2) Cubicle Number Two Please

“I don’t fucking believe it. This has to be the worst day of my life.”

Another of Direct Royal Norwich’s policyholders had lost their temper. Danny, still hungover from last night and battling the will of his bowels had informed the lady on the line that the courtesy car the garage were going to provide was likely to be a Nissan Micra. The caller had already explained that she had a BMW X5 to ferry her children to school and only another BMW X5 would do. Danny had heard it all before.

“A fucking Micra! You prick. I want to speak to a manager there. You fucking doughnut. I don’t pay you fuckers my fucking money to fucking get a…….” She paused in anger, “……fucking Micra”

Danny could see Emma at the other end of the office, chatting away into her headset. He thought she was looking particularly good today, in an understated way. Her hair was immaculate. Black heels. Grey skirt, above the knee. No tights; tanned legs. Black short-sleeve shirt; slim arms. He looked forward to getting a round of coffees in so that he could peek down the shirt at her cleavage. His boozed-up bloodstream boosted his bravado.

“If I could just put you on hold, I’ll transfer you to my supervisor as soon as she is available,” Danny told the caller. He really needed the toilet.

“Don’t put me on hold you shitface. Put me through to a proper manager, not your fucking supervisor. Do it now.”

“Okay,” Danny paused. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been called “shitface”. His options were limited. He couldn’t think who else to put the caller through to. “Would you like the address of our head office?” he offered.

“No I don’t want the fucking address and I don’t want the fucking Micra and I don’t want your fucking insurance any more.” She changed her mind. “No, in fact give me your address and I’ll be straight down there to smash your fucking face in with a hammer. You prick. I will fucking kill you if you don’t get me an X5 right this second.”

There were perhaps another fifteen or so Policyholders who had assured Danny that they were going to kill him during the four months he’d been working for the company.

There was only one course of action to take. “I will put you straight through to a manager now,” Danny told the woman. His finger pressed the Cancel button on his keypad and he disconnected the fuming whiner. He took a deep breath and headed for the gents.

He would always to go the loos on the floor above when his stomach was this bad. He was greeted with the familiar smell that was a cocktail of stale piss and cheap handwash. He was relieved that the toilets were empty and he stepped into his preferred cubicle, the centre one of the three. "Cubicle Number Two Please," He mocked the recorded voice at the Post Office. A glance into the bowl showed no trophy dumps had been left on parade. He checked inside the tin circle mounted on the wall that there was an adequate supply of toilet paper before taking his seat and rattling out a gassy avalanche of turds. His spine shivered with a sense of release, his internal organs jumped for joy that the poisons of last night were parting company with his innards. Just as the first round sploshing and plopping has finished, Danny heard the door to the gents open. He held off from letting round two begin and sat still, as if hiding.

He heard someone cough at the smell that had now filled the room. “Woah,” they groaned. Danny was pleased to have brought a little unpleasantness into someone’s day. He heard a zip unfasten, followed by pissing against porcelain, accompanied by a couple of involuntary farts, followed by a zip again and then footsteps out of the door. Danny was unimpressed that the pisser had chosen not to wash his hands.

The office toilet was a strange beast to Danny’s mind. He pondered the absurdity of the man who would stand at the sink mid-morning frantically brushing his teeth with the smell of shit in the air and with a couple of insurance guys spraying their piss into the urinals behind him.

Another tranche squelched out and the deed was done. Now Dan had to hurry to clean himself and get out before he could be identified as the root of the noxious stink. He pulled two sheets of tissue at a time and wiped his shit-zone, inspecting the imprint. At moments like this Danny considered waxing his bum-crack. Once ass-wiping duties were completed, Danny stood and fastened his trousers. He took one final look at the toilet. It was like the aftermath of a hurricane. Danny pressed the flush and unlocked the cubicle.

He proceeded to wash his hands. The morons who built the office decided to install the taps that require all of your might when pressing down, in order for a two second blast of water to spray into the basin and back out over your trousers.

Danny bashes the tops of the taps and dodges the splashes whilst thrusting his palms beneath the jet. The hand drier is also a temperamental beast. Danny waves his upturned palms beneath it, trying to determine where the sensor that activates it lies. A three second blast is all he conjures. His hands retreat; he tries again. He gives up on the drier and wipes his palms on his trouser legs.

The door slammed into the wall as he left the gents and headed back to his desk. His stomach felt better but he’d have to wait for his head to clear. Now it was time to get the team a drink. Now it was time to get Emma a coffee.