Shit Sleeves

That’s my name, don’t wear it out! Shit Sleeves. That’s what my wife calls me. I first met my wife when she worked in an off-licence. Her father owned the shop. It was my dog she really liked. Banjo. I hadn’t had him long and he was a cute puppy so she always made a fuss of him and, as a side-effect, spoke to me and I fell in love with her. I made excuses to go to the shop as often as I could, so I could see her.

One day I bought a new coat. I’d bought it to impress her, it was an American army style parka. I wore it when I took Banjo to the shop. On the way Banjo did what dogs do. He did a load of pisses and a poo. He did the poo on the green across from the shop and people were possibly watching so I picked it up. It was windy and the nappy sacks were blowing but eventually I got it, the poo, and deposited it in the bin provided for dog poo.

I then went to the shop, hooking Banjo onto the post in front. The counter was near the front door and I hoped she would see the dog but if she did that day I don’t know. I went in and she was behind the counter and I pretended to look at things in the shop before I took some Windowlene, which I didn’t need, to her. I was feeling good and confident in my new jacket and as I put a five-pound note on the counter to pay, a poo fell out from my sleeve and rolled around on the paper they use to wrap bottles.

The poo was the size of a large conker.

“Woah, would you look at that!” I announced and laughed as I could do nothing else. “Forget the change!” I shouted, rather too loudly, and I left the shop. My legs weren’t moving easily and the more I tried to walk normally, the more stilted and unnatural my gait became. I eventually got home with Banjo but it was a long time before I went into that shop again. I guess I was worried that the girl would forever think of me as Shit Sleeves. So much for that. I’m going to have an affair.