Keeping the Machine Oiled

“Buzzzz” went the doorbell.
“I’ve just come to check for radon gas” said a turquoise-coloured man with Geiger counter type equipment, rubber boots and log book.
“By all means” I said. “Please join the club.”
“Club?”
“Yes, we now have almost the entire rainbow of overalls present on the unit. I’m expecting orange to arrive any minute.”
“Yes” he rejoined “That’ll be Chris with his new door locks.”
“He’s due to give a presentation actually” the man added.
“A presentation!” I gasped. “What’s the subject?”
“Er….I don’t know really…. But that’s not the point is it?”
“True, true.”

I found myself imagining the place where all these workmen mysteriously went. Presumably they disappeared down a big hole in the back of the unit, like Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit, and emerged into some surreal world, where fantasies cleverly demonstrated the truth.
No doubt there would be subdued lighting and brass incense burners, a Wurlitzer jukebox playing ‘Part of the Union’; a snooker table and fully stocked bar, a giant plasma T.V. screen showing ‘King Dong’; attractive ladies wandering about in fishnet tights and guinea pig outfits, and the men themselves sprawled on sofas drinking frothing ale from pewter tankards and wearing ten-gallon cowboy hats. A clapper board would probably appear, and a man with an American accent would shout:
“Action!”
Instantly, the workmen and their friends would assume advanced positions of the Karma Sutra, rhythmically changing partners to the sound of a dinner gong. A full gamut of gasps, grunts and wails would then ensue, before the Bacchanalian tableau collapsed in orgasmic splendour around the centre of the room, allowing our Locality Manager to stumble from the dust with a tiny acorn in his hand. The director would boom:
“That’s a wrap!”
Well, these people must be somewhere, doing something…..

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