Diary, more fragments of the lifestyle. Edit up, and read through three times only, then delete.
Maddy took well, and with an eager, an open-mind, to his new posting.
Sprawled in sunshine, the poppers upon his boilersuit were unbuttoned, and he massaged a nipple raised seductively above blades of our green English grass.
Whilst behind him, Macgregor, his latest prince management official, sat in the plastic throne of absolute power. A mug of coffee steamed in the one fist, and a long wrench quivered in the other tiny hand.
‘This is paradise, eh?’ said Macgregor, ‘with you and me here, the meadow, 30 000 poultry housed safely in sheds at our backsides,’ he said more slowly. ‘What could be better?’
‘Nothing could be better…’ said Maddy.
‘Y’know, sonny Jim,’ said Macgregor, ‘ you’ll spend more time with me here at Crotchend Farm then you’ll ever spend with your own wife,’ he said, and growled, stroked at Maddy’s fine hairs surrounding those attractive earlobes.
Maddy flinched, he gulped, and re-poppered the uniform. Why had he not worn a vest that morning? He rubbed at his forehead in some despair.
‘Would you like another cup of coffee, sir?’ said Maddy, and standing now, he shadow-boxed the gnats swirling in the evergreen atmosphere, ‘and then tell me about this tig-welding, and please do, boss,’ he said. ‘ Remember, my mind is like an empty vessel…I need to be filled.’
Could he ever stop himself from the innuendo that dribbled from his face like… …like rain? Each time with the burly, the elderly gentlemen, flirtation came naturally to his tribe, the curse of his tribe was to be ever blond and very beautiful, and now here in the late middle-age to be beautiful still, given alcoholism, or mental incapacity or glaucoma in the eye of the beholder. An entire range of conditions threatened his health and safety at the hands of poultry managers. And here, finally here, today employed at Macgregor’s poultry & knackers yard, here down the end of the lane, he almost encouraged his own desecration, ravishment, a pre-sentence before final damnation for the beautiful people. Yes, at forty-seven years old, his buggery day-long for eternity with the devil would be a reasonable and mutual alternative surely to this ‘life’ that he endured. He feared not death, yet religion had much to answer for, he concluded.
He boiled Macgregor’s kettle, and inspected the portacabin interior. He gurgled before the girly calendar, at Miss July with her bottom coated in sand particles. Then he stooped, patted Jill the arthritic lurcher on her hind quarter. She smiled into his palm.
‘Chase me round the field will he, eh, like a good doggy, eh?’ said Maddy.
Suddenly he heard the thump of a size six docker boot. It was Macgregor, and the wrench bulged from his waist pocket just like school days all those many years ago.
‘Take this,’ said Macgregor.
‘No,’ said Maddy.
‘Take this feather duster, and dust down the chicken sheds, then go home,’ he said.
‘Oh, thank you my lord,’ said Maddy, and skipped away to the moss-encrusted poultry houses.
The new life was not so bad. Since his transfer from the agri-factory in the wake of the scandal or accident he had acquired expertise in these, the one man operational facilities. He was in fact assistant manager upon a pair of the one man operational farms. Each day spent in rotation with either Macgregor or with Thub Debrute, the Dutchman over at Shadow’s Corner, no two days were the same, except Monday was just like Wednesday and was very like Friday.