He threw the dirty green sponge into his big black bin bag and stepped away from the men’s toilets. He’d been working as a toilet cleaner in Booths for seven years now. Seven fucking years mopping up piss and scraping up shit for a living. No wonder he couldn’t find a woman. He was hardly a catch. He wheeled his cleaning apparatus away from the cubicle and did a quick check of the hand driers. Automatic one on the right wasn’t working, again. Someone had drawn on a cock in red marker pen too. Shit—when Jeff was younger, he’d be the kind of guy to do jokey shit like that. Now he had to clean it up, he took back everything he did. What a little shite he was. The smell of stale urine and cleaning foam lingered in his nostrils, invaded his taste buds, the same way a fry-up might fill the nostrils of a normal person on a Saturday morning. Nope—every day of Jeff’s life, nothing but bogs to clean. And they were always in an awful state. No matter how many signs you put up telling people to lift the seats, to not flush paper towels down the loo, to hold their fucking flapping cocks while they pissed, they just never did.
