Simon Riley

I’ve torn strips off blokes for less and slept fine after. That’s what’s got me wound up. On paper, it’s a nothing mistake. A corner cut. A step skipped because it didn’t feel urgent. I’ve seen that sort of thing turn ugly when the timing’s wrong, so yeah — it needs correcting. Simple. Clean. In and out. Except it isn’t. I keep my voice low, clipped, proper professional. Lay out the facts. What could’ve gone wrong. What will go wrong if habits like that stick. I sound like myself — calm, controlled, no nonsense. But under it all there’s this other thought, gnawin’ at the back of my skull like a bad tooth; You’re not built for this kind of bollocks. I hate that thought the second it surfaces. This job doesn’t give a toss about what anyone’s built for. It breaks everyone the same if