This might be a bit wrong....
...but I used to work for a Government Department in Old Trafford, Manchester (Portcullis House) with a woman who we shall, for the sake of argument, call Karen Bryan. Because that was her name. Anyway, she was physically disabled but **allegedly** used it as an excuse to get out of doing anything at all resembling work. There was nothing wrong with her brain, she was **allegedly** just idle and had a chip on her shoulder. Amusingly, though, when she got tipsy, she would generally fall over and approximate that Tiswas favourite "The dying fly" trying to get back up again. As she was unsteady on her feet, yet incredibly vain (and short), she would wear high heels to and from the office then change into some amazingly shite golden "Aladdin" slippers. Which stank. And I hated.

I digress.

Slightly.

One day, she had spent all of her normal working afternoon on the phone to her mum for the regular 1 hour let's not do any ferking work whatsoever skiveathon and fantasising about her step-dad, who's name escapes me. I was called in to see the boss and told I would be working to assist Karen in clearing her backlog of work. Somewhat fuming, and a little tipsy myself from 5 pints of Banks best bitter (surely an oxymoron?) that lunchtime, I waited till she had shuffled crab-like (for she could not walk in a straight line) before hoiking her aladdin slippers into the nearest wastebin. Not realising that the cleaners would indeed empty them into the skip at the back.

The next morning, search parties were combing the building for the missing footwear as my conscience got the better of me and I went round to the rear of the building......to see the dustbin wagon pulling off the carpark (driving off, not tossing off, that is). Guilt turned to sickness as the sobbing woman looked at me and all I could do was......profess to feeling unwell and wagged it for three days.

Double bonus.
(mashman99, Wed 4 May 2005, 13:36, Reply)