Clean Air Act

A familiar fragrance wafted my way – damp dog, rancid radish with a hint of Brut 33 – it could only mean one thing: Mike ‘Manic Miner’ Clark was approaching. He held out his grubby hands and handed me a dog-eared envelope. “What’s this?” I asked.

“Its my notice. I’m packing the job in.” He said with a slight smirk.

I was a little taken a back. “Why do you want to leave?” I gasped another lungful of air so I didn’t have to breathe through my nose.

“Well. I didn’t expect to spend so much time on the phones.”

I resisted the temptation to reply – what did you expect, it is a bleedin’ CALL centre – it’s not like the clues aren’t obvious. “Really.” I said calmly. “Have you got another job to go to?”

“I’m going making up baskets at Body Shop in the run up to Christmas.” He said.

I turned over the envelope. It was encrusted with little flecks of green and grey.

S.W.A.L.B.

Sealed with a loving bogey.