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Sunday, 23 October 2016

In which One must endure a fetid nob...

An unusually scented evening's toil in the purveyor of fine grocery items, Dear Reader...

One, winding down into retirement, has washed up in the company of a less than desirable co worker.

One, biffing up and down the winding staircase with crates of Wivey laughing water was met at the shop floor by a fetid miasma that One could have sewn a button on.

One's co worker, who, on most evenings commences the proceedings with the line...
'What can I eat tonight?' had clearly overloaded his system and was intent on blasting the excess gas into the aisles for all to enjoy.

One, too ladylike to comment, took to breathing through One's ears. Sadly a talent not shared by the passing customers, who, in their droves, opened the shop door, were met with the foul stench, and sheared to the other sustinence emporium.

Did he think no one would notice, did he not care a jot, is he just an ignorant foul smelling oik?

If there's one thing that would make One eschew this handy little painting top up income, it will be the mind numbing hours One must spend in the company of this Neanderthal Nob.

As he stands in too close proximity to One, awaiting the smallest of slip up or error on One's part, he makes One feel uber uncomfortable.

One, having to endure the company of the eejit, has, thus far, resisted the urge to tell the idiot which way is up.

One shall remain steadfast in the knowledge that he is a sad, sorry individual, who appears to believe he is One's superior.

'Have that one on me eejit.'

I maintain a dignified silence, knowing that the last time I found it necessary to engage in social intercourse with someone that far down the food chain, it was to intone...

'You're fired,' or 'start upstairs.'

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