I did my fly up and rinsed my hands in the sink. My paper hat was skew-whiff in the mirror. I took it off, parted my hair, repositioned it, then for the fifteenth time checked I hadn’t got any sauce on my shirt. I shook my hands dry as I turned, and through my own interminable bad luck I found myself flicking water over James Dean’s groin.

“Shit, sorry man,” I murmured as I bustled past.

“Ah, it’s nothin’,” he shrugged, undoing his belt and slinking past me into a cubicle. Continue reading →