We shared a bottle of white Bordeaux – very dry and perfectly chilled - as we sat side by side, with me giving her a detailed account of my first day at The National & American Biscuit Company. It had all started so promisingly, I told her, as I swept shit from the floor of the warehouse and enjoyed coffee with Craig and his gang.
I refilled our glasses, and then I continued, telling Jill about Smallcock's annoying habit of calling me the New Boy. We both agreed, as I temporarily abandoned my lover, to get a second bottle of wine from the fridge, that Smallcock was a cunt. This was one of the great things about Jill. I could freely use the word cunt, fuck and bastard, and she wouldn't be annoyed. She even referred to some of her own colleagues as fucking cunts and mother fuckers. It made me chuckle to hear a woman use such phrases, although our foul-mouthed rants were always confined to our home, and never aired in public. Fat Mary, she thought, was obviously a frustrated woman, who probaly lived all alone, and hadn't fucked for years. I agreed with Jill's assessment of the bitch from the cookie production line, and told Jill that a man would have to be seriously inebriated to even think about fucking that.
Extract taken from "4 Years in London" - an ebook for kindle by Luke Ryman.