In a doomed attempt to clear the half written backlog, I’m switching strategies in favour of shorter de-fluffed articles starting with this one. So in terms of a punchy opening, that’s a close approximation to events in the changing room this morning.
We’re down to one shower now; no-one knows why and since the facilities helpdesk is peopled by those whose objectives include saving money” and being apathetically unhelpful” but do not include fixing the problem“, it’s unlikely to be sorted any time soon. Adapting to this watery uni-jet, we’re all selecting the quickwash option to ensure a decent throughput.
Except for the bloke in front of me. You could tell he worked for tax; all his clothes were laid out as if he were waiting for his funeral, which wasn’t far away unless he hopped it sharpish out of the shower. But no, entirely incognisant as he was to the increasing backpressure of sweaty and late individuals, each body part was three times meticulously and laboriously washed.
Honestly, anymore selfish and he’d have ripped the showerhead off the wall and taken it with him. I was defiant, ignoring the normal protocol of staring at the ceiling or partaking in a spot of urban archaeology, nasally dating abandoned socks. Instead I fixed him with my best Paddington Bear Stare and willed his shower gel to morph into drain cleaner. But, of course this was wasted, him being a member of the dull numerical class, his myopia was confirmed by a pair of dustbin lid sized specs perfectly aligned on his towel. He was clearly washing by slow touch and memory.
Finally, probably sensing a build up of barely restrained violence, he vacated the shower area wrapping himself in a square root of towel. I was showered, dried, dressed and outta there before he’d even clothed himself in appropriate trouserage. I’m sure he was ticking each task off in a book pants on, check, plum line from nose aligned with Y-Front, check, talcum powder nostrils, check, etc“.
God Alive, it was bad enough sharing a ten minute fetid space with this denizen of the accounting hoard; so I couldn’t help thinking as he put on his wedding ring (polish three times, twirl, examine in light, make constipated face, polish once more, slip onto finger, twirl, check positioning, complete double entry book keeping“) what it would be like to be his wife. Not in a kind of kinky, cross-dressing homo erotic fantasy (oh that’s me screwed with the google-bot indexer now) rather in a has his wife been selected for canonisation kind of way“. And if not, why not?
It was only the thought of his poor family that wrenched away the happy slappy fist of doom that was bunching subconsciously. If I’m caught behind him again though, I’m going to hide his glasses, mess up his clothes and eat his wedding ring. Just to check if this really does make people like that explode.
Trust me, he’s earned it.