Tales from the smoking hut

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another short (and true) anecdote from my day's as a milkman. Hopefully it will make someone, somewhere smile.I've changed the names to protect the innocent.

Submitted: December 03, 2012

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Submitted: December 03, 2012



Tales from the smoking hut

The four men stood huddled inside the smoking shelter as was customary for them at this time of day.

Steve spoke first:

“Poxy day…. It’s supposed to rain all week.”

Jack nodded in agreement and enjoyed another free dose of secondary nicotine. Giving up smoking had been easier than giving up his smoker friends. At least this way he was saving money.

“I need to get some new trainers.” He said “These leak and I’ve started developing skin between my toes.”

Martin joined in the conversation:

“ And you waddle when you walk you fat git. Gonna start calling you Daffy.”

Smiles and banter were a good way to start the day.

“It’s better than looking like a mammoth’s testicle you bald headed, ginger dwarf.”

More giggles.

“How can I be bald and ginger you mug?”

“Your misses told me, dipshit.”

More laughter.

Steve joined in the exchange with some words of advice:

“I went to a car boot sale on Sunday. There was a guy there selling cheap trainers. You should go and get some Jack. Save you a few quid and besides, they don’t last five minutes in this poxy job so it’s not worth getting good ones.”

Martin saw his opportunity:

“I don’t go to car boot sales anymore. The last time I went, I parked my car the wrong way round. I went for a walk and when I got back someone had taken my engine.”

More laughter, except from Andy.

He had been carefully digesting the information imparted. He tended not to become too involved in the banter as he didn’t really get most of it. He was never really sure if it was serious or just humour that delicately skimmed the top of his head as it passed over.

Since the unfortunate incident with the sanitary towel, he had developed a reputation for being a bit slow.

In his defence he’d had no idea that the lady who had plastered it to his head, in order to quell the blood flow from the cut that he had received, had in fact been in the early stages of dementia.

Nor did he have any way of knowing that the fifty or so customers that he had spoken to while adorned in the unfortunate item, had been too surprised or embarrassed to mention it to him.

It wasn’t until he had returned to the depot and Steve had nonchalantly asked: “Andy….Why have you got a sanitary towel on your head?” that the full impact of the day’s debacle had actually dawned on him.

To that end Andy had learned to keep quiet and only intercede when he was absolutely sure that he was safe from ridicule.

This was one such occasion. He had studied the input. He was convinced that his next statement was valid. He had pictured Martin parking his car. He reasoned that it had probably overheated, making it necessary for him to open the bonnet. He recalled that Martin had been coming to work on his bike that week.

All these variables had added credence.

This time he was right and above ridicule. A sensible response:

“So Martin….” He boldly announced, pausing for full impact.

“How did you get home?”

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