Sign Here With Your Nose

The carpet man has arrived. It’s been a long time coming. Nearly a year, in fact. A year of grinding, saving, talking myself out of holidays, shoes, dignity — all for this moment. New carpets. A fresh start disguised as flooring. I open the door and invite him in. The man standing there is not the carpet man. Not the one from the shop floor — the handsome bastard with the pornstar moustache and the glinting tape measure, who flirted with the skirting boards and called me “love” like it meant something. No. This is the other one. The one they keep in the back. Old. Doddery. Slightly damp around the edges, like forgotten laundry. He shuffles in and exhales like I’ve asked him to help me move a body. Without ceremony, he unrolls the carpet he believes I chose. It’s… criminal. Holey. Patterned. Loud in the way migraines are loud. The sort of carpet that smells like it knows about mould. Worse — far worse — than the ones I spent an entire day ripping out, bleeding slightly, cursing under my breath, sweating earnestly, convincing myself this would all be worth it. “This isn’t the carpet I chose,” I say. A touch sharp. “This is exactly the carpet you chose,” he replies, tapping a clipboard. “It says here in the notes.” I shake my head. Slowly. As though the right speed might undo reality. “No,” I say, carefully. “I wouldn’t have chosen this… style.” He squints at the paper, then stabs a finger at it as if it's scripture. “It says here — quote unquote — ‘I want the cheapest carpet you’ve got in store. Doesn’t matter if it’s poor quality.’ Those were your exact words.” I stare at my handwriting. Treacherous. Familiar. Mine. “I wouldn’t have said that,” I insist. “I need a quality carpet. Neutral. Something that doesn’t shout when you walk on it. Not this hideous patterned shit.” He vibrates his lips like a toddler denied pudding. “Well. It’s this carpet or no carpet. And that’s my final offer.” Offer? I feel my soul try to leave through my ears. Who does this absolute douchebag think he is? I’ve been looking forward to this. I deserve this. And now — “Fine,” I snap. “I’ll go with another company.” Ooosh. That did not land well. He rolls the carpet back up with slow, punitive care. “I’ll be seeing myself out.” “And good day to you,” I add, brightly, weaponised politeness deployed at full strength. The scene rolls away like an unwanted carpet — heavy, awkward, impossible to dispose of. Surprise, surprise. I’m back at the depot. Of course I am. This place stalks me. Lurks in my periphery. Always ready to drag me back by the lanyard. Rachel’s here, though. Rachel always makes things better. My rosy-cheeked angel, my badly behaved beacon of light, the sort of person who makes even this place feel briefly survivable. She’s got no filter, no volume control, and a world-class potty mouth. She swears with confidence and alarming accuracy — every fuck intentional, every shit perfectly placed. It’s not vulgarity so much as fluency. That is the charm. Rachel doesn’t sand herself down for anyone — a walking middle finger with impeccable timing. “Ready for another day in hell?” I ask. “I’m off to Hawaii tomorrow, mate” she grins. “Gonna be boozing it up in full hula.” Well. Doesn't that sound absolutely marvelous. Anywhere that isn’t here. Things have sailed up shit creek since Christmas. Like Christmas never left — just mutated. Post-Christmas sales have birthed a mountain of parcels that seems to multiply when we’re not looking. Out on delivery, I’ve got a signed-for. Hate those little bastards. No ditching it behind a plant-pot and making a run for it. Royal Mail protocol. Signature required. Of course, nobody's home. My hands ache just thinking about writing out another sodding red card, so I try the back gate. Climb it like a budget criminal. The French doors are open. “At last,” I think. ”Somebodys actually in.” I stop dead. A kid stares at me through the glass. No older than five. I pass him the PDA. “Can I get a signature, please?” He glares at me like I've asked him to sign away his future. “That’s quite offensive,” he says, in a very mature tone, “considering I don’t have any hands.” He waves two stumps in the air. My cheeks glow a brighter shade of shameful idiot. “I’m… so, so sorry.” A beat. “…but do you think you could sign with your nose?” He seems bewildered by my request. Then shrugs and complies. The signature clearly looks forged. Criminal, even. A hate crime against handwriting. But I don't care. No red card. As I scramble back over the gate, my phone pings. Rachel. Already in Hawaii. She’s made a music video. Not a clip. A full production. Full hula. Backing dancers. Choreography. Commitment. A beach party in full swing, bodies moving in synchronised joy, everyone apparently available, energised, and thriving. In one scene, Rachel floats past on a cloud — an actual, billowing cloud — hula skirt swishing, hair blowing as if personally styled by the wind gods themselves. She’s drinking Malibu out of a coconut, complete with straw umbrella, lifting it to the camera in a lazy, victorious salute. She sings — loudly, joyously, not quite in tune — about how she’s loving life, how she’s never been happier, how she never wants this moment to end. The chorus repeats. And repeats. And repeats again. It’s… astonishing. Cinematic. Deeply unnecessary. Also flawless. I don’t even know what to reply. There’s no appropriate emoji for this level of triumph. So I put my phone back in my pocket and say nothing. The scene shimmies away in a violent shake of a hip. I’m with the boys. I’ve actually managed to pry them from their screens. A family day out. Rare. Sacred. Borderline mythical. As we drive, Alex points at a mansion. “Do you remember when we used to live there.” I laugh. I can’t help it. “In a mansion? Yeah, right.” “No,” he says, offended by my tone. “We used to live there.” He reels off memories — rooms, staircases, secret hiding spots. None of it belongs to me. I don’t remember any of it. Perhaps I lived there in another version of myself. One with a higher-paying job and better carpets. We stop at a quaint coffee shop in the arse end of middle of nowhere-on-tone. I can already smell baked goods whispering, Amanda, eat me. Inside, my stomach drops. Behind the counter stands the carpet man. Not Dishy Mustache. The other one. Perfect. “Fancy seeing you hear?” I joke. It lands on the counter between us, limp and lifeless. “Sandwiches?” he asks. “I was thinking cakes,” I say, gesturing to a mountain of them. We sit by a window and wait. He brings sandwiches. Unbuttered. White. Soulless. Triangle. “Sandwiches?” the boys groan in unison. “This is rubbish,” Maxi says. “Can we go home now?” My heart sinks. This was meant to be a nice family activity. A chance to reconnect as a family again, like old times. Like better times. I return to the counter. “We ordered cakes.” I say. “You ordered cheap carpet,” he replies. “And you didn’t even pay for the sandwiches.” I want to scream. I want to wrap him up in floral carpet and send him rolling down a hill. Instead, I smile meekly and ask to pay by card. He hands me the card reader. I look down. I have no hands. Just stumps. Blunt, unfinished, like something essential has been quietly removed. The room tilts. Sound collapses into silence. All I hear is my heart — pounding, relentless, echoing in the hollow of my chest. My hands — my hands — are gone. The old man smiles. “If you can just sign with your nose,” he says. And I realise — not with panic, but with a sickening familiarity — I already have. I’ve been doing it all along.