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As a self-confessed weirdo, Rae loves nothing more than getting lost in a weird book, especially if it contains toilet or gallows humour. Having recently discovered Drew Gummerson, they are now on a mission to enlighten the literary world on his Godlike Genius.

Learn more about Rae here.

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Introducing Tracey Shankley

(Explicit Language)

I started with the Kit-Kat; it was meant for break anyway. I’d had no breakfast, so I was starving. Well, maybe not starving, but hungrier than usual. After the Kit-Kat I thought I’d eat one of my sandwiches. And one led to another, and before I knew it, I was sitting here on this stack of pallets, having scoffed my entire day’s calorie allowance in the space of fifteen minutes. Princess Plank, the Lost Wonder Of The Warehouse, staring through the grubby plastic flaps onto the yard.

It’s raining again. I should get the cardboard skip in before it gets soaked and can’t be recycled, but I’m weighed down by all those carbs. The others will be back any minute anyway; let them sort it.

As soon as I hear Fiona laughing her fucking fake head off at one of Marcus’s ‘ironies’, I slide off the pallets. Except I don’t quite slide off. Slide implies a smooth transition from seated to standing. What actually happens is my trousers snag on a nail, so I’m cartoonishly hooked on. It’s one of those situations where I know that brute force will only make matters worse and yet, I still pull harder instead of taking a step back.

I go to the office and show Damien. He can’t understand why I was sitting on the pallets in the first place.

“I was on my break,” I tell him.

“What’s wrong with the canteen?” he asks. Like not using the canteen is an act of transgression. Because it goes against the whole corporate bullshit principle of being a ‘team player’.

It wasn’t like this before him, when Pat was supervisor. Pat was nice, like your work Aunty. She let me on the shop floor; sometimes I even got to go on the mic to announce the day’s reductions. I used to imagine I was fronting my band and addressing a screaming mosh-pit of fans.

Damien says my voice is too aggressive. Shoppers don’t want offers shouted at them, apparently. I’d say he’s the aggressive one; the way he hands out verbal warnings. My first was for leaning on the cheese counter. My second was for talking to Simon (on the cheese counter). And my third was for forgetting my hairnet. I’m surprised I’ve never got one for breaking wind. Three more strikes and I’m out, hence I’m stuck in the warehouse where there’s ‘less distractions’. To be honest, it was getting harder and harder to hold the farts in with customers about. At least the warehouse is airier; you can pretty much blow off to your heart’s content.

“Have you got another pair here?” Damien asks, no doubt about to point out that the company can’t afford to hand out an endless supply of uniform to careless employees.

“In my locker,” I tell him. And he gives me five minutes to make myself decent. Five minutes I must pay back in my lunchtime. Well, it’s five minutes less time to think about having nothing to eat, I suppose.

As I’m walking to the locker room, I hear Fiona’s forced laugh echoing through the aisles. She won’t get a warning though. No doubt her laughter is part of the camaraderie that keeps up the spirits of the merry band of robots.

My locker is on the bottom row. When I bend down to open the door, the tear splits even further. I’m not sure even Qweenie’s needlework skills are up to fixing the gaping hole that my left arse cheek is now hanging out of. I remove my rucksack and peer into the fusty smelling depths of the metal storage box.

I imagine Damien opening it up for the unfortunate detective assigned the case of my mysterious death — in the event my death would be deemed worth the time and resources of the local police. What a sad story its contents would tell: stashes of pay slips crammed into greasy crisp packets; used hair nets stuck together with discarded chewing gum (from a time when I still had enough self-respect to attempt food avoidance during working hours); one sock, grey with dust; an empty deodorant can; a bumper Take A Break puzzle book; a pack of fifteen tog sanitary pads for those periods that should come with an 18 Blood & Gore warning; and right at the back, under the crippling boots I’m supposed to have on my feet, a pair of standard issue trousers, size fourteen.

Size fourteen. How am I meant to get into those? I give them a shake and hold them against my legs. No chance. But I can’t face going back to Damien and telling him. He’d ask what size I needed and get on the tannoy:

“ANY FAT FUCKER GOT A PAIR OF SIZE EIGHTEEN TROUSERS SPARE? TRACE HAS GONE AND BURST OUT OF HERS.”

That would give Fiona something to really laugh about. Actually, I’m not an eighteen. I just prefer a baggy fit; my need for comfort overrules my pride. I remove one of the laces from the boots, cram everything back in the locker and take the trousers to the toilets.

Here goes. Better empty my bladder first, that should make more room. Why did I eat all those sandwiches? I manage to hoist them over the top of my underwear, but no way will they do up. Just as I thought. That’s where the bootlace comes in: I use it to tie the sides of the waistband together by threading it through the belt loops. Luckily my sweatshirt is extra-large and suitably stretched to hide what the cat’s cradle of string cannot.

This must be what it feels like to have a gastric band; I’ll need one soon at this rate. Walking is difficult as the fabric has no give until the hundredth wash, and I won’t be able to bend for the rest of the shift. Or stretch up to the top racks. Well, they all slag me off for being lazy anyway; give a dog a bad name and all that.

When I get back, Damien is outside the office checking his watch. “That’s eight minutes of lunch you owe,” he tells me, before disappearing behind his computer screen.

“Dick. Cock. Knob. Prick. Twat.” I punctuate each push on the hand truck with an insult as I pump up a pallet of Helman’s Mayonnaise. If I can keep to this all day, I’ll be fine. And it burns calories.

I’m on my way to pick up a stack of dog food when Marcus pulls up in front of me on the truck; Fiona’s standing on the forks, twirling her stupid purple ponytail.

“Alright Trace?” he asks. “Wardrobe malfunction all sorted then?” Naturally, Fiona finds this hilarious.

“Yeah, I borrowed some trousers off your mum,” I tell him. “She said don’t be late home tonight ‘cos it’s Smiley Faces for tea.”

He switches off the engine. “What? I can’t believe you just said that.”

“You know his mum’s got Covid,” Fiona says.

Shit. I sort of did know that. I just forgot. “Sorry,” I say as sincerely as I can. “I forgot. Honestly. How is she?”

“Like you care,” Marcus sniffs.

“Yeah, don’t act all bothered now,” Fiona bleats. And they drive off, weaving in and out of the aisles, clearly devastated about his mum.

Covid. It’s barely even a thing anymore, is it? Lockdown One, now those were the days. Before Dad became an addition to the daily death toll. Before Pat got it —the long sort. God I miss feeling like a valuable member of society. There was something life-affirming about coming to work when the jobs of half the country were deemed ‘not essential’. For a while, I was counted among the national ‘heroes’ who kept the country fed and safe and helped keep it alive. For a while the customers looked at us differently. Just handing someone a sanitised basket or letting them in from the cold after they’d queued for forty-five minutes, earned genuine gratitude. Now it’s back to groans and insults if goods are out of stock.

I manage to make it to lunchtime with no more drama and decide to venture into the canteen so I can get a cup of soup from the machine. It won’t be the same without a butty to dunk in it, but at least it should appease my growling belly, and it’s free.

By the time I get to the front of the queue, the only thing left is Bovril. Which is unfortunate on two counts: one) I’m bound to burn the roof of my mouth because the molten stuff takes hours to cool; and two) if I do manage to drink any, the salt content will dry my mouth for the next three days. In the end, I sit nursing it until I’m tired of the sideways glances, nudges and whispers from Fiona and Marcus’ table. I leave it untouched and head for the toilets. I have exactly six minutes to untie the complex system of knots holding me into my size fourteens. Not a prayer. I’ll have to wait for afternoon break.

The second I’m back in the warehouse, Damien points to a spillage on aisle K. It looks like mayonnaise. “What do you call this?” he asks, tugging at my sleeve and leading me over.

I sniff the air above the mess. “Smells like mayonnaise,” I say.

“Yes, I know what it is,” he snaps. “Don’t get clever with me. Were you planning on just leaving it there? You know the policy with damages.”

“Yes. I do. Person that does the damage records it and cleans it up.” I look him square in the eyes.

“And you decided to just swan off for lunch and leave it for someone else to sort out?” he says.

“No.”

“Did you, or did you not take a pallet of mayo over to the shop floor before you went to dinner?”

“No,” I say. “I mean, I did shift some mayo, but it was ages before dinner. And I didn’t do that.” I point to the mess and spot Fiona and Marcus peering round a pallet of shampoo, revelling in my reprimand. I smirk at them. “Look, it’s easy enough to find out, isn’t it? Just check the CCTV.” I point to the nearest camera.

“As I’m sure you are well aware” — he shakes his head — “Greg is off this week.” Greg is the IT technician. He’s the only person who spends more time behind a computer screen than Damien.

“And he’s the only person who can check?” I ask. “What if something serious happens?”

I am accused of not taking the spillage of half a dozen jars of mayo seriously. I am reminded that I am dangerously close to using up all my strikes. I am reminded (as if I could forget) of this morning’s debacle. I am instructed to clean the mess and record it in the damages log. Under my name. I am reminded that the column marked ‘Tracey’ already has far more entries than any other member of staff. I wish I could fart at will, but my gut refuses to deliver the goods. Which is probably for the best. If there isn’t already a rule against it, he’d be sure to make one up.