So Blood Flu panic is heating up down here since that maybe-possibly-probably-not diagnosis in Cairns. You can’t walk down a high street without getting half a dozen bottles of steri-spray thrown at you, and Jezza’s raving ’cause we just ordered a truck-load of the stuff and now every quack, god-squad and insurance peddler is giving it away outside the door.
I didn’t feel like taking the lunchtime walk of shame to sit on my own in the caf today. I mostly eat in the DJ booth these days, which is a little claustrophobic but does mean I don’t even have to pass Coll, though that doesn’t stop him shouting me his latest plots and schemes, or his analysis on how liberal immigration policies will kill us all. At least he doesn’t seem to expect a response.
I don’t know why he confides in me, except that I’m a captive audience given the room arrangement. He doesn’t tell me everything, though. I know where the security cameras are, and I’ve seen images on his monitors from places they aren’t. I reckon the creepy fucker spends as much time watching the staff as the stock. I take a careful sweep of this room at the start of the day, I tell ya. I’d dob him in, only I reckon Jezza’s in on it. It would explain his rumoured ability to hear a shelf-stacker whisper “union” from two floors away.
I got to get out of here before I lose sight of the last road sign back to sanity.