More toilet trauma

I had a genuine first at work on Thursday night, never happened before, and I pray to all that is good that it doesn't happen again.

It almost had me boaking my lunch.....

(boaking by the way is a charming Norther Irish word for being sick)

There was a young man eating on his own. Seemed pleasant enough, quiet, polite and a bit jokey. There were no immediate warning signs that he was in fact a sausage short of a good dinner. It wasn't very busy but he seemed to fade into the background all the same, I'm not saying we forgot about him, but maybe he could have got a little more love.

His plate was cleared and he declined the sweet menu and anything else. He seemed content enough so I left him where he was, like I say it wasn't busy so we didn't need his table back in a hurry. I plodded about, serving the few tables I had a with my usual charm and wit, which was of course pretty much wasted on the really rather dull Thursday night crowd. But whatever.

As I cleared another table I happened to catch yer man out of the corner of my eye, he was slumped over his table.

Good grief, what's this!

Dead?

The food looked fine!

I dropped of the plates first, I judged it bad etiquette to try and wake a dead man with plates in your hand. Eddie, who was sniffing about the manager as he was trying to get home early, was press ganged into coming with me to check on our dead punter. Turns out he was just having a wee snooze.

Let me tell you something nobody gets to have wee snoozes on my shift, nobody! So he was politely, but firmly, told that there would be no more snoozing, zeding, napping or any form of sleeping or he would be out on his ear. He apologised and said he would be leaving shortly. No problem thought I. A couple of minutes later I popped back to check on him and guess what? Yup, he was back in dream world again. The bastard. Up with this I would not put! Eddie was called for again, I'm not good in potentially physical situations, not with my pretty face.

We roused sleeping beauty's brother and informed him of his right to get the fuck outta here! He started blabbering making no coherent sense what so ever. Jesus! I offered to get him a taxi, he said something about the weather in Madrid. Say what? I wasn't in the mood for all this. Time to go chummy, and up he got.

But as we watched him stumble away I noticed his wet jeans.

BALLS!

The dirty, sleepy, gibbering fucker had pished himself!

For fucks sake!

And that is a definite first for me. I have had sleeper before but never a pisher. Eddie, the legend, cleaned it up. I had tables that needed distracted, obviously....

**************

I am paid an hourly rate, which in theory, means I get paid for the hours I work. I say in theory because sometimes whacky things happen. There's quite a bit of rounding going on, mainly in a downwards direction. I might bring a lawyer and accountant to work next week when this months wages finally make the bank. But for once I feel a bit sorry for the management at work. Next Friday, as you know, is the 29th of February. Bonus day! It only comes once every four years. And if you get paid monthly, as the management do, you wont get paid for this extra day. And I assume it is the same for most if not all salaried employees. Crikey working a day for free whilst the tills are over flowing with cash, not sure I could do it. I shared this startling little fact with a couple of the clipboard warriors on Thursday night. There was a definite whiff of revolution in the air as I walked away.....

I wasn't shit stirring...
honest