After a couple of minutes straining I hear the toilet door open and the click of heels on the lino floor. I listen as the first stall door is pushed back on its hinges. Click, click, click. Another door opens. This process is repeated until the heels stand outside my door.
“I know you’re in there Dedman,” he says in a sleazy American drawl.
“Look Hershey, I’m having a shit,” I reply. “Can I have some peace, please.” At that moment my bowel chooses to release a large quantity of gas accompanied by a sound that sounds like my arse is being torn in half. If I could high five my digestive system I’d do it right here and now.
“I’ll be waiting for you in your office,” Hershey says when the fart echo dies. The heels retreat out of the toilet block.
I take another couple of minutes to finish up (I’m in no hurry), flush, step out of the stall and wash my hands. I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m already looking stressed and knackered and it’s not even 9.30am.
Then a thought occurs to me and I return to the stall. I piss briefly on my hand (there’s not a lot of fluid left after all that activity) and shake the excess off so I’m damp but not dripping. I leave the toilet, forcing down the urge to wash my soiled hand, to face Hershey.