. He was quite heavy set, like he'd been sown into his shirt and tie that morning, with a thick northern accent.

‘Jerry tells me you liked the head set, though.’

Jesus, Jerry told him a lot. It’s surprising these people get stuff done.

‘Yes. I like them. I’m trying to get some for us. But I would never steal yours.’

‘What did you like about them, Dylan?’ He leaned in to me.

‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged.

‘Come on.’ He smiled.

‘Well, they were shiny.’

‘Yeah…’ He leaned back again.

‘Very high tech. Clear reception.’

‘Yeah, now can you understand why we think you took it?’

‘No…’ I thought about it. ‘Well, yes. But I didn’t take it.’

‘Jerry tells me…’

‘Oh fuck off with what Jerry tells you!’

I stood up quickly, which startled Jerry, making him jump out of the way of the door. That was lucky, because if he hadn’t have moved I’d have probably just sat back down again.

‘Why don’t you ask Brian where the head set is?’ I said, whilst in the doorway. ‘He wanted it because his was in the repair shop!’

‘Repair shop?’ The manager asked.

‘Repair shop?’ Jerry asked.

Brilliant. There was no repair shop. Why did I believe that a silver headset had it’s own special repair shop? I bet they don’t get much custom, like that watch repair shop in the indoor market. It’s just a bloke in a little hutch, reading the paper. I bet he only gets three customers a week. I stormed out and over to Steve. If there was one person who would love to hear me slag off Brian, it was him.

‘What an arsehole!’ I shouted.

‘I’ve told you, Dylan. I would look like a gay recep…’

‘No, not you! Brian.’

‘Oh yeah. What an arsehole.’

‘He’s stolen the headsets. And they’re blaming it on me!’

I violently pointed at the D.I.Y shop. Suddenly there was a dark shadow cast over it. I can’t believe they would accuse me of stealing. Look in the ex-tramps pockets before the 23-year-old graduate's, that’s what I say! I had to sort this out.

‘Danny?’

I popped my head round the security office. I hate going in there, the hum of the monitors, the stifling heat of the machines. And Danny. A couple of years younger than me and he walks about the place like he owns it. We all know he still needs help using his clocking in card. His Mum’s the receptionist so she always helps him. Probably helped him get the job, too.

‘Busy, Dylan.’

‘How did you know it was me? You’re not looking at me.’

‘Cameras, Dylan.’ He tapped his pen on the monitors. ‘They see all.’

‘Fair enough. I need a bit of footage. Yesterday. Around three. On the car park.’

I rolled a chair up next to him.

‘I told you. Busy.’

‘With what?’ I asked.

‘College coursework. English Lit. We're doing Othello.’

‘Shouldn’t you be doing that at home?’

‘No.’

‘OK, fair enough. I guess I’ll do it myself.’

I rolled behind him and grabbed the mouse of the computer, making him jump backwards and grab it off me.

‘Fine! Fine! I’ll do it!’

After twenty stifling minutes of scrolling, fast forwarding, typing and rewinding, Danny pressed play on the screen, revealing a high angled shot of Brian and me, chatting by a car. I had the silver headset on and I looked great, naturally. The footage rolled on to show Brain taking it off my head and stuffing it into his pocket. Then we both walked off different directions.

‘That’s the one! Put it on a DVD for me.’

The disc whizzed and hummed in the machine, a few moments later the disc ejected with a whir. Danny was soon writing on it with a marker pen and waving it dry.

‘OK, thank you. I’ll show that to the manager.’

‘What manager?’ Danny asked.

‘The D.I.Y manager.’

‘Oh, no. It’s my property. It’s part of my investigation.’

No, it’s wasn’t! It was 100 percent my investigation! I don’t remember Danny getting involved until I tapped on his door! The thought of Brian was in my mind. There he was, in a bathtub for of fifty-pound notes, from the headsets he’d sold on. He was a homeless first, and then a thief. I thought it was the other way around!

‘It’s me who’s involved in this, Danny.’

‘And me.’

‘You’re only involved because I interrupted you from your coursework!’

‘The investigation is now in my hands. You can't go showing it to random managers!’

'He's not a random manager. Don't say random, he wasn't picked out of thin air! He's the manager of the D.I.Y shop.'

'What's his name?' He asked.

Shit. Why didn't he tell me his name? Oh, that's right; No time for pleasantries. I knew if I left it with Danny it wouldn’t go anywhere. I know how these things work. They get left in envelopes, files and folders in their computers, and left as neglected, ‘not-really-important’ files. It was important. Someone was accusing me of stealing. Danny turned his back on me and went back to his coursework, leaving the disc beside him in a plastic cover. For a security officer he wasn't very secure, leaving me to quickly swoop the disc off the table and pop it into my pocket.

I walked back into the supermarket, clutching the disc in my pocket. My evidence. My freedom. But the sight of Sharon walking towards me soon knocked the proud smile off my face. Her flame read hair scraped back and a pale white face. Her dark eyes where on me.

‘Afternoon, Dylan.’

‘Aftern…aft…yeah.’ I nodded nervously.

Why was I so nervous? It was my property, as I said. My evidence.

‘What’s that?’ She pointed at my pocket.

My eyes narrowed as I looked at her. X-Ray vision? I know she was a powerful woman but that was stretching it. I realised I was clutching the disc a bit too hard, making my hand bulge. I grabbed the disc in my pocket and pushed it together hard, making it snap. I don't think Sharon heard it, she was focussing all of her energy on staring at me.

‘Nothing.’ I said quickly.

That didn’t help. Sharon tilted her head, which somehow, automatically made me pull it out of my pocket.

‘It’s just my broken disc. It's been broken.’ 
'Is it your disc?'
'Well, technically it's Danny's, but...'

‘Dylan, discs for evidence are strictly Security property. For their investigations.’

‘I heard.’

'Why is it broken in half? I've just had a phone call from Shaun next door. Apparently this isn't the first time you've stolen something.’

Shaun. That was his name, was it? Brilliant. I followed Sharon into the security office.

'Danny, how are you?'

'Good, good. Just finishing a security report.'

If a security report involved the work of William Shakespeare.

'I've got an investigation for you, involving this one.' Sharon nodded at me. 'Apparently some head sets have gone missing from next door.'

'I heard.' Danny said smugly.

'Yes, they were.' I said. 'The culprit is on the disc. Or was on that disc.'

'Is this true, Danny?' Sharon asked.

Danny held out his bottom lip and glared at the broken disc.

'No, never seen that in my life.'  He said calmly.
'Danny, come on.' I tilted my head.
'What?'
'Show her the footage.'
'What footage?'
'The footage of me not stealing things.'
'Oh, you've lost me now, Dylan. As I've said before, if things leave this office, then i'm not involved.' He smiled.

Fucking brilliant. The innocent man is charged. Thanks to taking my property. My evidence…. My FREEDOM! So that led to an investigation. Held by Danny and the rest of the security team, with interviews asking me if I’ve stolen things in the past.

I don’t want the headsets anymore. They cause too much trouble.

A Rush Of Blood To The Head-set (Part One)

You know when you meet a stranger who does the same job as you? Suddenly the whole conversation is darkened by the shadow of that fact. You’re desperate not to bring it up, in fear of…. well a few things. Boredom, for one. If you don’t really like your job, talking about it to a stranger won’t be fun, will it? There’s the fear of competition, too. They might be higher up than you, have a stronger relationship with their boss, or even have an office that’s half an inch bigger. They all say size doesn’t matter. But when it comes to defending your position, everything matters. If I worked in an office, I’d stretch out a full twenty minutes dedicated to having a more efficient stapler.

That’s what people in office’s talk about, don’t they? Either that or they’re stood by the water cooler, cracking wise. I’ve only seen this in films, you understand. I don’t work in an office. But today I would have loved to. In meeting a stranger who does the same job as me, I realised I should really be getting on with my life. Because there is no defending of your position, gloating about stationary or telling the person how close I was to my manager. How could I? When my ‘position’ was the B-team of the supermarket; the trolley pushers. Left of the bench at the game and forgotten about. Left only to serve the players with cold drinks at half time. How could I gloat when I didn’t have any stationary to begin with? I may have found the odd pencil on the car park now and again, but what decent human being could call that pencil theirs? And how could I wax about being mates with my boss when she’s a middle aged, cold-hearted, business minded shrew from Kilmarnock. (Steve’s words, not mine.)

So there I was, stood in the car park, in the rain. Trying to make small talk with Jerry, the trolley pusher from the D.I.Y shop next door. He was one of three of their pushers, about 26 years old with thinning brown hair that was slicked back and went past his ears.

‘Bit shit out here, isn’t it?’ He began.

Trying to defend his position. Gone.

‘Yeah…’ I tried.

‘They say it’ll clear up about four.’

Oh, he meant the weather, not the job. Good old weather. Infinitely gives the English something to talk about.

‘Yeah, supposed to be sunny tomorrow, though.’

We were stood under his trolley bay. With our hoods up and hands in our pockets, making that noise people do in the rain. It sounds like a Gorilla sighing. All of a sudden he started talking to someone else. There was no one around, but he was speaking into the middle distance, smiling every so often and replying to, what seemed like thin air.

‘Yeah…yeah, I’ll be up in a second.’

This was brilliant. What’s the point in gloating about your job when the person you’re up against is a mentalist? It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Like showing off your new custom made kitchen to a tramp. Jerry put down his hood and said his goodbyes, before whipping it back up again and racing in store. I then realised he wasn’t a mentalist. He wasn’t talking to nothing; he was talking to a little earpiece and microphone he had attached to his head. Like those things people in call centres wear. But this one was thinner and silver coloured; far more hi-tech in my book. As I watched Jerry run up to his shop, I tried to think about why our shitty, house brick sized walkie-talkies were better than what they had. But it was no use. David versus Goliath.

When I was at University I felt the same. We all sat at our desks and listened to the lecturer for hours at a time. There were about fifteen of us in the room and about ten of them had laptops, taking notes on Microsoft Word. I felt a hundred years old. There I was with a simple notepad and pen whilst the others tapped away, occasionally doing a bit of Facebook-ing and checking their e-mails. I might as well have had an abacus with me, after riding in on my bicycle, with my satchel of my shoulder and a big red apple in my hand. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for new technology. I love the PlayStation, but when they bring out another for twice the price, I feel old fashioned, questioning ‘What’s wrong with the one I’ve got?’

‘Wayne…’

Wayne was photocopying this month rotas in the offices. He’d just started doing them so I’d only have a few seconds before he finished.

‘You know the D.I.Y shop next door?’

‘I know of it, yes.’ He replied, the slow flash of the photocopier making his glasses light up.

‘Well, their trolley pushers have head sets…to talk to the store.’

‘Good for them.’

‘Yeah…’

I looked around the office. There were a few colleagues milling about, chatting whilst sat on tables. The head boss was at her desk in the corner, ruffling up papers and talking at her phone.

‘Do you think we could get ones like theirs?’

This was embarrassing. I felt like a 12 year old who had just rushed to his Mum after seeing his friend with a new toy. I wanted the same toy. ‘Can I have it, Mummy!?’

‘What’s wrong with the walkie-talkies we’ve got?’ He asked.

‘Well, they’re great and everything. But the head sets would be better.’

‘How?’

‘Lighter? Easier to use…’

‘Go on...?’

‘Steve dropped his in a puddle yesterday.’

‘I’ve talked to him about that.’

‘At first, Alex used it like a phone? He put up to his ear? He was deaf for two weeks?’

‘And I spoke to him about that. Well, I sent him an e-mail about it.’

So I left the office with nothing. Was it wrong that I was jealous of Jerry and his headset? It looked far more professional. I peered over to Jerry, pushing a rack of their trolleys in one hand, and with his other, touching the nib of the microphone and gently speaking into it. Oh, he was rubbing salt into the wound. A shiny, silvery, hi-tech piece of salt. I breezed over and began some small talk again. Two minutes into a rather intriguing conversation about the weekends weather, I realised I wasn’t looking at Jerry. I was just looking at his head set. I decided to go for the jugular.

‘Can I have a go?’ I grinned.

‘Yeah, sure. Here you are…’

Jerry stopped his trolleys beside a car and carefully lifted off his headset.

‘Careful.’ He warned, placing it on my head. ‘That’s looks good.’ Stepping back.

‘D’you think so?’

‘Yeah…looks cool.’

Oh, I was smiling now. So much so, it was hurting my face. Checking my reflection in the car mirror confirmed my delight; I looked quite space age, to be honest. I think that was due to the headset’s colour. If you paint anything silver it looks like it’s from Star Trek; a piece of wood, a hairbrush, even a family member.

‘OK, you’ve had your fun. Let’s have it back.’ He smiled.

‘Naa, just a few more seconds. How do you talk into it?’

Jerry let out a stifled sigh and fiddled with the wire until he found a black box.

‘That. You press that.’

‘Hello?’ I pressed it.

A few seconds later, a voice replied.

‘Yes? Hello, Jerry, did you want something?’

‘OK, give it me back, now.’ Jerry said.

‘We need you inside, Jerry.’ The voice came through again.

Even the clarity of the voice was shiny. With our walkie-talkie’s, they’re all distorted and muffled. I needed to convince Wayne to get some of these.

‘I think you’re wanted inside.’ I said.

‘OK, I’ll be right back. Keep hold of that.’ He said, pointing at the headset.

He disappeared in store whilst I checked my reflection one more time. This time at different angles, pouting occasionally and miming a few words to show how I would actually look like whilst using it. Thinking back, I must have looked like a right tit. But then, I was super cool.

‘What are you doing with that?' A voice spoke behind me.

It wasn’t coming through the headset; this voice was slightly muffled and had a different accent; a Birmingham accent.

‘Brian! How’s it going?’ I turned to him.

‘Cracking, yeah.’

‘How are you and Grace?’

‘Good. We’re living together now, up Haledon Court.’

Not homeless anymore. Far from it, it’s quite nice up Haledon Court. They’ve got private parking and everything. Brian looked a bit healthier, as if he'd had a few warm meals since I last saw him. But still had the same trademark tramps dusty hat, scruffy beard and long hair. The D.I.Y shop clearly didn't care about their trolley pushers either.

‘Great, and how’s working here going?’

‘Super! I’ll take that off you…’

Brian helped himself to what was now my headset in my brain, and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

‘I’ll give it to Jerry when he comes back.’

‘Oh, OK, haven’t you got one?’

‘Yeah, but it’s in the repair shop.’

They’ve even got their own repair shop. I’m definitely convincing Wayne about these now.

End of part one.

Littersweet Symphony

Wayne had called a meeting, first thing on a Saturday morning. We were all in, Alex, Steve and I, ready for a busy day ahead. Well, all us were ready, bar Steve.

‘Steve, what are you doing?’ Wayne asked.

‘Making a brew. D’you want one?’

‘The first thing I said when we came in was that we’re only going to be a few minutes.’

‘Yeah, but we all like a brew in the morning, don’t we? Tea? Coffee anyone?’

Steve was holding out two mugs that he’d snatched from the centre of the huge table we were all sat at. We hardly ever came into that room, it’s mainly used for managers to chat in and show their overhead projections. They would drink tea and coffee, but now was not the time.

‘Put the mugs down. We’ll only be a few minutes.’

Steve sighed heavily and threw himself down on the chair. The room was the first room I went in when I first started working here. There were about 12 of us, all smiling broadly, being over polite and playing team building exercises. Even then we had tea and coffee, we weren’t even fully employed then.

‘Right…’ Wayne sat down with us. ‘Basically, we’ve had a few complaints.’

Steve burst out into, what looked like a mix laughter, excitement and childish panic that startled us all. Even Wayne had to re-adjust his glasses. Steve’s face stretched out as he glared over the table at Alex.

‘Ohhh busted!’

Wayne and I looked at each other in confusion whilst Alex looked down at the table, red faced, fiddling with a bit of leftover paper.

‘What’s this?’ I asked.

‘Who’s busted?’ Wayne added.

‘Alex.’ Steve held his mouth and nodded.

‘Steve, leave it.’ Alex managed to say.

‘Take your own advice, mate!’

‘What should he have left?’

‘His fiancé.’

‘Shut up, Steve.’

‘Tell me, Alex.’ Wayne said.

Alex didn’t tell us. The person who did was probably, in Alex’s mind, the worst person to tell the story.

‘Well, Fran and him took their break at the same time the other day.’ Steve giggled. ‘They met up for a little bit of…you know…’

Being English, Steve couldn’t actually say what he meant. The idea of sex is something to be sniggered at, of course. So, when Steve left his sentence unfinished, he rounded it off by scrunching up his lips and pushing them up to his nose. That’s just one of many actions used to describe sex in this country. Some raise their eyebrows or the standard pelvic thrust, to fill in for the simple words no one could ever say, in fear of their grandparents overhearing.

‘It wasn’t in the toilet or anything.’ Alex said, still looking down. ‘It was in our stock room.’

‘Oh, that’s fine then!’ Steve leaned back and chuckled.

Alex and Fran in our stock room. I go in there every week for the shopping bags. I felt dirty.

‘You and your fiancé had sex in the stock room?’ Wayne asked him.

He said the dreaded word. Finally we could start talking like sensible adults again.

‘Not sex…. just a bit of…you know…’

And we were back. Back to childish euphemisms and ludicrous physical actions. Alex’ physical action nearly make Steve explode with laughter.

‘You know that’s wrong, Alex. But that’s not what the complaints were about. We’re getting complaints from the shot next door.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Steve held out his arm. ‘Is that it? “You know that’s wrong”? Aren’t you going to do more?’

‘Like what?’ Wayne stared at Steve from above his glasses.

Steve couldn’t think of anything. What is the punishment for a head of department to give a colleague that’s been caught doing a whatsit with his fiancé? Oh, even I was doing it, now!

Next-door was a hardware shop about the size of our supermarket. Basically, if you’ve got an empty house you can go there and get sorted. Just like IKEA but when you leave, you still have a working credit card and money in your pocket.

‘Their trolley pushers have were complaining that we leave our trolley’s in the bays.’

‘They’ve got their own trolley pushers?’ Steve asked.

‘Yes, they’ve got trolleys. They need people to push them.’

Seemed to make sense. We just hadn’t noticed them before. It turned out they’d only started a few weeks ago, going outside every hour or so to clean up. Steve accused them of being lazy, but with three colleagues and about fifteen trolleys between them, there was hardly enough work to go around.

‘So, from now on keep the far end clear for their trolleys.’

As we all knew, the far end bay was officially Steve’s Zone. But Steve didn’t moan. It was a chance for him to do less work that he did before, this time at the hands and the approval of Wayne.

Alex and I filled up the bags on the checkouts. It was around 9am and as the colleagues trickle in, so do the customers. I made Alex get the bags from the stockroom alone, of course. I may never go in there again, maybe after sterilization, I didn’t want a lot of details as to why him and Fran got up to some hyjinx, just why they did it.

‘So, what the hell were you thinking?’

‘We were just bored.’

Remind me the next time I’m bored. I normally start reading a book or look for jobs on the Internet. Sounds a bit boring, now.

‘And how did Steve know?’

‘He came in to hide in there whilst we where...you know...'

Oh, for God's sake, just say it!

'He does it a lot. It’s his place.’

‘Sounds like your place now.’ I said.

‘He swore he’d never tell anyone.'

'You just got carried away, then?

'Yeah, especially when she found the litter picker.'

As he said the words, his eyes lit up, as if someone else was speaking for him, and he had no control over it. I didn’t want to know what he and Fran had done, but the mental image was now burnt in my mind. I pretended I didn’t hear it.

‘I suppose he didn’t really tell anyone. He thought you got busted, in his words.’

‘I know.’ Alex hung his head low. 'He didn't see us with the litter picker, though.'

We finished stocking up the bags and headed outside. Steve was stood by the trolley bay, in my zone. My Zone. It wasn’t his zone, or our zone.

‘What are you doing, Steve? In my zone?’

‘Looking at him.’

Steve nodded over to his old zone, at the trolley bay that now occupied the D.I.Y shop trolleys. Stood by the bay was a face I recognised. A scruffy man in a uniform that looked like it had been stolen. Clean and fresh as opposed to his face, which was leathery with long greying hair around it, and a beard which…I knew this man. From the homeless shelter. The brummy ex-rocker who stole Grace off Steve. What was his name? Oh, this is going to kill me! Don’t you hate it when this happens!

‘Lads! Good morning!’ He bellowed over to us, waving his hand. ‘It’s me. Brian!’

Brian, that’s the one! I’ll sleep tonight. We all waved back, bar Steve. The burn from Grace still fresh on his mind, of course. How the hell had he gotten as job? Like i said, he wasn't wearing any shoes two weeks ago! His CV must be amazing, or full of lies. After all, my CV is full of lies. According to that I'm fluent in French. I'm never going to work over there so it doesn't matter. But Brian must have really pushed it, making up a home address for one.

 At that second, two other lads walked over to him in the same uniform. One of around my age, with the same brown hair and look as if he didn’t want to be there. The other was a lot shorter, with glasses and short dark hair. We must have spent the next ten minutes eying each other up. God knows what it must have looked like to anyone on that car park. Maybe a mirror image of ourselves. Brian looked a lot like Steve; I knew that on the night at the homeless shelter. Three trolley pushers looking at three trolley pushers. It was like a shit episode or Dr Who, had we morphed into workers from a different shop? I was about try and lighten the mood with more conversation between both camps, when Wayne walked over to us.

‘Right lads, let’s split up. I want a litter pick doing. Who’s doing it?’

Me and Alex looked at each other. There was no way I was touching that litter picker. Oh the endless disgusting possibilities that stick held. No way.

‘Do you want to do it, Steve?’ I said. ‘Since you’ve no zone anymore?’

‘Yeah, go on then.’ He sighed.

Wash your hands, Steve. Before and after. Just in case.

Good Riddance (Crime Of Your Life)

Wayne had been our head porter for a little over two weeks now, and quite frankly, it was driving us all crazy. It’s not like the ‘power’ had gone to his head, because he didn’t have much. He was only in charge of three lads. In my mind Wayne had always had power, as if he was allocated it as a child and learned how to use it. Not in an attention seeking way, where many children would put on the shower curtain as a cape and charge about the house, telling mummy and daddy to play house and do things. It was as if someone had taught him how to get things done, with a calm voice and the way of a manager that everyone thought was ‘an all right bloke'. In our store, they come few and far between.

Of course, Wayne wasn’t a manager, but I thought he could be.

‘You could be, you know? A manager.’

‘I know.’

This was awkward. In fact, from the first second I started a conversation with him, (which was precisely eight minutes ago) it was awkward. Wayne didn’t really do conversation, like a lot of people don’t do going to the gym. It just wasn’t his thing. He could speak, but not in a chatty 'down-at-the-hairdressers' kind of way. And that’s all well and good in my book. If you’re not a talker, you’re not a talker. You’re reserved or a people watcher. But did he have to throw in the annoying smug confidence?

‘You know you could be a manager?’

‘Yes, if I wanted to be.’

Talking to Wayne was like playing Buckaroo. You never really knew if what you were saying was the right thing, or whether he would snap at something. Even if it was as simple as ‘Good morning.’

‘And do you want to be?’ I winced.

‘No, been there, done that.’

‘Oh right, you didn’t enjoy it, then?’

It looks like I’m asking a lot of questions, but believe me, if you were in my shoes, you’d be asking anything. You’d ask what kind of underwear his father wears, just to get a syllable out of him.

‘I did at the time.’

‘Oh, right.’

His sentences sounded like they’ve been heavily edited. Like there were words he’d left out. Sentences that had fallen off the face of the earth, leaving out vital information and hints of real conversation. The fact that he was the head porter put on more pressure, as he could tell me what to do at any point.

‘So you don’t want a manager’s job now?’

No, can you get back in your zone now, Dylan?’

I went back in my zone. Which was the trolley bay to the right of the store. Wayne and Alex covered the left side and Steve got issued with the bay next to mine, at the far end on the car park.Wayne could do his job. The fact that a man like Wayne, so uptight and self motivated was in charge of three trolley pushers was quite sad. But, if he could do it properly that there would be no problems. And he could. Wayne filled out the month’s rotas in a matter of minutes, unlike Steve’s plan of sitting down in the canteen with a cup of coffee, phoning a few friends from his World Of Warcraft fan club, and then getting on with the rotas. 

Wayne was down and clearing up before I realised he was gone in the first place, picking up the litter with so much investigation, scratching up every bit of chewing gum he could find. I walked up from my zone to the front of the store, armed with three or four trolleys. The trouble with staying in one zone is, it’s one trolley bay. So you can empty it within fifteen minutes and that’s it for an hour. So I took my time with them, enjoying Wayne’s new rule. But as I walked up I passed a brown Volvo with one of the back doors open. The car was one of those large ones you don’t see anymore. With a boot that you could sit down and have a three course meal in. I stopped and scanned the car park for a possible owner, bouncing over to me and grinning, waving their keys in the air. But no one was around. It was a mild Thursday afternoon; the only people who come in store are the young people in suits who buy sandwiches. Young people in suits don’t drive big Volvos; they’d get sacked on the spot.

I slowly walked around the car, searching for life. On the backseat was a 1998 map book and a few CD’s scattered around it. The seats were dusty and worn. The passenger seat was full of rubbish; a full plastic bag occupied most of it, filled with boxes and miscellaneous packets and packages. It was only when I moved away I realised the contents of the bag were things from the supermarket. But they were in an old re-useable bag, and the boxes still have protective covers and tags attached, as if they’d fallen from the warehouse lorry. 

I scanned the car and the car park one more time. Wayne was still litter-picking, obviously his reply to any sentence would be ‘Do Not Disturb’. He had the walkie-talkie that had contact with inside the store, and I couldn’t really leave the car. How could someone leave their car door open on a car park? You open a door and then shut it. It’s a simple rule we all learn in primary school. My Dad used to go mental at me for not shutting doors in the house. He was of that age when he could feel drafts in every room, even with the radiators on, on a summer’s day.

I slammed the door shut and turned away, only for the alarm to start whaling out from the car, making the three or four people on the whole of the car park peer over. The alarm startled me a little, which didn’t make me look as innocent as I wanted to, but I held up my arm at them and gave each of them a little nod. I was Mr Cool. It’s OK, I thought to myself, nothing to see here. You just get on with your day; I’ll sort this out. I was about to think about how I could sort this out when Danny came rushing over to me. Danny was the new guy on security. With a dark jacket that was a little too tight and too much gel in his hair. He was about 20 years old, and for someone working on the security side of things, didn’t look as if he could hold any order, let alone keep anything secure. He proved my point as soon as he got to me.

‘What’s going on?’ He said, with a scratchy and unbalanced voice.

‘I just shut the door. It was open.’

That sounded like it made sense,. but it also sounded stupid. 

‘You just shut the door? It was open?’

‘Yeah. The door was open, so I shut it. Now the alarms going off.’ I shouted over the alarm.

‘Why was the door open?’

‘I don’t know. I just got here.’

‘Is this your car?’ He asked, with one finger in his ear.

‘No.’

I was offended. Me? In a Volvo? I’m not 65-year-old grandma taking her grandchildren to the zoo.  

‘Are you sure? You shut the door.’

‘Just because I shut the door doesn’t mean I own the car. I closed the door at Marks & Spencer’s last week, it doesn’t mean I own the place.’

‘I know that. You’re not Mark or Spencer, are you.’

You know when I said that talking to Wayne is like playing Buckaroo? Well talking to Danny is like playing Monopoly, with a monkey, with no money, dice or community chest cards. I just stared at him as he scanned the car.

‘What’s that?’ He pointed at the passenger seat.

‘Oh, it’s a bag.’

Why had I started to feel guilty? It wasn’t my shitty brown Volvo, it wasn't my bag of boxes.

‘A bag…’ He said, as if he was searching for the meaning in a dictionary. ‘It looks like…’

Danny leaned forward and peered through the window, smearing his hands, elbows and nose on the glass. He opened the door and started searching the bag.

‘Danny? What are you doing?’ I barked.

He didn’t answer. He was too busy scuffling through the boxes, picking one up every so often and shaking his head.

‘Dylan. These has been stolen. From here.’ He pointed at the store.

I felt like a pirate who'd just found his hidden treasure. Well, actually Danny found the treasure. I saw it first and thought nothing of it. I wouldn't be a good pirate, thinking about it. I’d find the treasure and say ‘Oh, well…never mind’, before walking away from it. Danny grabbed the bag from its already torn handles and rushed up the store.

‘Follow me.’ He squeaked.

We rushed past Wayne, who was now on all fours, scraping gum off the floor with his glasses an inch away from the floor. I followed him through the front doors, past the customer services desk and to a large door. He punched in, what seemed like, a 48 digit code, went through the door and through another. Then Danny got a set of keys out of his pocket, searched for the right one for ten minutes and then unlocked another door.

The security office was tiny. There was a fan on in the room but it failed the cancel out the stifling heat that comes with the eight or nine monitors they had on in there. Each one had multiple camera angles set up, viewing parts of the store even I hadn’t seen before. Danny pushed a few buttons, rewound tapes and finally stopped it on a woman. She was in the electrical aisle, staring in a freeze frame at a bunch of mobile phones in boxes. I put together that what she was looking at was what she had stolen. If I wasn’t going to be a pirate, an investigator was definitely on the card for me in the future.

‘That’s the one.’ He said, tapping his fingers on the table.

‘Wow, so where has she gone now?’

‘Probably to another shop. Marks & Spencers, probably.’

‘You think? I hope either Mark or Spencer gets them.’ I smiled.

Danny didn’t notice. I was stood over him as he peered at the screen. The woman was short with long brown hair that matched her ugly car. She had one of those horrible fleecy white jackets with a several Alaskan dogs on it, and let’s face it, a face only a mother could love.

‘What are you going to do next?’ I said.

‘Well…’ Danny spun round in his chair. ‘I’ll keep a camera on the car. You keep an eye out for her.’

‘Right…’

‘I’ll put this bag where it was.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘As bait.’

‘Ahh, right.’

Danny was new to this job, and I am pretty certain the managers wouldn’t want him to put hundreds of pounds worth of stolen good back into the car of the shoplifter. I think he’d watched far too many American cop shows on those awful cable channels.

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well what if she gets in the car and drives off?’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I’ll keep a camera on it. You keep an eye on it.’

It seemed to make sense, a camera and an eye. I don’t know why the FBI don't try that. Forget hacking phone calls and expensive military operations. Just set up a camera on the house and get a bloke to stand outside, looking at it every so often. I’m sure they’d get far. Danny put the overflowing bag of expensive electrical items back in the car and walked away, leaving me to keep an eye out. I’m glad Wayne put me in this zone; it was a hot bed of criminal activity.

‘Dylan!’ I heard a voice from the store. ‘You’ll have to work in my zone.’

It was Wayne. Still clearing up and de-gumming the front of the store. I couldn’t leave my zone. It was My Zone, after all. And now it was an area of crime. If I had some police ‘Do Not Cross’ tape it would be out by now, circling the entire car. I shook my head and waved my arms from side to side.

‘What?’ He barked over to me.

‘I can’t!’ I shouted, in the quietest voice possible.

I didn’t want the shoplifter to know something was up, of course. She would have smelt a rat if she did. But Wayne was getting louder and louder, whaling at me to got over to his zone.

Ten minutes later Danny came storming out.

‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘She’s gone, the old woman has gone!’

I peered over to where the brown car was, now an empty parking space.

‘I thought you were keeping an eye out?’ He screeched.

‘I thought you were keeping a camera on it?’

‘I did. But…’

‘What?’

‘I went for a sandwich.’

‘Oh, right. Very professional.’

‘It was my break.’

Danny was panicking. He had no reason to, of course. None of the managers knew about the old woman and raggedy old shopping bag of goods. If they did know then he would be in serious trouble, for putting the stuff back in her car. I did him a favour.

‘Wayne told me to come over here. He’s in charge.’

‘That’s just great, then isn’t it! Where’s the old bag!’

He meant the bag of mobile phones, but I couldn’t resist.

‘She’s probably on the motorway by now.’ I smirked.

I wasn’t a pirate, or an investigator. But I could whip out the occasional humorous remark.

Sweet Zone Alabama

'OK, thank you for attending this seminar. Lectured by myself, Wayne Sharper, your new Head Porter. Welcome, any questions before I begin?'

Wayne turned from the white board and smiled at his audience. What he was looking at was Alex, on his own in the front row of seats, with his hand up. Like a child asking his teacher if he could go to the toilet.

'Alex?'

'Shouldn't we wait until everyone else gets here?'

'Why should I? They're late.' Wayne replied bluntly.

Alex looked around the room and realised it would be much quieter on his own, so he sat back in his seat and shrugged. Steve and I were on our way, after helping an old woman lift a 48-inch TV into her Nissan Micra. I know your eyesight decreases when we grow old, but that was taking the piss. We all knew Steve didn't like Wayne. I wasn't sure if I liked Wayne. He had a quiet, aged confidence about him, which automatically won him grace and respect. Steve wasn't prepared to give him respect, even with his new title.

'All right, H.P sauce.' Steve said as he bundled through the training room door.

'H.P sauce?' I said as I followed him in.

'Work it out.' He replied quietly.

Wayne wasn't interested, a good sign for anyone with authority. We all had those teachers at school that you could distract for the whole lesson, to put him off teaching you. I had one and it was great fun. Fifty minutes into my history class and instead of knowing the fine details of the Peace Treaty, I found out about Mr Richard's favourite electric guitar. Which was his cherry red Fender Stratocaster, by the way. But Wayne wasn't like that. With his frame less glasses and neatly trimmed hair, he told us both to sit down so he could carry on.

'Right. Basically, there are three new rules.' I began again.

'It stands for 'head porter', if you interested.' Steve interrupted.

'I'm sorry?' Wayne asked.

'H.P sauce. Head Porter? It was going to be your new nickname. Forget it.'

'OK. Three new rules...'

Steve was angry that no one had worked it out. I bet he’d been thinking about that nickname for hours. But as I said, Wayne wasn’t interested. He should be a teacher; he's got the right attitude.

'The three rules are thus...'

Maybe not. Teachers these days would get their heads kicked in if they said 'thus.'

'Phones. Zones and Moans.' Wayne said.

'Phones?' Steve asked.

'Zones?' I asked.

'Moans?' Alex asked.

We all stared at him like he said those three words in Arabic. It turned out that Darren had let Wayne make a few changes within our department, to freshen things up and add more authority. Wayne reeked of authority. With his posture and calm, informative nature. He was wearing a tie for this seminar, even that looked briskly ironed. Anyway, the three changes were Phones, Zones and Moans.

‘No phones must be in your pockets whilst out on the car park. Instead one porter will be allocated a radio, to keep in touch with colleagues in store.’

‘Why would we want to do that?’ Alex asked.

‘In case they want anything.’

‘Like what?’ Steve added, his armed folded.

‘Help a customer, move something…’

We all stared at him.

‘Things that are required of you within your job.’

Suddenly his new role made sense. We hadn’t had communication with colleagues inside before. We could have done last year when a woman was asking us if we had seen her husband. Three times she came back asking that day. We weren’t told he’d collapsed in store and had been taken to hospital. I guessed those radios were much needed.

‘Zones. We must stay in our allocated zones on that car park which will be marked out. And Moans. Anyone who wants to moan about anything or anyone. You come to me.’

‘What about Darren?’ I asked.

‘Or Sharon?’ Steve asked.

‘Consider them the last resort.’

It was hard to fight with him because he was bang on, but he still spoke with a smug calmness that made me want to flick his expensive glasses off his face. We were all told to leave the training room with a laminated bit of card that read ‘PHONES. ZONES. MOANS.’ I gave him credit; he managed to make them all rhyme. Already enough to make him a better head porter, or H.P sauce, than Steve ever was. Trying to conjure enough enthusiasm for that nickname was almost as difficult as teaching Steve how to work the walkie-talkie.

‘Just press that, there. And speak into it.’

‘Right, right. Let me get my glasses on.’ He squinted at the black radio.

‘I thought you’ve used these before? On tour and that.’ I smiled.

‘Oh, yeah loads of times. They were different back then, though. A lot smaller.’

Bullshit, again. If he had used them before it was only in his lorry working for Eddie Stobart. Ten four, rubber duck.

‘Hello.’ He said into the radio carefully.

He then held it close to his ear. I could see what would come next. You put a walkie-talkie right up to your eye and you're going to get trouble.

‘Hello?’ A voice said back, making Steve flinch.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Who’s that?’

This went on for fifteen minutes, with both of them refusing to give the slightest bit of information to work out who they were talking to.

‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s your name?’ The voice came back.

‘I'm not telling you.’

‘I’m not telling you either.’

The last sentence seemed to resonate a lot more, as if the actual voice was close to us. I turned around to see Alex, with one hand on a radio and the other holding up his finger to his mouth, mouthing ‘Shhh’ at me. But before Alex could comically jump up behind Steve, another voice scuffled through, making both of them flinch.

‘Hello? Gordon. I need size seven. Adidas shell.’

This voice was much deeper and seemed tired and angry. The three of us stood around and listened again, waiting for the voice to emerge again.

‘Gordon? Come on, man. They’re waiting.’

‘It’s Sports Palace!’ Alex shouted. ‘The sports shop over there!’

Alex pointed to the huge white coloured building two doors down from us. Sports Palace. Essentially a warehouse full of knocked off sports merchandise. From calendars to signed shirts, they had it all. The trouble was the size. You get lost in there like you do in Ikea.

‘Jesus, Gordon! Don’t make me come in there!’ He scowled again, drenched in distortion.

Apparently this Sports Palace place has walkie-talkies just like ours, but as we were on the same channel, their conversations were coming through our radios. I felt sorry for this Gordon lad. I imagined this was his first day, the sweat from the pressure dripping off his forehead. A little bit of a bum-fluff moushtache emerging from his top lip, cowering in fear in the stock room, unable to respond to the man on the radio and get his size seven shoes. Just as I was starting to picture the hideous beating Gordon was going to receive, Steve pressed the button and spoke into it.

‘Yes, OK, I’ll be out in a second!’

‘What was that?’ I shouted.

‘Just having a laugh.’

‘Yeah, at Gordon’s expense!'

‘You don’t know Gordon!’

I really thought I did. Poor Gordon. I bet he’s behind on his college coursework, too.

‘Stop it, Steve. You’re going to get us into trouble.’

‘Gordon!! Get out here now!’ The angry man spat back.

‘OK.’ Steve squeaked a reply.

‘Steve!’ I shrieked.

Not only was Steve interfering with a company’s trading; he was interfering in a boy’s health, by mimicking him. Steve did a pretty good Gordon impression, though. I’d never met the boy, but I bet he had a squeaky little boy’s voice.

‘Right. Too late, Gordon. They’ve left. Forget the shoes.’ The voice spat through the radio.

‘Oh, shit Steve. You’ve done it now. Gordon’s going to get fired because of you.’

‘He could have answered back.' He defended himself. 'This supermarket rules!! Wow!’ Steve whaled down the walkie-talkie, raising his devil horn hands in the air.

We all got back to work; keeping in our respected zones that Wayne had marked out for us. It basically kept us apart so we would work harder. But ten minutes later, Steve called Alex and I over to his zone.

‘What is it, Steve? This isn’t my zone.’

Steve didn’t say a word. He was stood next to a large man and sweating profusely. I didn’t recognise the man at first. He was a short, dumpy man with a baldhead and a pug nose. I recognised the t-shirt, though. All white with a blue stripe along the front. The trademark colours of a Sports Palace colleague. The name badge read ‘Gordon.’

‘Who just got me fired?’ He growled.

This guy could be Phil Mitchell’s stunt double. The same pink, angry face and build. Even his voice sounded similar. This wasn’t the Gordon I knew. I Gordon I knew was at home, crying into his Mum’s arms.

‘F-fired?’ Steve stuttered.

‘Yeah. I didn’t get the shoes Ron was after. Now I’ve been fired. Who’s in charge here?’

Steve was sweating a lot more now, and then he remembered he wasn't the Head Porter anymore.

‘Wayne. Wayne Sharper. He’s responsible for the walkie-talkies.’

‘Cheers.’ Barked Gordon, and bounced inside the store.

Alex and I stared daggers at Steve.

‘Phones. Zones. Moans.’ He said with a smile. ‘If anyone has a problem, see Wayne.’

‘Gordon’s got a problem.’ Alex said.

So had Wayne, now.

Give And Let Die

Steve and I had been chosen to put together a small party, to celebrate Alex and Fran's engagement. When I say 'put together', all we had to do was set the tables in the canteen and blow up a few balloons. The fact that Sharon chose the two of us for this told me that the management didn't really see this celebration as a big thing. Normally they have colleagues from the Events team to set things up. They use their best, most colourful banners and send e-mails and flyers out to promote it. But no, it was Steve and I. The B-Team. Not even the B-Team. Plus, the party was scheduled for later that day, a Tuesday evening. Not really an ideal time for a celebration. I'm not sure Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston had their engagement party on a Tuesday night, definitely not in supermarket colleague canteen.

The second decision Sharon made today was to make Wayne our new Head Porter. Darren was on holiday for a week, which gave her the chance to make his decisions, move his desk into the corner of their room and swap his desk lamp for her broken one. She'll go on to deny that, obviously. But we all saw her from the car park, on all fours underneath his desk, unplugging plugs violently as soon Darren left the building. So instead of being in charge of three porters, Steve was now in charge of six primary coloured tablecloths, plastic cups, cutlery and bottles of pop. After all his attempts to regain his role, he seemed unusually care free about the entire thing.

'So, Wayne's our new leader, then?' I said, in between breaths into a yellow balloon.

'Yeah, been here twenty minutes. Doesn't know this place at all. But good luck to him.'

'Head Porter Wayne.' I'll admit, I was trying to rub salt into the wound.

'Head Porter.' He shook his head. 'It's like polishing a turd.'

I've been trying to tell him that for two years.

'You get no extra money, I told him. No perks to the job. Just hassle.'

'Where is he now?'

'At Pizza Hut with a few managers.'

That sounds like a perk to me. A pizza perk.

We finished setting up in silence. A few checkout colleagues trickled in a sat down, Glen the greeter took his position at the DJ podium, which was essentially a CD player hooked to some portable speakers. Around 5 O'clock the kitchen staff brought out party food, giving the cue for a few more of our staff to sit down whilst I hassled them to put on their party hats.

'Put it on.' I said to Sandra, the loud woman off checkouts.

'Why?'

'...Because it's a party.'

'Oh...'

She placed the green paper hat on the side of her head, trying her hardest not to ruin her hair. Alex made his appearance, along with a few half-arsed claps and cheers from those sat down; with mouths full of onion rings and scotch eggs. I'll admit it didn't feel like a party, the canteen was about a quarter full and, more importantly, we hadn't seen Fran.

'Where's your soon-to-be bride?' I asked Alex.

'Oh, she's over there.'

Alex pointed to the corner of the room. Fran was sat behind two small tables. One table was full of leaflets and badges. The other had a pink cardboard sign on it, brandishing the letters W.W.W.

'What's she doing, Alex?'

'She's part of a charity. Sharon said she could help raise money in here.'

'W.W.W?'

'Working Women in Wheelchairs.' He smiled.

'Oh, right. Great. But it's your engagement party, Alex.'

'So?'

'Shouldn't you be celebrating your engagement, not women in wheelchairs?'

'Yeah, we can do both together. That’s what she told me. And anyway, she's not celebrating it, she's raising awareness and money for better equipment.'

Fair enough. The 'party' started. Glen started playing music whilst everyone ate their food and Alex, Steve and I talked mainly about charity, or Steve's view on giving.

'When did you last give to charity?'

'I give to charity all the time, Dylan. Oxfam. British Heart Foundation.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, they've got shops in town. Last week I picked up Metallica's Ride The Lightning for three quid.'

I suppose that's charity. Giving his spare change to a retired woman for a heavy metal masterpiece. We all finished eating around 6pm, but I have to tell you, Glen had wasted his best songs. I’m no DJ, but there are unspoken, unwritten rules about what songs you leave until towards the end, to get people up to dance. There wasn’t really a ‘dance floor’ in the canteen, as such. But I’m sure if we moved the broken vending machine and the seven recycle bins no one uses out of the way, we could get a pretty substantial space. But Glen had blown it. ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ was the first song he played at 5pm, whilst we where eating! Can you imagine? ‘Love Shack’ made its appearance far too early. Even ‘Oh, What A Night’ by The Four Seasons got a spin, all while we were tucking into our mini sausage rolls. It’s heresy! I had to have a word.

‘Glen?’

‘Yes, young ‘un?’ He replied, looking down through his darkened glasses to a pile of CD’s in his hands.

‘Don’t you think you should hold back…with the good songs?’

‘What do you mean?’

This guy was clearly an amateur.

‘Well, you’ve played great songs so far.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But, if people are going to be dancing later…’

‘Dancing?’

‘It’s a party. We can move things to make a dance floor.’

‘Oh OK, smashing! I’ll dig the songs out again.’

Glen fished through some more CD’s. He was planning on repeating all his played songs. Schoolboy mistake. If your DJ did that at your wedding you'd have thrown him out by now.

‘No, no. Just hold a few back until later.’

‘Which ones?’

‘OK…’ I thought. ‘You haven’t played Kool and The Gang yet, have you?’

‘It’s lined up next.’

‘No…save it. It’s all about timing. You’ll thank me.’

I winked at him and turned away, only to be stopped by myself. As I turned to face the canteen again, Alex was towards to back welcoming someone in. It was Jenny. It was a good job Darren was on holiday; things would have got a little awkward if he wasn’t. Steve made up for it, though.

‘What’s that harlot doing here?’ He shouted, a little bit too loud.

I don’t think Jenny heard it. I don’t think Alex heard it either, but he sat her down and offered her food as she smiled at everyone. It must have been odd for her to come back. Stealing from the company’s safe and cheating on Darren, now the manager of the services department. That’s quite a CV, isn’t it? Duncan wasn’t around, yet again. Still the coward he always was, even on his twin brother’s engagement party. I wandered over and smiled.

‘Jenny, how are you?’

‘Good. Good.’

You could tell she was uncomfortable, still wearing her coat and clutching her handbag at an empty table.

‘How’s the baby?

‘Good. Duncan’s taking care of him at the moment.’

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. God help that child. He's probably sat in the living room right now, covered in food, surrounded by stolen XBOX games and fag ends. The baby, I mean.

‘Alex, where’s your bride-to-be? We haven’t met yet.’ Jenny smiled.

‘Oh, she’s over there.’

‘W.W.W…what’s that?’

‘Working Women in Wheelchairs.’ Alex replied with a sigh that suggested he was already tired of explaining it.

Alex wandered over to his fiancé, now chatting to one or two grocery colleagues and exchanging badges and e-mail addresses.

‘Honey? Jenny is here. Do you want to come and say hello?’

‘Just a minute.’ She replied, still writing another contact down.

Alex smiled at the colleagues as they left and sat down with her.

‘Fran, people have come to celebrate our engagement. Don’t you think we should give a bit more time to them?’

‘Do you think I should give more time to this cause? We’re only a few more grand away from buying a new lift. You know, one that doesn’t break down half way like last time?’

‘I remember. But, sweetheart, Jenny’s here.’

He pointed towards her, which made Fran usher Jenny towards the her, like a rock star at his latest album signing. Jenny sheepishly moved forward and towards the tables.

‘Fran, nice to meet you. I’m Jenny. Alex’s brother’s wife.’

‘Nice to meet you, too.’

‘I have a little something…’ Jenny said, reaching into her coat pocket and taking out a cheque. ‘A little gesture, you know. From me and Duncan.’

Alex smiled and said thank you whilst Fran took the cheque. Then she folded it in half and popped it into the pink bucket in front of her.

‘Fran, what are you doing?’ Alex asked.

‘What? That’ll help towards the new lift.’

‘That was for us! Not your little charity thing!’ He said, standing up.

‘Little charity thing!? How dare you, Alex! A woman from Coronation Street is our Patron!’

‘This is our engagement party, Fran. She was giving it to us for our wedding!’

‘Were you?’ Fran stared daggers at Jenny.

‘Weren’t you?’ Alex nodded at Jenny.

Jenny froze, still smiling the shy little smile she’d shown since arriving and clutching her handbag more than ever. I'm not sure she even knew the right answer, now.

‘Erm, well…it was…is for the two of you, you know.’

‘See?’ Alex said.

‘Well, I’m sure Jenny would love to see it go to a good cause.’

‘Our wedding is a good cause!’

That’s as far as they got when Glen interrupted them over the microphone.

‘This one’s for the bride and groom, it’s a bit of Kool and the Gang!!’

And so the happy couple’s argument lasted through the entire version of ‘Celebration’. Everyone got up to dance whilst they bickered, apart from Jenny, who was still stood frozen in fear. Thanks Glen, it’s all about timing.