pie, chips and quilted toilet tissue (standard:humor, 1860 words)
Author: ade	Added: Oct 24 2002	Views/Reads: 3642/2272	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story of a teen who embarks on a trip from his dull home town to the big city of london. this is his journey.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

I start to read my magazine again.  Out of the corner of my eye I can
see that she is also reading it.  When this happens I try to put the 
other person out of my mind and carry on, but as hard as I try it's 
impossible and for no apparent reason I turn my head with speed and 
give her a stern look as if to say “Ha I've caught you!”  This 
accidental confrontation appears to break the ice and we start 
chatting.  What seems natural is to talk about the usual quite 
uninteresting nonsense that so many long bus trips have be filled with, 
that no one can be bothered to change for fear of having even a minute 
bit of enjoyment from the journey.  After a couple of hours of talking 
rubbish we arrive at Heathrow, about half the bus gets off. 

A man makes his way down the bus and sits himself down just behind us. 
He is scruffy looking.  He has long scraggly hair, very pale skin and 
individual hairs growing on his chin and through the bottom of his lip 
has a spike about half an inch long.  His clothes seem quite untidy and 
dusty.  He is wearing a black pair of army boots that look like they 
have fulfilled their use about five times over and are still holding 
themselves together.  He is wearing a pair of black faded jeans that 
appear to be a very snug fit.  On his upper half he is wearing a khaki 
army jacket that has a few rips on the arms and also looks like it is 
ready to be slung.  We start chatting to him and he appears quite 
interesting.  I find out that he is going to the same gig as I am.  I 
suppose it can't be considered that coincidental due to the large 
following of the band.  He is a very talkative person, which I don't 
mind because it helps me pass the time.  He is a photography student 
and has been on the course for three years.  He is also a life model; 
apparently they pay quite well for his time.  It turns out one of his 
best mates mum is in the class and has a picture of him nude above the 
fireplace.  Due to the fact that the journey was around the time of 
Halloween we start talking about dressing up.  He tells me about his 
occasional cross-dressing, and how he likes to get in touch with his 
feminine side.  Maybe he was trying to shock me and behind his chair 
was having a good laugh at me but he seemed genuine enough. 

We arrive at Victoria bus station and I could do with a cigarette.  The
bus journey has taken about three and a half hours.  I stretch my legs 
and loosen up whilst walking towards the exit.  The girl asks where the 
information centre is because she needs to meet her aunt there.  We 
show her where it is and say our goodbyes. 

The scruffy, cross-dressing, life model and I then head towards the tube
station cutting through the train station.  Not wanting to walk in 
silence I ask him about his photography course.  He goes into an in 
depth reply about how taking pictures aren't merely pointing a camera 
and pressing a button, there is a whole other side to it.  I don't 
really pay attention to him; I'm busy looking forward to the gig. 

The train station is absolutely packed.  I have a phone call off my
girlfriend, and we say goodbye and he goes on his way.  I talk to my 
girlfriend for a bit and go on my way again.  I go into the tube 
station, the maze of tunnels, stairs and platforms. 

I look for my line, the Hammersmith and City Line east that should go
direct to Upton Park.  The tube is packed and I have to stand, because 
I made the mistake of standing back to let someone off the train.  The 
familiar musky smell, the aching of limbs as the train jerks around 
corners forcing you to get closer to the lady who smells of hospitals 
and has an extreme amount of facial hair.  When we arrive at Baker 
Street a majority of the people get off, which gives me enough time to 
get to a seat before the other people rush on.  If you are sat down on 
the tube and you look at your reflexion in the opposite window it is 
like a magic mirror, you can make your face change shapes.  I was 
really bored when I noticed this.  When we get to Liverpool Street most 
people get off the train leaving me and two other men on the same 
carriage.  When we leave the station the two men start talking and get 
cans of special brew out of their plastic bags.  One of the men is an 
old Irish bloke that I can't really understand him; the other is what 
sounds like an East London Geezer in his twenties.  I listen to them 
converse over who is the hardest bloke at there work place and they 
tell each other stories how they overcame the odds and put eight blokes 
in hospital single handed, whom started a fight with them.  We get to 
Bow Road station and the Irish bloke jumps up. “My God I think I'm goin 
to pee me-self!”  Before he can get off the train the doors close.  He 
now feels it necessary to rap his legs around one of the poles and rub 
his groin against it to stop him wetting himself.  It seems to work and 
both men get off at Bromley by Bow. I am left alone again and go back 
to my magic mirror game, I know it sounds sad but this is how bored I 
am. 

I arrive at Upton Park and ring my sister Michelle.  “I can see you from
here, I'm in KFC.”  I get some food and we sit down and start chatting 
about my journey.  Whilst we are chatting we are interrupted by an 
Indian man asking Michelle if she is a Muslim, because she would make a 
good wife for his younger brother.  She declines his offer and we go. 


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