Another excerpt from a book about life in an English office.
As Wood finished his cigarette he noticed a programmer called Phil Bracewell coming towards him. Bracewell had scruffy, brown hair, a wispy moustache, and glasses that magnified the hazel pupils of his eyes.
“Eh Phil, I hope you’re not coming over to fart near me.”
“I have been told to go outside when I am about to break wind, as it’s no longer socially acceptable to do it inside the office.”
“It never has been, Phil, at least not in my book. It smells like rotting shellfish after you’ve polluted the air.”
“That’s just the way my innards work,” said Bracewell picking a bogey from his nose and flicking it away in an absent-minded manner, “and besides it’s not going to kill anyone unlike your filthy smoking habit, which will be a drain on the health service in a few years’ time.”
“I smoke on my own, whereas you seem to think your farts should be shared by everyone.”
“It’s a natural thing for anyone to do, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Bracewell, “anyway, I can feel another coming on, so I will go and stand over there by that bush.”
“Good idea, and make sure you’re downwind of the office, we don’t want it seeping in to the office when no one is expecting it. You must contribute to global warming more than most people with all that methane you pump into the atmosphere.”
Bracewell gave a weak smile, thrust his hands into his coat pockets, and headed away from Wood.
Julian Worker Fiction Writing 