As promised, here's a bit of - wait for it - actual writing!
Wrote this in bed last night, edited for 10 minutes this afternoon, and here you go. Consequently, it's a little thin on plot, however, I wrote this more as a 'mood setter' rather than a story. It's about travelling on the London underground (hence the title), however, I'd also like to point out that the views of the narrator are not mine - I actually quite enjoy it in a weird masochistic kinda way.
Hope you all likey, please feel free to leave comment whether you found it good, bad, or ordinary. As all writers should, I value anyones view whatever it is.
Also - for those of you not living in the UK, Gregg's is a chain of shops selling unhealthy pastry, and a pasty is generally meat and potatoes wrapped in lard filled pastry.
I'll try do 'propper' writing on here more often, in the mean time, you can find the last one I wrote by following this link.
On the tube
Stood next to the door with the box at my feet, I hold onto the rail to steady myself against the random rocking of the carriage, my knuckles white against the red paint that identifies my train as being on the central line.
And I try not to think about the thousands of hands who’ve held this rail before me and how well do they clean these trains anyway?
The pretty girl opposite me in the Blonde hair with the bright pink lips and a dress that looks expensive says ‘I just want our family to move forward as one unit’ to the man at her side who looks annoyed.
Oxford circus and the doors open to the fishbowl world. Prams and bags, old ladies in big coats, foreign students in rucksacks.
The doors close and we all shuffle half an inch – a token gesture to our travelling companions, a hint of solidarity. All jerk forwards, and on our way to Tottenham court road. Above us Oxford street; half a mile of too small shops selling hats wearing union jacks, love London T-shirts, teapots shaped like old red telephone boxes, key chains, fridge magnets, postcards, watches, anything they can put a flag and a funny slogan on whilst 120 watts of sub woofer play a thump thump thump that lasts until forever, spilling out onto the pavement with their dodgy merchandise, polluting the world with their words.
The station arrives and the doors open. A small child with ginger hair in the seat next to where I’m standing says to his mother ‘they’ve done arm transplants from dead people in China’.
Freaks and geeks mind the gap and we all move back half an inch. A fat man stands next to me, sausage fingers wrapped around a Gregg’s pasty. He’s sweating grease, his matted hair stuck down to his head as he chomps away at the carbs in his hand. I wonder for a moment what he’d look like if you sliced him open, if he’d look like a Gregg’s pasty all the way through, just pastry and fat, potatoes and not much meat, all grey. Moments like these are why they invented the ipod. Plug yourself into another world, where you can’t hear the screaming babies or the bad grammar, where the birds sing a pretty song. Loose your thoughts.
And I try not to think of grey hairs, getting fat, getting old, lung cancer and myocardial infarction.
But I don’t have an ipod, just the box at my feet.
On the porch
20 hours ago