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‘Er…’ Denis quavered. ‘No — looking for the London train,’ and headed for the opposite platform.
D.A. Prince
Denis, never a competent strap-hanger, lurched into the elaborately attired form of a stout, scowling woman who emitted a somewhat superfluous ‘Hmmph, manners of the young.’ He recoiled apologetically, only to deposit one brogue on the toes of a sandal-shod man wearing lovat-green corduroys and a shapeless jumper. ‘Sorry,’ Denis mumbled, ‘did I …?’ He opened the carriage door and stepped anxiously on to the platform. Now, where did she say to meet her? The waiting-room? That was ‘closed for refurbishments’, according to the semi-legible scrawl on a chalkboard. Perhaps the cafeteria? There was none. He sighed, watched the train pull out, puffing to its destination. I’ll just hang on, then, he told himself. Eat some of my packed lunch. Gradually it occurred to him that his hands held nothing: lunch and luggage were on their way to …to where, exactly?
Mike Morrison
Denis stepped from the train, struck by a double whammy of anxiety and exhilaration that could only be the jostle of a London crowd. Meaty-faced businessmen, sallow pram-pushers, fluorescent-jacketed railwaymen; all seemed attuned to the metropolitan buzz. Experimentally attempting a confident stride along the concourse, Denis held hard to his sense of mission, an abstract passion for teaching that had sustained him through four years at Swindon university. Now, he reflected, flinching from a bench-bound drunk’s hoarsely bawled expletives, it was time to put his theories into practice. As a gaggle of Muslim women pushed past him at the taxi rank, he wondered what he might have to teach this vibrant city. Only at the end of his journey — wallet gone from his corduroy jacket, absentmindedly forgotten luggage detonated as a suspect package by Paddington transport police — did he get an inkling of what it might teach him.
Adrian Fry
…for a third time. Eric lifted the window-blind and peered out. Only torch beams and uniforms were visible in the darkness. So — the police again. The search and interrogation at the port had been traumatic enough, and they’d stopped for two checks since. The man sitting opposite swore casually; Eric felt only fear and anxiety. Travelling abroad alone for the first time would test anyone’s confidence, but the constant official harassment made it an ordeal. On top of dealing with the strange currency, the festering, run-down look of everything, the chronic suspicion of foreigners and habitual rudeness of the people, you faced obsessive government paranoia and thought control. Eric tried to think of home, its security and civilised pleasures, but the police had entered the carriage and were aggressively questioning two young men in turbans. Soon, he knew, they would be rousting him. Already he was regretting coming to England.
G.M. Davis
Oh why was home Bognor Regis? How would Bev react to flights of ducks up the walls, cuckoo clocks, chair-arm antimacassars and mum’s hand-knitted cardies? Adjusting his reflected smile, Denis nervously hammered the button, but the train door remained firmly closed. Bev’s heavily ringed hand reached round him, and it slid smoothly open. Blast — no escape! How would he explain Bev, her tattoos, nose rings and spiky hair, to his parents, who were convinced his flatmate was a hearty rugby player? Worse, how to justify failing his second repeat of Media Studies and Oriental Philosophy? Mum would weep, Dad would pontificate. God! They might even suggest he get a job — no way would they fund a third gap year. He relived the interview with his tutor, who had clearly been moved; Denis had quivered with distress. Undoubtedly he was destined to cause anguish to everyone around him. Blast! Blast!
Shirley Curran
…and here he was, a virgin in a Virgin, trapped — not so much by the complicated instructions for locking the sliding arc of the lavatory door, which had a habit of opening of its own accord, as by an overwhelming sense of physical ineptitude in the face of so much technology, and by his uncertainty about his ticket’s validity. Was he, he wondered, still eligible for the Funfare Advance Saver? Had the train journey been suspended so that Lord Branson’s uniformed hostesses might search the carriages for all those ineligible (for whatever reason) for travel? His hand crept nervously towards UNLOCK. It might be, he hazarded, the door slowly sliding back, that he had already passed his destination. He had, as his mother had reminded him — when was it? —no sense of time. A man confronted him. ‘A hundred yards!’ he said. ‘Two hours and we’ve travelled a hundred yards!’
Bill Greenwell
No. 2420: New coinage
Vestibulitis: an affliction which causes departing guests to stand late at night by an open front door saying goodbye interminably. That is my attempt to invent a word describing something familiar which fills a need in the English language. You are invited to offer eight similar examples of neologisms with definitions. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2420’ by 24 November.
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