We have a deal, but, so you know, I’m never using that toilet’

November, Tuesday, 5pm, and I am racing home from work. I have chipped knuckles and a bursting bladder.

“An uncomfortable, daily occurrence,” I think, as I tear into the kitchen, bound upstairs and rip off my painting overalls in the bathroom, which is what you get when you strike a deal with the devil.

Friday, home, early October, and Paul, the owner of a furniture ‘emporium’ in town, is striking a bargain with me: in exchange for evaluating my furniture — a ten-minute service he’s just rendered with one eye on his fag and the other on his coffee — I am to sand-down, restore and paint four old mirrors for him.

Monday morning, and Paul is loading items for me to restore into the boot of my Nissan.

In goes a tall dressing-table.

In goes a bedside locker.

In go two mirrors.

I have not seen such a sorry load of grave disrepair in the back of my car since nine years ago, when I discovered Olan, our ancient cat, dead in its boot.

Afternoon, at home in the cabin — and I am working on the tall dressing table; planing off its factory-applied stain and varnish, so as to reveal the underlying wood. Tuesday morning, and I have removed the stain, varnish, and epidermis of my right hand.

I text Paul: “My knuckles are bleeding.

“Going to take longer than I thought.

“Haven’t even started sanding yet.”

He texts back: “FASTER.”

“I’m not sure bargain-striking is my strong point,” I think, wiping blood on my overalls.

Mid-October, Thursday, and the tall dressing table, bedside locker and mirrors have sold.

A new deal is being done in Paul’s shop.

“I’ll bring back stuff for you to restore from auction rooms,” he says.

“You do the stuff up and we split the profits fifty-fifty, when it sells.”

“I don’t mind restoring furniture,” I say, “but I’m not restoring auld shite.

“I don’t care about bleeding knuckles, but...”

“Go away with your bleeding knuckles,” he says.

“...But whatever I am to restore has to have a pleasing shape and form,” I say.

“Go away,” he says, “and don’t be annoying me with your shape and form.”

“I haven’t got room to do this kind of work at home,” I say.

“Do it up there,” he shrugs, pointing upstairs.

We go upstairs.

I know upstairs.

I am worried about upstairs, as a place of work. Then, we go downstairs.

I know downstairs.

I am worried about downstairs, as a place of work.

But I am not half so worried about upstairs or downstairs as I am about the ‘kitchen,’ and not a quarter so worried about the kitchen as I am about the toilet, which I refuse, point blank, to view close up.

I need to bring my A-game to this bargaining business.

“Buy some soap and get some cleaning fluids,” I say.

He stares at me balefully.

“Wash those hand-towels,” I continue.

“And you might have a deal.”

Friday morning.

I enter Paul’s premises, unsure as to whether or not we have a deal.

I’m bringing my A-game, just in case.

I discover him in the ‘kitchen’ where he raises a hand-towel and holds it in front of his face.

“Look,” he commands.

I am finding it is impossible not to; he is cutting quite a dash, what with the terry-cloth niqab and his two eyes glaring menacingly over the top of it.

He lowers his niqab.

“Freshly washed,” he says, glaring still.

“And the cleaning fluids?”

“Look in the TOILET,” he says.

“It is enough that I know they are there,” I say, holding fast to my position, far away from the toilet.

“Well?” he says, “what MORE do you want?”

“Soap,” I say, “and something to put it in.”

“You can put your stupid soap there,” he says, pointing at an old saucer, placed on the sink-top.

“We have a deal,” I say, producing my painting overalls, and climbing into them.

“But, just so you know, I am never using that toilet.”

‘I really brought my A-game there,’ I think, feeling chipper and heading up the stairs.

‘I am quite the negotiator.’

Friday afternoon, and I have stripped and stained a mirror. I descend the stairs, approaching the sink with filthy hands. Paul has made me a cup of tea, just how I like it: my A-game is a mighty thing.

“But where is the soap?” I say, holding my hands aloft. “There is a saucer here, but no soap.”

“Since when did I become your ******* bitch?” he says.