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Non-Fiction
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| A Storm Within | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||
| 23 November 2006 | ||||||||
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Desperation is as desperation does. Although I despised working in the financial services industry for twenty years, nest of vipers that it is, I did meet some exceptional characters. One example was Keith, he was a forty something middle executive with one of the big four banks, and a singularly amusing character. He had been a Scotland international rugby player and had those characteristic cauliflower ears and broken nose. He had the personality of an oversized schoolboy – always full of mischief and fun. Keith’s job was to visit corporate business clients of the bank, a role which had him racking up the miles in his company BMW. He was, and probably still is very good at it; totally personable, likeable, sociable, the antithesis of myself I suppose, though we did get on very well. Anyway, one Friday Keith was asked to take an impromptu trip to a customer in Ayrshire, Kilmarnock I think it was. He had been “out on the sauce” on the Thursday night, the full routine, ending in the donner kebab and taxi, suffice it to say that he was a little under the weather as he motored down the long road from Edinburgh that rainy morning. About halfway to his destination, Keith was overtaken by the munchies and the thirst that follows over indulgence. He therefore stopped at a filling station and stocked up on all the Ginster pasties, scotch eggs and iron bru that he could carry in his huge, rugby player hands. He scoffed the lot in the garage forecourt before heading off again. Rather inevitably, he soon felt that there were things going on in his intestines which were beyond his control. He described to me the very reluctant and tentative releases of bowel gas (all windows down), the acid indigestion, the increasing frequency of the contractions, which foretold the imminent birth of something truly ghastly. In a fit of panic and desperation Keith drove on, praying to god for the blessed appearance of a garage, café, anywhere he could “drop the mother load” and gain the relief he so desperately needed. By now he was touching cloth (his words) and near to doing something he hadn’t done for many, many years. Suddenly, his prayers were answered, but not a minute too soon. He skidded into the shingle drive of the small hotel, performed a handbrake turn which would shame "The Sweeney", jumped out of the stinking BMW and ran towards the door. Knocking an old couple practically off their feet in the foyer, he scanned desperately for a loo. There were no signs on the doors! He opened one, nope a bedroom, another, nope a cupboard, damn – the kitchen no good – then BINGO a toilet. His arse cheeks had hardly touched the seat when his insides exploded. He swears he yelled out loudly in blessed relief. The initial pebble-dashing gave way to an enormous outburst of wind, which must have been heard in the reception. Then he sat for a few minutes, gasping, sweating and thanking God. He had defiled the room as well as the actual bowl. He looked around for a toilet brush or any other implement with which to cover his tracks, which extended slightly beyond the porcelain, but there was no such equipment. Checking his watch, he realised he was running very late now, so he quickly and haphazardly washed his hands and made a bee-line for the exit. On reaching the front door, the old couple he had passed on the way in we’re standing transfixed, mouths wide open in astonishment, looking towards the direction he had run five minutes earlier. Keith looked around and the penny dropped; there was no reception desk, no signs on the door, the toilet had but one bowl, he saw no staff or other guests! “Who the hell are you?” The elderly man demanded, angrily. “What do you think you are doing? This is a private dwelling house!” Keith pushed past the shocked couple once more and headed for the car, jumped in and sped off towards his appointment, leaving the astonished couple to discover the legacy of his over indulgence and desperation. Oli (23/11/06)
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