3.30 am

It's 3.30 am. We've suffered a minor technical problem and the crew are busy going through the possible causes, liaising between control cabins and conducting investigations. Even with expansive checks and many decades of experience, the complexity of the plant can throw up previously encountered problems.



Digler rises to his feet purposefully, and flicks the tanoy microphone to untangle the curly cable. In light of our recent conversation I'm a little puzzled as to what he's going to say. Twisting slightly he places the mic' between the cheeks of his arse and lets out a loud slow wet fart. He squeezes the last of the noxious gas's from his bowl, it's forced wet squeaks echoing around the hard surfaces of the production facility. He then returns to more serious issue in hand with a self satisfied grin.



"How old are you?" I say in mock chastisement.



We smile at each other, the big, wide, knowing smile.