Thursday, 26 February 2015

Poolside

My stomach is rumbling more than is physically acceptable by the time I make it to what passes for a café bar, although it's little more than a stand, looking out over the pushy mothers forcing their babies to swim in the pool. It's not been a fun morning, what with my local MP hitting upon the masterstroke of holding a jobs fair in a leisure centre. Sweaty men in corporate suits pushed together as a mass of bodies dripping with desperacy to hire unskilled workers for their hideous mess of companies. The fact that I had to walk through the driving rain to get there doesn't help, either - the atmospheric pressure is giving me a headache.

I shouldn't be hungry, but I am. I'm standing at the café bar, and I'm waiting to see what little change I have can buy me.

The major problem with this situation is that there's nobody there. People are sitting on plastic chairs with a hideous array of beverages and comestible products, so evidently this is operational - unless there's been some sort of mass operation to smuggle food to a bar in a leisure centre - and yet there's nobody serving at the bar. I hover, uncertainly, for a while, listening to - to - hey, what exactly am I listening to?

Smack smack smack smack smack. Rhythmically.

"Uhm..."
My girlfriend comes over, curiously.
"Just come over here," I indicate, bringing her over to where I've been standing, "and listen..."

Smack smack smack smack smack.

"...and tell me if you can hear somebody wanking in the store room."

Because, by now, I'm absolutely sure this this is exactly the situation. The man operating the café bar has had enough of the atmospheric pressure, the miserable rain, the pushy mothers forcing their children to swim and the sweaty men in corporate suits. He has taken temporary leave of his post, gone to sit in the store room, and is now having a wank to relieve all the stress, as evidenced by the rhythmic smacking of skin on skin, which is the sound you make when you masturbate - or at least it's the sound I make when I do so.

It all comes together, like the final piece in a glorious jigsaw, and I am the one who has solved it.

"Sounds like a dripping tap," says Jillian, causing my entire existence to shatter into a million pieces and vanish into the ether along with all my hopes and dreams.
"Oh, yes..."

At which point the woman operating the café bar re-appears from the direction of the toilets. She gives me a warm smile and asks what I want. I meekly reply that a cup of tea would be fine, and start counting out silver coins from my wallet.

I'm most definitely not hungry any more.

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