had learned about earlobes and mouths to heathen Jewish penises.
In order to carry out Dr Lafayetteâs instructions, Benny had on his way home from school that afternoon got off the bus two stops early and visited the Plumbing and Bathroom Accessories department at Homebase.
As a teenager who regarded himself as passably cool, Benny felt distinctly uncomfortable among all the DIY-savvy dads. He wandered bewildered and awkward past shelves full of planer blades, spigot adapters and sanding discs and headed towards a huge brightly coloured âPlumbing and Bathroom Accessoriesâ sign suspended from the ceiling.
Twenty paces later he came to an area thickly colonised by bent tank connections. These immediately gave way to quiet ball valves (side fed), compression nuts and anti-syphon units. Still no penis girth washers or metal rings. Then, out of the blue, next to some mahogany loo brushholders, he spotted the shower curtain rings. Finally he came upon a row of shelves brimming over with packs of different-size washers. He picked up three packs and headed towards the checkout.
There were three tills open, each operated by a man. Shit. There was no chance of him making it through without the cashier, purely by way of matey, blokish conversation, asking him what he was planning to do with all these washers. On a scale of one to ten his plumbing knowledge was about minus fifteen. He didnât stand a hope in hell of bluffing his way through such an inquisition. Such was his panic, it didnât occur to him that all he needed to do was to shrug, admit he knew nothing about plumbing and say they were for his dad. As far as Benny was concerned, he only had two choices, of which just one was viable, since he wasnât about to explain the essential role of a washer in his mission to reclaim his foreskin. He took a ten-pound note from his back pocket, about five pounds more than the cost of the washers and shower curtain rings. If the cashier asked him any technical questions, he would simply chuck the money at him, pick up his packages and make a run for it.
Just as he was about to join the queue nearest to him and fall in behind a particularly capable-looking woman in baggy fawn cords who was paying for a tumble dryer venting kit and two cans of T-Cut, a fourth till was opened by a pretty Asian woman wearing a waist-length plait and an armful of gold bangles. Benny raised his eyes heavenwards and muttered his brief but heartfelt thanks to the God he didnât believe in.
He moved swiftly towards the Asian womanâs checkout, but the venting kit woman pushed in front of him and he was forced to wait while she hunted for her chequebook and filled out the cheque with the speed of a dyslexic tortoise. Then, after spending a full minute wrestling the venting kit into a Homebase brown paper bag, she realized she couldnât find her receipt. Another couple of minutes passed while she accused the cashier of failing to hand it to her. In the end she found it in her coat pocket. After mumbling a less than heartfelt apology, she stuck her nose in the air and strode off towards the automatic doors.
Benny smiled at the cashier, partly as a show of solidarity against the obnoxious venting kit woman and partly because he was confident that he had escaped any possibility of being subjected to a plumbing oral.
The woman smiled back at him and began passing the bubble packs over the electronic swipe.
âOooh, I see someoneâs got a leaky gland nut then,â she said with the confidence of a person who could plumb for Europe. âTheyâre buggers. I had one last week. How you gonna tackle it? Are you going to remove the capstan head before you have a go at the verdigris and scale or detach the spindle completely so that you expose the waste flange?â
Benny stood blinking at the woman.
âEr, yes, probably,â he blurted out as he slammed his ten quid on the counter, picked up the bubble packs,
In order to carry out Dr Lafayetteâs instructions, Benny had on his way home from school that afternoon got off the bus two stops early and visited the Plumbing and Bathroom Accessories department at Homebase.
As a teenager who regarded himself as passably cool, Benny felt distinctly uncomfortable among all the DIY-savvy dads. He wandered bewildered and awkward past shelves full of planer blades, spigot adapters and sanding discs and headed towards a huge brightly coloured âPlumbing and Bathroom Accessoriesâ sign suspended from the ceiling.
Twenty paces later he came to an area thickly colonised by bent tank connections. These immediately gave way to quiet ball valves (side fed), compression nuts and anti-syphon units. Still no penis girth washers or metal rings. Then, out of the blue, next to some mahogany loo brushholders, he spotted the shower curtain rings. Finally he came upon a row of shelves brimming over with packs of different-size washers. He picked up three packs and headed towards the checkout.
There were three tills open, each operated by a man. Shit. There was no chance of him making it through without the cashier, purely by way of matey, blokish conversation, asking him what he was planning to do with all these washers. On a scale of one to ten his plumbing knowledge was about minus fifteen. He didnât stand a hope in hell of bluffing his way through such an inquisition. Such was his panic, it didnât occur to him that all he needed to do was to shrug, admit he knew nothing about plumbing and say they were for his dad. As far as Benny was concerned, he only had two choices, of which just one was viable, since he wasnât about to explain the essential role of a washer in his mission to reclaim his foreskin. He took a ten-pound note from his back pocket, about five pounds more than the cost of the washers and shower curtain rings. If the cashier asked him any technical questions, he would simply chuck the money at him, pick up his packages and make a run for it.
Just as he was about to join the queue nearest to him and fall in behind a particularly capable-looking woman in baggy fawn cords who was paying for a tumble dryer venting kit and two cans of T-Cut, a fourth till was opened by a pretty Asian woman wearing a waist-length plait and an armful of gold bangles. Benny raised his eyes heavenwards and muttered his brief but heartfelt thanks to the God he didnât believe in.
He moved swiftly towards the Asian womanâs checkout, but the venting kit woman pushed in front of him and he was forced to wait while she hunted for her chequebook and filled out the cheque with the speed of a dyslexic tortoise. Then, after spending a full minute wrestling the venting kit into a Homebase brown paper bag, she realized she couldnât find her receipt. Another couple of minutes passed while she accused the cashier of failing to hand it to her. In the end she found it in her coat pocket. After mumbling a less than heartfelt apology, she stuck her nose in the air and strode off towards the automatic doors.
Benny smiled at the cashier, partly as a show of solidarity against the obnoxious venting kit woman and partly because he was confident that he had escaped any possibility of being subjected to a plumbing oral.
The woman smiled back at him and began passing the bubble packs over the electronic swipe.
âOooh, I see someoneâs got a leaky gland nut then,â she said with the confidence of a person who could plumb for Europe. âTheyâre buggers. I had one last week. How you gonna tackle it? Are you going to remove the capstan head before you have a go at the verdigris and scale or detach the spindle completely so that you expose the waste flange?â
Benny stood blinking at the woman.
âEr, yes, probably,â he blurted out as he slammed his ten quid on the counter, picked up the bubble packs,
Similar Books
