The sweet reek of Europe

Last month my employers decreed that I had to work in close quarters with two Poles. From Poland.

Put simply, they HONE. Not only do they HONE, but they boggy me (to boggy – verb: act like a bogfly, hovering close by, clinging like a dingleberry to a grizzly-bear’s arse) to within an inch of my tolerance for the stench.

Unprepared for the Dubai climate, and certainly not friends of the Laundromat, these two special gecko-like things were each prone to whipping on the same collared work shirt and waistcoat 5 days a week.

These men, whose identities I will protect (although their roll-on didn’t), technically fall under my jurisdiction. This means their every move depends on what I tell them to do (in a strictly professional sense).

• I caan’t mek this wurrrk. Vy? [I have no idea. Why don’t you buy yourself some LifeBoy?]
• Please. Ve are hevink theez prrroblims. Vy? [Have a shower with some Jik and a power-hose and I will get back to you].

There is nothing like the stench of a ripe armpit accompanying an inane query.

Their emails are the best. Now that they are thankfully back in Poland (Bydgoszscz to be exact, where, hopefully, they will stay), the correspondence continues. I am grateful that email only engages the sense of sight. And what a sight it is:

• I don’t understand this. Please make it work.

Call me intolerant. Then try have one of them lean over you and highlight a coding error on your PC while their sodden armpit touches your shoulder.