I dread my last call on a Thursday. Grumpy Mr Tibbs is always rude and borderline offensive.
And I’m late no matter what I do.
“Watch broken, again,” he’ll grunt, shuffling away from the door. “Or can’t you lot tell the time?”
I’ll apologise, smiling. No point in telling him I’m not allocated enough time to do my job or to get from one client to another.
Today, he’s different.
He’s been crying and when I ask what’s wrong he bursts into tears and falls into my arms.
We’re not supposed to hug clients.
If he doesn’t tell, I won’t.
…
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Bruce Arbuckle (felt.buzz)
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