What’s your flava?

I am coming to the end of my tether with Simon, the Craig David looky-likey on my team. He turned up 20 minutes late and would not take off the woolly swimming cap he insists on wearing to stop the headset from spoiling his extensions.

Bernard was fuming: “What are you going to do about him! He has been 40 minutes in idle this morning.”

I took him to the only private area available, a stock cupboard in the corner, and got ready to bollock him.

I noticed that there were tears in his eyes. I knew that I needed to switch to EMPATHY: “What’s wrong.”

“Nothing sir.” He said.

“Don’t call me sir. What’s the matter?”

It turns out that he had been for a tattoo the night before and was still sore. Some bloke he knew offered to do it to settle a “debt”. He removed his shirt to show me. It was awful: pussy and septic. I could just about make out a man wearing a vest, his arms stretched out, his hand ending with long talons.

I read out the words at the bottom: “Windowlene”

“No, Sir: Wolverine.”

“That’s not what it says here.”

“Bastard!”