I empty my trolley and return it to the storeroom. I go outside to the designated smoking area. It is around the side of the building, hidden away behind the auxiliary shopping trolleys. There are two designated ashtrays fixed to the walls, streaked with soot and reeking of sodden tobacco. Cigarette ends litter the area, gathering in undesignated twos and threes by the kerbstones. The corner of the building smells like it has a twenty-a-day habit.
A breeze ruffles my hair, drying the sweat on my back. The mottled sky is the colour of dishwater, low and oppressive.
I light a cigarette, my first of the day. The acrid smoke fills my mouth and lungs. The taste reminds me of bright autumn mornings, of the last year of school, walking along the cycle path past glistening cobwebs strung between the cotoneasters. The fumes relax me, like they did in the darkened car park of the village hall, hanging around because we were too young to go to the pub and that was all there was to do: hang around and talk and smoke, and drink, when I could afford it.
The wind is cooling, and the cigarette calms my nerves.
I know what I must do: I will finish my break, go to the Turtle’s office and quit. There will be no fuss or ceremony, I will just walk in and hand in my notice, all professional and business-like. I won’t let her talk me out of it, either by patting me on the head or whipping me. I will resist. I know what I have to do.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the silence of the designated smoking area.
A breeze ruffles my hair, drying the sweat on my back. The mottled sky is the colour of dishwater, low and oppressive.
I light a cigarette, my first of the day. The acrid smoke fills my mouth and lungs. The taste reminds me of bright autumn mornings, of the last year of school, walking along the cycle path past glistening cobwebs strung between the cotoneasters. The fumes relax me, like they did in the darkened car park of the village hall, hanging around because we were too young to go to the pub and that was all there was to do: hang around and talk and smoke, and drink, when I could afford it.
The wind is cooling, and the cigarette calms my nerves.
I know what I must do: I will finish my break, go to the Turtle’s office and quit. There will be no fuss or ceremony, I will just walk in and hand in my notice, all professional and business-like. I won’t let her talk me out of it, either by patting me on the head or whipping me. I will resist. I know what I have to do.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the silence of the designated smoking area.
Hello, my name is Jack Sparrow. I'm a 50 year old self-employed Pirate from the Caribbean.
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