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December 24, 2011

Single page – short

Read this first! Done? Sweet, you rock, thank you.

Here’s something I wrote over twenty years ago. Single page. I’d do it differently now, but it captures how I wrote back then. I’ve left it as it was then (grammar and spelling mistakes included). I was more concerned with getting an idea down back then, and used a typewriter which didn’t allow for cut ‘n’ paste amends and spell checks.

Just over a year after I wrote this I was driving a bus and saw a kid knocked down, and it was close to how I imagined this scene.

10/9/1987

Check this out; he’s walking home from Pray To God Primary school and WHAM!

Thrown across the zebra’s back lands at the feet of some woman in a flowered dress. Bleeding; pee’s himeself (he’s five, stable home), the car that hit him, a blue Volvo, stops and out jumps this hedge-hog ha ha I mean lady in smart dress neat hair concerned face. She kneels beside the boy who’s started to tremble.

This tremble steadily increases to a shake, you know, like some epileptic breakdancer on speed, and the Volvo lady (whos bumber has a little splurge of flesh on it, liek a squirt of cheese from a tube) steps up and back, a horrible pukey feeling taking hold of her stomach and Waitrose lunch.

The small, rapidly assembled audience (you’ll see ’em one day too, when you feint in a public place, or get accused of shoplifting outside Marks & Spencers) stares down at Timothy, that being his name though none of the assembled know it.

While H.H Argent runs to call an ambulance Timothy continues his shake, and finally, with a tiny whimper that pulls at the heart strings of all but the most bastardly, he opens his eyes and smiles. A dog in the audience pads over to him and licks his face. All but Mrs Meure think its his, the Volvo lady even thinking for a second that she has soemone/thing to take him home instead of her, but she’s pretty fucked up so don’t worry about her. Anyway, Mrs Meure, whos dog it be, pulls it back and decides she ought to be going IG eeRGH at her little iggy haaaa flat counting pennies and rich tea biscuits while her dog suffers trapped in an old lady’s pantry. I would like to say, if I can just butt in and mess about with the stories delicate time, that the dog gets rescued by Timothy, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t even outlive Mrs Meure whose a big old lady, so fuck that and let’s go in search of a hapeir ending some where else; if you want to help the dog do something about it yourself and stop being such a sheep.

Where am I? Oh yeah, they go off and to everyone’s surprise Timothy stands up. Now you may not appreciate this from where you are, but you’ve got to understand that the Volvo lady was moving at quite a pace when she hit him, and as the ambulence men would tell you a bit later on if we were around to ask them, by all accounts he should have at least a couple of broken bones, and probably internal bleeding to top it off. Not to mention BIG purple bruises.

But he’s fine, except for a rip in his right trouser leg, through which I can tell you came that little splurt of flesh that gets washed off the bumper by mister Volvo later on this week, yup. So to everyones relief he toddles off to continue my story elsewhere, like nothing happened. You can probably guess what happened, ‘cos you wouldn’t be reading this if you didn’t have a couple of braincells between you. For those who haven’t guessed, well, you’re going to have to follow me through the following nightmare…

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