Not Safe For Work.

"Fuck, shit, bugger and damn!" spat Brendon, before he remembered where he was. Then he uttered a muted "aw, crap," as the realisation dawned.

He poked his head gingerly above the cubicle wall to see if anyone had heard, then ducked quickly back down when he saw half the office staring in his direction.

"Aw, crap," he repeated dejectedly. He sat down heavily, buried his face in his hands and gave a resigned sigh. Hearing heavy footsteps behind him, he took a deep breath, sat up and spun the chair around.

"Sorry, Mr. Peebles," he said weakly, looking up at the manager, "It's Tourette's Syndrome, you see. Usually it's kept well under control with drugs - I've never had an outburst at work before - but I must have forgotten a dose yesterday. I took my pills this morning, but the drugs take a while to build up and wear off, you see. Now's about the time that they'd be hitting their minimum if I forgot last night. If you don't mind, I'll take lunch early - build up my blood sugar - that usually helps."

He tried to look Mr. Peebles in the eye, wearing an expression he hoped was somewhere between sincere apology, utter embarrassment and pitiable mental illness. Peebles just stood there in his drab suit and garish tie, looking back at him. Brendon's heart beat faster and he began to sweat, as millions of years of evolution told him to run, or fight. He realised he was holding his breath. How do you start breathing again in a situation like this without gasping?

"Bullshit," said Peebles firmly.

'Oh God, here it comes,' thought Brendon.

"But it's bloody good bullshit, and that's what we pay you for, so I suppose we shouldn't complain. Go on, get out of here. Have your early lunch and settle down. And try to keep your... Tourette's... to yourself in future."

Brendon let out his lungful of air. "Thank you, sir," he said, and grabbing his jacket hurried toward the door before Peebles could change his mind.