I walk in out of the rain and shake myself like a dog in the porch before striding into the office flexing my hand and grimacing in pain and stretching my fingers.
Budden bounces up out of BCal Bay looking for mischief; 'Sven, my little Handling Agent monkey! How're things? Have you hurt your delicate little hand?'
I wince and tell him I think I've twisted my finger closing a 737 door (heavy and awkward).
By this stage a few others have circled around, thinking they can take the Mickey out if the New Boy.
'Would you like me to rub it better?'
Quick as a flash the hand is thrust out as I remind him he's the First-Aider on shift, which gets a laugh from the onlookers, but not the one he was expecting.
Sourly he grips my hand and starts inspecting it as I tell him I think the knuckle on my first finger has locked or frozen in place.
'Well, what do you bloody suggest I do? Give it a tug?'
'Would you, Bob? I think that might help'.
You could tell by the look on his face that he was miffed at missing out on a opportunity to take the piss, so he gave my finger a sharp tug.
A sound like a mosquito flying into a thunderstorm and an acrid stench filled the office and the the office emptied with cries of disgust and horror leaving Budden and myself, him staring at me, a tear rolling down his chubby face, wrinkled now against the malodorous stink .
'You're the most disgusting man I've ever met'.
'Gee, thanks Bob'.
'No, I really hate you'.
'You can let go of my finger now, Bob'.
September 2016
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