INJURED: A WORK IN PROGRESS

The beginning of Vol.2 of the doctor/patient short stories I am writing. This one explores the drama surrounding a stubbed toe (the events are loosely based on real life injuries and my reactions to them)

I'M ILL. (short story)

POETRY AND LETTERS DATED 2008

My god I used to write some really precocious, smug shit when I was fifteen. Some of it so terrible I thought I'd share it so you can laugh/ cringe too. I like the bit about the Harry Potter DVD the best. 

Dear Mr Hendy,

I am writing to you concerning the London Underground system, if one can even call it a system, as this term would require it to actually function effectively.

Today, for example, I intended to travel from Oakwood to Finsbury Park using the Piccadilly line, and then continue my journey to Oxford Circus on the Victoria line- a simple enough journey. Unfortunately, soon after I had purchased my overpriced ticket, I discovered that the Victoria line was conveniently not in operation. May I remind you Sir that most people plan to use public transport between 7am and 11pm. I suggest that in future, construction work and other reasons for line closure could be completed during the other hours of the day, rather than during peak times on a Saturday.

I decided to ignore this mild hiccup in my journey, and instead continue on the Piccadilly line to Holborn. How, then, does a journey that is supposed to take 31 minutes exactly, take 1 hour fifteen minutes? And why, exactly, was I not told of these problems until I had purchased my ticket (which for your information cost me more than my dinner in Pizza Express the night before)? To be honest, I can accept that sometimes systems do fail, but I find that the Underground fails me more often than not, and Sir you to would be a little upset if you had experienced the depressing world ‘Replacement Bus Services’ as much as I have.

In the country’s capital, I find it quite embarrassing to have to explain to a tourist that no, it is not unusual for their train to be delayed without explanation, and yes, vital sections of a line are often closed during busy hours. After seeing their confused expressions, trying to work out an alternative route to their chosen destination by skilfully dodging the ‘suspended’ segments of this weak system, I often take pity and suggest a taxi may be more effective.

           

Thank you, London Transport, for taking fifteen pounds from me so that I could use your so called ‘service’. I felt less cheated and ripped off when I bought a ‘Harry Potter’ DVD from a street stall in Spain that turned out to be blank. 

Read: angry prick. 

This is two thousand and eight years since Jesus.

What are we counting to? Pages in a book, bytes of software, minutes on the clock, seconds of reaction time, pencils in a pot, images on a reel. Death? A date with fate, a dance with the endless night. Working life long, till the moment life decides you’re done with wreaking havoc on the world, making a mark, and that you’re better off in the crushing earth, with a neat little stone- nothing more to symbolise your entire existence.

Love, however, that’s the real tragedy. Unlike death, you may never experience it. 

CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE THIS. IT WENT ON FOR 3 PAGES. I MUST HAVE THOUGHT I WAS BEING CLEVER. I ACTUALLY MENTIONED JESUS AND FATE AND SYMBOLISM AND LOVE IN THE SAME 7 LINES. 

- luckily I documented this bullshit. 

SHH (sneaky read)

SO. I have been asked a few times to describe what my novel is about. But even I don't really know since it isn't finished/ never will be. So don't ask what it's about, but I can give you a few paragraphs to tease you.

Three months later, and here she was, sitting on the side of her bed, bare feet now stone cold on the floor, turning to face Sam, a man she now despised, wondering how she would get rid of him today.

He really did take up most of the bed, she rationalised, and his mental capacity had somehow decreased over time. He was now- she was sure of it- a moron. She stared at his ignorant, sleeping mass, taking up space in her bed and cringed. He was horrible.

---------------------

Tom hesitated a moment, about to say something, before smiling widely and discussing the choices of teas in the scruffy café they had chosen to meet in. The pastel green paint on the walls had started to peel around the skirting boards, revealing an equally sickening dirty yellow colour behind. A fly was toying with the flickering strip light and the smell of stale grease and soy sauce punctured the air. It was their favourite place to meet- the waitress was uninterested and there were rarely any other customers, save a token pensioner; who left them to talk uninterrupted.

Hannah pointed to the number on the menu, not sure if the waitress had even registered her presence let alone her order, as she seemed more concerned with picking crumbs from under her manicured nails.

“Let me tell you something, me and Violet are having a kid”

------------------------

Despite insisting a number of times over the next few hours that he was leaving soon, Tom had yet to leave, instead choosing to fall asleep somewhere near the front door. He was getting there. Hannah had showered and dressed, and as the morning progressed, she found herself picking over fewer and fewer bodies as she cleaned the place. Soon even Tom had made his way home, and Hannah was left alone, save for the pale boy still snoring in her bed.

“You! Hey….please wake up. Please?”

Sam refused to move, playing dead in spite of the violent pokes to his jaw and thumps to his back.

Eventually, after what had felt like an eternity to Hannah, the unwelcome guest grunted and rolled over. He looked up, eyes half closed, to see her looming over him.

“I’m up, I’m up. Calm down, dear.”

“Brilliant.” Hannah was irritated that this stranger lying in her bed was treating her like a bossy child, but didn’t want to let it show.

He had finally made it to a standing position.

“Right. I think I need to go home sometime soon Can I borrow some money for the bus, or am I going to have to walk?” he scratched his head.

“Don’t push your luck”

Random pieces from the beginning of it all....

YOU'RE GONNA CATCH A COLD

SO I started writing a novel.

An extensive, complex, destroying piece of writing that is probably very pretentious and not very good, but I am enjoying writing it, and I guess that's the point...