Live and let die

Last weekend I travelled to Watchet for some sea fishing. During the weekend, and after a particularly heavy ‘tongue loosening’ drinking spree one of my colleagues stated that he had seen a job for a ‘Spy’ advertised in the back of one of the London papers. Intrigued, I soon realised that this wasn’t really for me when he confirmed that there was no mention of an ejector seat company car nor naked silhouetted dancing girls prior to being sent on any jobs! Just to underline the mind numbingly ordinariness of the work one of the other guys chipped in that someone they knew had their offices used by the spooks a couple of years ago as an observation point. Undercover spy guys dressed as BT Engineers had delivered a special video camera disguised as a photocopier which sat next to the window opposite some drug dealing flats. As far as I was concerned that was the final straw because I really know nothing about telecommunications, or look good in a hard hat.


All that said though, this week I had a rather ambiguous job sheet directing me to a public toilet in Newport Pagnell, which was so suitably vague that it instructed me to make contact with a lady from the council prior to travel. It turned out that this little inconvenience was necessary because it was now shut down due to the lack of passing trade! The lady from the council met me next to the cemetery and just beyond the allotments in Tickford Street, which was once home to the legendary Aston Martin, where this unfortunate prime toileting stop off point for visiting dignities now lay unloved and covered in ivy, graffiti and the telephone numbers of girls of easy virtue!

Despite my Council contact having the key and the perseverance of a nail breaking, Battling tops "it's in the wrist action" ladyboy, the lock remained intact until brute force and ignorance ruled the day and I gained access. I instructed the Council official to return to her car some way up the road for the 30 minutes it would take me to de-energise the supply and make safe which she did whilst I got my steps from the van. As I leaned the steps up against the internal wall under the meter the still very efficient spring loaded door returned to its resting place SHUT! As incredibly as it seems, no amount of swearing would open the BASTARD door and I had to plot some kind of other escape. Whilst I love and admire the good people of the United Kingdom for their charity, inventiveness and general goodwill, I will never know why anyone would want to break in to a defunct public toilet and give the council the reason to seal up all the windows?

Luckily, someone had already confounded me and prised open a small one foot square window at the side, which meant that should I have the dexterity of a Russian gymnast or immediate anorexia I would be able to escape. Somewhere between the two I managed to slip through, and over the lovely ragged rugged windowsill leaving only the best bits of my back in place for all to see.