erithacus' saga: recreation
I started working all the overtime I could do. Quick earning suited me and it was warmer in the warehouse than in the shed. I exchanged short, inter-box grunts with other unloaders and struck up some conversations with Mike, the new Cardboard Man. Jim the warehouse manager bullied and scorned Mike and urged other operators to do the same. All because Mike spoke slowly. To Jim, sluggish speech was an obvious sign of idiocy which, reason demanded, should be treated with derision by superior beings. Jim never found out about Mike’s passion for medieval art.
One Friday night I went to the pub with the people from work. Beer swilled. Eyes smarted. Double entendres abounded. Shrieks of laughter pierced bubbling background chatter. Darts were played. Drunkenness prevailed. I sat with Mary and we talked and talked. Well, she talked and I listened. Although my previous encounters with Mr Wilmslow and the old man in the Wayfarer’s Hotel had provided me with precious little emotional preparation for with Mary, things just seemed to fall into place.
The other warehouse operators in the pub seemed surprised by our intimacy. Whenever Mary walked out of the office and into the warehouse, she was usually greeted with wolf whistles and cheers from male workers. Since I didn’t do this I was, according to Jim, obviously “a fucking puff”. Upon uttering these words he would try to establish eye contact with the operators to confirm their complicity and to bond. However, like many authoritarians he was respected very little.
Time flew. Mary and I were entwined in conversation. However, the landlord, not known for his charm, abruptly switched the music of the jukebox off and shouted “We’ve had your money now fuck off!”.
We then had the option of the disco or a curry with the others, or a her place or mine situation. I and my erection preferred the second and preferably her place. Mary explained that, although her son was staying with her ex-husband, her mother was at her place for a few days and so we would have to go to mine. Faced with the choice of Mary’s mother or my cosy shed I reluctantly and anxiously chose the second option.
One Friday night I went to the pub with the people from work. Beer swilled. Eyes smarted. Double entendres abounded. Shrieks of laughter pierced bubbling background chatter. Darts were played. Drunkenness prevailed. I sat with Mary and we talked and talked. Well, she talked and I listened. Although my previous encounters with Mr Wilmslow and the old man in the Wayfarer’s Hotel had provided me with precious little emotional preparation for with Mary, things just seemed to fall into place.
The other warehouse operators in the pub seemed surprised by our intimacy. Whenever Mary walked out of the office and into the warehouse, she was usually greeted with wolf whistles and cheers from male workers. Since I didn’t do this I was, according to Jim, obviously “a fucking puff”. Upon uttering these words he would try to establish eye contact with the operators to confirm their complicity and to bond. However, like many authoritarians he was respected very little.
Time flew. Mary and I were entwined in conversation. However, the landlord, not known for his charm, abruptly switched the music of the jukebox off and shouted “We’ve had your money now fuck off!”.
We then had the option of the disco or a curry with the others, or a her place or mine situation. I and my erection preferred the second and preferably her place. Mary explained that, although her son was staying with her ex-husband, her mother was at her place for a few days and so we would have to go to mine. Faced with the choice of Mary’s mother or my cosy shed I reluctantly and anxiously chose the second option.
posted by Bob @ 4:40 pm
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