Chapter 6: Dirty, smelly socks, and stinky, female feet: they're all in a day's work, for Community servant David Smith – in the Sock Room.
I, eighteen-year-old David Smith of Canford, south London, was starting my second week of earning my Unemployment Benefit welfare payments, by performing my assigned duties as a community servant.
With no job to go to after finishing my education at Secondary School, and my statutory six-month entitlement to dole money having expired, under the Authoritarian Female Party's work motivation programme, I had been duly assigned to my Placement: hand-washing the females of Canford's dirty socks, in the town's Sock Room.
In their office, comfortably seated on their castor-wheeled computer chairs, and with me obediently and compliantly kneeling at their feet, Community Service Officers Karen and Linda were using my conveniently positioned shoulders as their coffee-break footrest.
And, why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't they, make some personal use of me? At least, that was their way of thinking.
After all, in their being in the employ and thereby members of the 'femocratic' Authoritarian Female Party government, and me being a community servant under their supervision, with their AFP-backed authority they had what amounted to total power and control over me.
I say 'footrest'. But there was rather more to it, than that.
And I say 'coffee-break'. But my two supervisors hadn't actually started work yet – if you could call what they now did for a living, 'work'. From what I could see, they spent most of their time on their office computers, logged into social media websites and other suchlike whiling-away-the-time entertainments.
But I, had started work ... because these were my – Community servant David 007 – first duties of the day: being my two blonde, twenty-year-old female supervisors' footrest while they drank the pre-work coffee I made for them.
These would be my first duties of the day, CSOs Karen and Linda had told me: To go into their kitchenette and make two mugs of coffee (milk and two sugars in both), and then go to my knees before them and obediently and compliantly provide my shoulders for footrests.
At first, I had stubbornly resisted CSOs Karen and Linda's stated intentions to subjugate me so diabolically.
But my two supervisors would not be defied – not by an unemployed, earning-his-dole-money community servant in their charge.
And so, to bend me to their will, and secure my future unresisting obedience and compliance, they had attained some persuasive ... leverage over me.
CSOs Karen and Linda's heinously conceived threat – and this, with the wholehearted approval of Canford's principal administrator, the local Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman: If I refused to submit obediently and compliantly to their chosen methods of chastisement and control, they would have my nineteen-year-old brother John removed from his well-paid job as a chef aboard one of the North Sea oil rigs, and assign him to a Placement as a community servant.
Well, I couldn't let that happen. It would devastate our parents, to see both of their sons serving as community servants, under Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's 'female-friendly' Authoritarian Female Party government.
So my first duty of the day – again, this with not just the official but also the wholehearted personal approval of the most powerful woman in the local government: to go to my knees, facing my two computer chair seated, coffee-drinking supervisors while they used my shoulders as their footrest. And, to demonstrate convincingly my capitulation to both their authority and their will, with their ankles comfortably crossed on 'their' shoulder, compliantly facilitate CSOs Karen and Linda's taking turns to cup the undersides of the toes of their CSOs uniform yellow cotton ankle-socked feet to my nose, for me to submissively sniff.
And all that I could do, as I listened to my two supervisors' inane, usually boyfriend-related prattling as they drank the pre-work coffee I'd made for them, was to stare resentfully but resignedly at their attractive concave-bob framed faces, as they did so.
And this would go on, with the frequent and infuriating crossing and recrossing of their shoulder-perched ankles, until CSOs Karen and Linda finished their pre-work coffee, and finally ordered me to get to work in the Sock Room.
* * *
Upon entering the Sock Room, I was profoundly dismayed to see that my workload was still building up rapidly. But I wasn't surprised.
Despite my best efforts last week, my workload had continued to get more and more out of hand as the week progressed; the backlog inexorably building as the dirty socks were tossed into their colour-coded receptacles relentlessly.
Opened just last Monday, the females of Canford were certainly not slow in availing themselves of the novel enjoyments of their amazing new facility. Not all of the town's females, of course, but enough of those 'civic-minded' females, to ensure that I was increasingly overwhelmed by their presentations of dirty, stinky socks.
Beholding the soul-crushing scene in front of me, I couldn't summon so much as an ounce of motivation. So incredibly depressing, were the thoughts of such ludicrous laundering. How utterly futile, were my endless endeavours!
But of course, that was very much the point. It was the AFP's (Prime Minister Caroline Flynt's brainchild) method of motivating unemployed community servants like me out of their assigned Placements, and into gainful (and tax-paying!) employment.
Four of the eight white-painted wheelie bins' lids were hanging open, their noisome contents overflowing. Overflowing, with the countless pairs of dirty white socks that the girls and women of Canford had brought to the Sock Room for me to hand-wash, steam-iron, and return to the floor-to-ceiling sock shelves.
Two of the four other, non-white colour-coded wheelie bins were getting full, too: the black-painted wheelie bin, and the navy-blue-painted wheelie bin. These wheelie bins were the receptacles for the dirty uniform socks of the schoolgirls of Canford's two Girls Schools: St Esmeralda's and St Kate's, respectively. It was patently and painfully obvious already that just one wheelie bin per school was insufficient; it was a wholly unrealistic provision. At least two more wheelie bins, I thought, would have to be allocated to each of the two Girls' Schools.
It was same, near-critical situation, I saw, with the other two non-white colour-coded wheelie bins, which were almost full too: the multicoloured-painted wheelie bin, for non-white socks of various colours; and the yellow-painted wheelie bin, which was the receptacle for the town's CSOs' uniform yellow thin cotton ankle socks. It was glaringly apparent that a couple of additional wheelie bins were soon going to be needed for the CSOs' dirty socks, too.
Right, I thought. First things first: I'd better get those four overflowing white-painted wheelie bins of dirty white socks down to the industrial-sized open-topped hopper, marked: 'White Socks Only!'. I had my work cut out, and—
"Good morning, Community servant David double-oh-seven," said my neighbour from hell, Mrs Norma Newlove, from where she was relaxing on her usual black leather recliner that overlooked my lower-level work area ... and my heart sank to the floor.
One of who my two supervisors were already laughingly referring to as 'The Sock Room Girls' – the so-called 'regulars', who had hung out at the Sock Room nearly every day last week as if it was their new social club – Norma Newlove was in the company of five other, similarly reclining females.
Two of Norma's companions, I was ... acquainted with: Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb. Attractive in their way, I suppose, in their mid-twenties they were about the same age as Norma, and they were two of Norma's cronies. In cahoots with Norma those two had really fixed me, last week. The other three, nothing-better-to-do-with-their-time females, were new faces.
What the ...?
Last week there had only been four black leather recliners on the 'Spectators' Gallery' overlooking my lower-level work area: two to either side of the six wooden steps leading down into it. But now there were six recliners: three to either side of the steps.
And there was still enough room for another four recliners.
Would that be my first welcoming sight, next Monday, upon CSOs Karen and Linda releasing me from my first-duties-of-the-day, pre-work coffee-making and footrest service? I thought dismally. Not six, but ten nothing-better-to-do-with-their-time reclining sock-changing females staring down at me, as I hand-washed the females of Canford's dirty socks?
Eying her here-for-the-day leather sports bag full of the usual food and drink refreshments, I said to Norma Newlove disgustedly, "Don't tell me, Norma: Mum's got the kids?"
"I'll have none of your lip – Community servant David double-oh-seven!" yelled Norma Newlove angrily. "Any more of your insolence, and I'll have you caned! You are forgetting your place again – Community servant David double-oh-seven! Just one word to your supervisors from me, and you'll soon be feeling the cut of their canes on your bare arse again! Right here, again ..." she said, pointing down at her white-socked feet, just below the lower bar of the Sock Room's two-barred safety rail, "... at the foot of my recliner!"
Why couldn't I keep my fool mouth shut?
Why couldn't I keep it zipped, when I knew perfectly well that my neighbour from hell Norma Newlove was taking full advantage of the fantastic benefits of the Authoritarian Female Party's new 'female-friendly' legislations, as they pertained to UK male citizens, in general, and to community servants, in particular? And, when I also knew perfectly well, that thanks to her new female-citizen powers she was really getting into the swing of being able to make life hell for me!
I was going to have to keep a much tighter reign on my resentment, I thought to myself, in self-admonishment. I was going to have to learn to bite my tongue – to prevent more serious harm being done to me.
Shaken, and humiliated to my core, I said," I'm ... I'm very sorry ... Mrs Newlove."
This brought a delighted gale of giggles from the three new faces, and titters of amusement from Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb.
Norma Newlove smiled too: for her, this was yet another satisfying little victory she'd chalked up against me. And the way things were going, Norma would soon be needing a new stick of chalk.
My face, feeling as red as the proverbial beetroot, I ascended the 'gauntlet' of the six wooden steps to get the first of the four overflowing white-painted wheelie bins of dirty white socks on the upper level of the Sock Room.
*
I used the automatic hoist to raise and deposit, one after the other, the unsavoury contents of the four fullest white-painted wheelie bins into the industrial-sized open-topped hopper – signed: 'White Socks Only!'. I then slid the bolt of the hopper's furnace-door-like access, and I filled a large, white plastic laundry basket with some big handfuls of the town's females' dirty white socks.
Now, and in full view of the Sock Room spectators, I sat on my wooden folding chair. And, before putting them into the hot-and-soapy-water tank for their two-hour minimum pre-wash soak, barehanded (because wearing gloves made the work much too fiddly), adhering to my strict instructions I began pulling the dirty white socks inside out – the better to ensure that I washed all of the build-up of grime, foot sweat and dead skin out of them.
And I was extra careful to try and make sure that I turned every last one of the dirty socks inside out ...
For each and every dirty sock that my supervisors discovered I'd failed to turn inside out before hand-washing – or that I'd not pulled the right way again after laundering, so as to save sock-changing females from that pesky inconvenience – before locking up the Sock Room for the day, in the presence of whomsoever sock-changing females, CSOs Karen and Linda would duly administer the requisite number of chastising cane strokes to my bare bottom.
And I was yet to be successful ... From Monday to Friday last week, not once had I escaped the enthusiastic administering of CSOs Karen and Linda's AFP-issue whippy bamboo canes for one or other of those particular transgressions.
On Friday, I'd thought I'd actually done it; I'd believed I was home and dry – until, at the absolute last minute, my neighbour from hell, Norma Newlove herself, had 'discovered' on the sock shelves a CSO uniform yellow cotton ankle sock that wasn't pulled the right way after laundering, and she had reported my 'failure' to CSOs Karen and Linda ...
It was the most dreadful, ghastly, humiliating work, pulling inside out all of those hundreds – literally hundreds and hundreds! – of dirty, stinky socks, as worn (often, for multiple days, and sometimes walked around in shoeless), and then duly discarded unto my care, by the female sock-changing residents of Canford.
If only I'd knuckled down to learning at school! I bemoaned, in another cuff of self-admonishment.
