an adult and make a run for the toilet down in the village?
This kind of lunatic, unfortunately.
If I can just get this out of the way, I can cover it up with some more of the paper and tuck it away in one corner, get the joist fixed, and do away with the box later tonight when everyone else has left the building.
It’s the perfect crime.
Oh, good Lord above.
I shuffle over to the most appropriate box for the task and peer into it. A closer look at the paper inside reveals that it is in fact a lot of torn up newspaper from the 1960s, yellowed with age. Some of the pieces are large enough for me to still just about be able to decipher the story. The newspaper must have been a local rag, as there are stories about places in the area I recognise. Somebody grew a prize-winning marrow in the village, another person narrowly avoided being run over by a man in a Wolseley Hornet on the High Street, and scandal rocked the community when a ‘gentlemen’s club’ was discovered close by.
I start to wonder why anyone would want to run a knocking shop out here in the sticks, but am cut short by another roll from my bowels. I’m going to have to make my mind up right now over whether to put my disgusting plan into action or not.
Gritting my teeth and praying to whatever gods of home renovation might be listening, I unbuckle my jeans and perch myself over the box, lowering my backside gently down onto it.
Success! The thing takes my weight. Now to just relax and let nature take its course.
Nature does indeed take its course, very rapidly. I’ve always been a man blessed with a strong digestive system, unlike poor old Spider and his IBS.
Within moments I am finished and am just about to clean myself up with what remains of the letters page. All has gone well. I can now get back to work safe in the knowledge that—
I freeze. Voices are filtering up to me from below.
‘Is anything going on in the loft today?’ I hear someone ask. I have to think for a moment as to who it is, but then I remember – the voice belongs to Pete, the BBC cameraman. A chubby, balding fellow, who favours a black leather waistcoat and worn-out BBC T-shirt, Pete only transferred onto the Great Locations crew a few months ago, and is a man determined to prove his worth. To that end, he’s spent two days with us here already, poking his lens into every nook and cranny. I’m led to believe that Daley Farmhouse will be featured in four half-hour shows across the renovation, but Pete seems to be recording enough material to fill a thirty-six-hour miniseries.
‘Yep, Danny is up there doing the joists,’ I hear Fred reply. ‘Come to think of it, he should be done by now. Are you alright up there, captain?’ he hollers.
Fuck.
What do I do? What do I do? What do I bloody do ?
I elect to remain silent, hoping that both men will just go away and leave me be. My thighs grip the sides of the cardboard box as I try my hardest not to move a bloody muscle.
‘He must have finished up and come back down again,’ Fred says. ‘Here, Hayley?’ he calls downstairs.
I hear my sister’s faint reply.
‘Have you seen your brother? I thought he was doing the joists? Pete here could get a good shot of him at work!’
Oh yes, he can get a good shot of him at work, alright.
Hayley’s reply drifts up the stairs, but is too mumbled for me to hear properly.
‘He must have finished, I guess,’ Fred says to Pete.
‘Okay. Can I pop up there and get a shot of the new joists anyway? It might make a good cutaway.’
Say no, Fred. Say no, Fred. Say NO , Fred!
‘Sure! Take as long as you like!’
Aaaarrghh!
I hear Pete’s foot on the first rung of the ladder, and my heart rate shoots up. I have nowhere to hide. The loft is more or less empty, and the only thing big enough for me to hide behind is currently underneath me, and full of my effluence.
Pete continues to climb the ladder, and I see the camera lens poke into the loft.
In absolute terror I look
This kind of lunatic, unfortunately.
If I can just get this out of the way, I can cover it up with some more of the paper and tuck it away in one corner, get the joist fixed, and do away with the box later tonight when everyone else has left the building.
It’s the perfect crime.
Oh, good Lord above.
I shuffle over to the most appropriate box for the task and peer into it. A closer look at the paper inside reveals that it is in fact a lot of torn up newspaper from the 1960s, yellowed with age. Some of the pieces are large enough for me to still just about be able to decipher the story. The newspaper must have been a local rag, as there are stories about places in the area I recognise. Somebody grew a prize-winning marrow in the village, another person narrowly avoided being run over by a man in a Wolseley Hornet on the High Street, and scandal rocked the community when a ‘gentlemen’s club’ was discovered close by.
I start to wonder why anyone would want to run a knocking shop out here in the sticks, but am cut short by another roll from my bowels. I’m going to have to make my mind up right now over whether to put my disgusting plan into action or not.
Gritting my teeth and praying to whatever gods of home renovation might be listening, I unbuckle my jeans and perch myself over the box, lowering my backside gently down onto it.
Success! The thing takes my weight. Now to just relax and let nature take its course.
Nature does indeed take its course, very rapidly. I’ve always been a man blessed with a strong digestive system, unlike poor old Spider and his IBS.
Within moments I am finished and am just about to clean myself up with what remains of the letters page. All has gone well. I can now get back to work safe in the knowledge that—
I freeze. Voices are filtering up to me from below.
‘Is anything going on in the loft today?’ I hear someone ask. I have to think for a moment as to who it is, but then I remember – the voice belongs to Pete, the BBC cameraman. A chubby, balding fellow, who favours a black leather waistcoat and worn-out BBC T-shirt, Pete only transferred onto the Great Locations crew a few months ago, and is a man determined to prove his worth. To that end, he’s spent two days with us here already, poking his lens into every nook and cranny. I’m led to believe that Daley Farmhouse will be featured in four half-hour shows across the renovation, but Pete seems to be recording enough material to fill a thirty-six-hour miniseries.
‘Yep, Danny is up there doing the joists,’ I hear Fred reply. ‘Come to think of it, he should be done by now. Are you alright up there, captain?’ he hollers.
Fuck.
What do I do? What do I do? What do I bloody do ?
I elect to remain silent, hoping that both men will just go away and leave me be. My thighs grip the sides of the cardboard box as I try my hardest not to move a bloody muscle.
‘He must have finished up and come back down again,’ Fred says. ‘Here, Hayley?’ he calls downstairs.
I hear my sister’s faint reply.
‘Have you seen your brother? I thought he was doing the joists? Pete here could get a good shot of him at work!’
Oh yes, he can get a good shot of him at work, alright.
Hayley’s reply drifts up the stairs, but is too mumbled for me to hear properly.
‘He must have finished, I guess,’ Fred says to Pete.
‘Okay. Can I pop up there and get a shot of the new joists anyway? It might make a good cutaway.’
Say no, Fred. Say no, Fred. Say NO , Fred!
‘Sure! Take as long as you like!’
Aaaarrghh!
I hear Pete’s foot on the first rung of the ladder, and my heart rate shoots up. I have nowhere to hide. The loft is more or less empty, and the only thing big enough for me to hide behind is currently underneath me, and full of my effluence.
Pete continues to climb the ladder, and I see the camera lens poke into the loft.
In absolute terror I look
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