Dirty Old Men

I don't like one of my work colleagues. He has a bad habit of believing that all middle-aged women like to be cuddled when greeted. It's not the fact that he has rather offensive body odour, or that he has small white flecks of spit permanently fixed to the corners of his mouth. No, it's not even his habit of wriggling his pinky finger when he touches a female hand during the exchange of monies at the food counter. It's definitely the cuddling of women he hardly knows. He often takes the business cards left in the large glass bowl on the counter from those trying to provide a business service. He adds the details to that dreadful Facebook that passes itself off as a social network, then calls these strangers his friends. I am tempted to jab his bulbous eyes with a fish slice the next time he insists on cuddling a member of the public. I often wish that a rather large irate husband would enter the restaurant and pile drive a huge knuckle sandwich into his flabby belly to teach him a lesson.

I can only hope.