Nick

When I was 21 I lived in a squat in London. During that time I had a few roommates, not because I'm social but because an untenanted squat can quickly become somebody else's squat. So it makes sense to have roommates, especially those that are home when you aren't. 

One of the more memorable ones was Nick. He was a properly middle class Englishman, from some village outside of London. Nick worked at Harrods in London, one of London's posher tourist attractions. 

Now Nick, nothing to look at, really, a florid and spotty complexion, thinning blonde hair, but a ladies man after a sort. He had stories, like the time at Christmas Mass when he took the vicars daughter into the cemetery and squired her. Or another time when he went out with his manager at Harrods, got so drunk that when they went back to her place she gave him her bed and slept on the sofa. And he was so hammered that he tells me he remembers, very distinctly getting  up in the night, going to the sofa and pissing all over her. 

She never brought it up. Mind you, they never went on another date. 

Now Nick, when I met him, he'd worked at Harrods for a couple of years. He was sort of a Jack of All Departments, he'd get assigned to one department, maybe linen or furniture or Men's Clothes or ties, and often it wouldn't be that busy so they'd send him off to another department. And Nick would just come home. Back to Camden Town. As soon as they transferred him he was off, he'd grab his lunch and come home. 

The next day, if anyone asked (and it was rare that anyone ever did) he would simply put himself in the department opposite the inquisitor. It was that easy. "No, I was in furniture, but I got transferred to..." and that was the end of it.

Snow days, in London a half inch of snow meant you'd get double time if you made it into work, transit being out and all, he'd take it off and then the next day clock himself in for it, say he'd worked in another department.

It helped that Nick was pretty easy going, a very likeable sort of guy. And a spiffy dresser, Harrods didn't pay THAT good, but it gave him a discount on the higher end clothing. 

In the end it was his very likeability that proved his downfall. They ended up making him manager of the "Paul Smith" shop in Harrods, a small raise but a role that required him to visibly do his full eight hours a day.