GingerBeard arrived at my desk this morning dressed head to toe in his fetching lycra cycling gear, asking if I'd seen the Health & Safety budgies about. "No" I muttered dismissively "not yet. By the way, you've got some black stuff all over your nose." Then he pointed out the blood on his chin (he's bearded and ginger, it wasn't immediately apparent) and his battered knuckles; he'd fallen off his bike.
It was early. I was unsympathetic. I may have laughed.
At 5pm I picked up his text. I'm in the hopsickle. It's not like Scrubs. Oh fuck. Cue apologetic phonecall to see if he was still in one piece. Broken finger, possibly broken wrist. Humble pie for tea, anyone?
It was early. I was unsympathetic. I may have laughed.
At 5pm I picked up his text. I'm in the hopsickle. It's not like Scrubs. Oh fuck. Cue apologetic phonecall to see if he was still in one piece. Broken finger, possibly broken wrist. Humble pie for tea, anyone?
