This Monday was bad. It was going to reverse the feelgood of the weekend, which created a need for the next weekend. Week in. Week out. Without fail. The wheel of life his father had called it.

"Do I look like a feckin' hamster?" he thought, smiling to himself. He knew he was in for some hard work. Sean was late. Probably up to his oxsters in Guinness last night.

So he stood and looked at the forty sacks of potatoes that needed moving to the storeroom at the back of the kitchen, and did the maths. Forty sacks of frying potatoes, each weighing fifty kilos. Two thousand kilos. Two feckin' tons of spuds. At a minute there and a minute back, the next hour or so was booked.

"Jaysus if I'm not a hamster I'm a feckin' pack horse!"

He smiled as he lifted the first sack. Stacked as they were, the first three rows would be easy enough. A simple reach and grab, straight unto the shoulder and then it was down the alley, past the waste bins.

"Jaysus the bins are a bit ripe today," he thought, as his face creased and wrinkled. Then up three steps, past the pile of cigarette butts, into the narrow corridor, straight ahead with a tight sharp right at the end into the storeroom. The first four sacks had to be carefully placed, straight backed with knees bent, lest they split and sent their tuberous contents rolling across the floor in a cascade of dirt and curses. His movements would be the same way for the fortieth outside as it was for the first inside. As he saw it, the movement of the spuds with the straight back start, to the knee bend placement and its reversal, was a bit like a Mobius band of energy. The meeting point and equilibrium at twenty sacks will be in about forty minutes.

Forty, he thought as he straightened and turned for the thirty-ninth. Forty. He had heard on the radio this morning that UB40 were splitting up. No big deal. Never rated them as a band. They got their name from the form the government used to give you when you signed on for unemployment benefit. It's called job seekers allowance now.

Forty, oh aye the top 40 singles chart. I can't remember the last time I bothered listening to that! I do remember back when I used to make tape mixes though, fingers and ears poised for the start of a track, hoping the DJ wouldn't talk over the intro.

It's forty years since the assassination of Martin Luther King, who was thirty-nine. Which leads neatly to The 39 Steps. Obviously. The man shook his head and laughed as the sack slid unto his shoulder.

He walked back towards the bins his face wrinkling in anticipation of the smell. Smiling through the smell, he thought of Sean washing the bins out tomorrow once they were emptied. Serve him right for being late.

Photo copyright Moochin Photoman. View it on Flickr.