You Will Pay

I live in a shared house with 3 other guys and during my morning shower I use a flannel to wash myself. The rest of the house know that its my flannel. It has its own place next to the bath. Over the past few months I'd started noticing a really odd smell coming from my flannel. So I'd wash it, and for the first few days after it would smell fine again. But after about a week and a half later the odd aroma would return. I considered the possibility that I wasn't being hygienic enough and should wash my flannel more often, and so made a point of washing it every 3 days. I also entertained the idea that the pungency of my bodily secretions was either a time-activated phenomenon or the unique result of my pairing with this flannel in particular, but after a short time both these ideas were discarded.

One morning I noticed my flannel had acquired that strange scent again but had been washed only the night before. Puzzled by what this meant I decided to open the mystery up to the guys in the house and get their opinion on the matter. My housemate (let's call him) Paddy was in the kitchen so I told him how my flannel had been producing this really odd smell over the last 2-3 months and how there didn't seem to be any pattern to when it would occur. When he heard this he burst into laughter which continued for a good while. After calming down he explained that he'd been using my flannel to wipe the underside of the toilet rim whenever it was his turn to clean the bathroom. I was incensed. I felt utterly violated by the thought of what he'd been making me do all this time. Using a flannel which I thought was only used by me and washing my face each day with it which was actually defiled with fecal bacteria and who knows what else.... A horribly deep and cutting feeling of foolishness suddenly shot through me.

As a full appreciation of the situation was dawning and my self-disgust manifesting itself fully, Paddy turned to me and through his laughter called me a "filthy cunt" for continuing to use the soiled flannel despite the weird smell.

My rage at this point became white hot, so much so that I had to just get out of that space at once. I took a time-out in my room and swore to myself that retribution would, in due course, be paid in full, and that it wouldn't be of the immediate or rushed variety, but of the carefully considered and planned kind...

Customer Feedback Letter

Dear Mr Tom Stables,

In order to bring to your attention, in the clearest manner I am capable of, and despite the rapidly fading sunlight and limited space to move, due to the girth of my neighbour, I've decided to begin writing my customer feedback letter, that you requested we do in your recent email, while still in the act of travelling on one of your coaches. Allow me to waste no further time and proceed.

We've been in transit for just 20 minutes and already someone at the back of the coach is smoking on this 060 National Express service to Leeds, though it is too soon for the driver to realise this. Someone else has released a cloud of what smells like a lilac based perfume as a counter-agent. Its aroma is evoking within me memories of elevenses with granny, Battenburg and rich tea fingers.

The driver will nip this in the bud I'm sure, and while he's at it he can turn down the central heating too.

Forgive me Tom, but now an acrid waft of piss has sliced its way through the floral haze and like a draught up an elevator shaft has found its way to my delicate nostrils on the top floor."What the heck is the smoker doing back there?". Although I haven't looked down, I am envisaging that my bag, perched in between my feet is now busy absorbing rivulets of piss from a stranger, so I'm turning both feet inwards,Tom , to form a platform upon which it can take refuge.

The lady sitting next to me wants to read her book and so has switched on her allocated light in the control panel above, convincing herself she is benefiting from it, although we both are quite aware that due to the low priority design engineers at National Express place on ergonomics, the light is only capable of extending it's illumination to my right lap and forearm.

While it's in my mind, I'll just say Tom that I was particularly impressed by the driver's decision not to play the pre-recorded safety advice over the tannoy as we set off from Liverpool, and instead chose to showcase his own creative talent, amusing us by warning that if seat belts were not securely fastened, we might accidentally rear-end the person in front of us. He also cautioned against doing a number 2 in the loo but with regards to a number 1. Go  on!. I felt this was rather catchy.

At the start of the journey the temperature was just right. Gradually its become hotter and hotter though I'll not remove my jacket until I can truly bear no longer. Until then I shall patiently do nothing and hope that either a fellow passenger takes it upon themselves to be a hero and confronts our sadistic driver or wait for the driver to come to his senses. Perhaps as a result of this uncomfortable level of warmth there is a lot of movement taking place towards the rear of the coach right now. Another aroma has entered the arena, one of a recently soiled nappy yet I am almost certain there is no infant on board. Another nauseous plume of sickly sweet lilac is immediately administered, disperses, and slowly calm returns. We've just arrived at Manchester Airport.

Another cigarette has been lit and from the front of the coach a proud looking African woman rises from her seat, exquisitely presented, from her flawless make up to the pristine folds on her cream coloured dress, and is now heading towards the toilet curiously holding a plastic Matalan bag against her chest like it is encrusted with emeralds. I feel scared Tom. There is much chattering occurring behind me now but I've decided against periscoping my neck around for fear of creating a low-budget police interrogation scene cast by my neighbour's reading light.

            I've never really understood people who felt the best time to use a National Express toilet was when the coach is stationary, in the station. I blame my mother for this embedded dread that once you flush on board a static coach, all the details of what transpired in that tiny cubicle are unveiled with untruimphant fanfare to the queuing passengers waiting to board, from a trapdoor located just behind the left rear wheel. A retroactive horror I imagine not too dissimilar to the one experienced by women walking out of the bathroom oblivious to the knowledge that their skirt is tucked into their knickers revealing all. Although I will admit Tom, that I don't ever recall witnessing this phenomenon first hand. We've been sat still for 10 minutes now. We must be taking the scenic route back. Via Bradford. The strong African woman hasn't returned to her seat yet and this concerns me. Though daydreaming for a second I can't rule out completely the possibility she has entered a parallel world. Momentarily in my boredom it seems plausible to me that the entrance to the lavatory she initially entered has lead to a jasmine scented chamber, and positioned within its centre the most luxurious and grand marble spa; a very lavish affair, with bejewelled gold vases all around, the ethereal melodies of harps suffusing the hypnotic vapours of the space with a Cleopatran solemnity. Tom, I contemplate this while sitting and praying that the urine streams that were running around my boots have now been evaporated by the overbearing dry heat the driver is attempting to cure us with. We are leaving the airport.

We've arrived at Manchester Coach Station. 75% of the people aboard the coach disembark here. A stocky woman who was shuffling around behind me has decided that the seats directly in front of me are ideal for her and, I'm guessing, 3 year old son. Another cigarette has been lit while we are static but this time there are no reprisals of lilac. The chugging engine which had the remaining passengers half on standby peters out limply. Perhaps now the driver will mete out some justice to the incontinent chain smoker. A man with a twitchy nose boards, followed by a young woman heading for the back who tucks her hair behind her ears nine times before she has even reached me. A drag queen enters, purple velvet blonde bombshell, all legs and even more sass, struts to the back. What is it about the back of a national express coach, I muse.

"I don't believe this.....Excuse me darling" I can hear the drag queen say taking a seat, I'm hoping next to the twitcher, the smoker or the pisser.

"Can I sit there with you, do you mind?!" says another voice in a tone reminiscent of The Simpsons' almost permanently inebriated bar prop, Barney.  After a brief pause a resignatory "no" is heard and the voice that posed the question seems surprised by this concession. We leave Manchester coach station and inwardly I rejoice as my bag can now be taken of its makeshift support and promoted to the seat beside me. The coach reverses out of its bay to exit the station 

There then follows 40 minutes of calm until we reach Bradford coach station where the drag queen, accompanied by her partner, begin to argue about whose turn it is to order tonight's curry using the new app they've both downloaded. There's another gust of tobacco smoke, strong this time and glancing out of the window I can see our driver heartily puffing away whilst enjoying a catch-up with a fellow member of the national express clan. The treacherous bastard I shout out loud. To myself. In my mind.

Forgive me Tom, for the ungraceful ending to this letter of feedback. There are only 10 more minutes until we arrive in Leeds and I'm only now able to start nodding off. 

Yours sincerely,

A. Customer

Response from National Express - 25/03/2015

Dear Mr Customer

Thank you for your email received on 24 March 2015. Mr Stables has
personally asked me to look into your complaint and feedback.

I am extremely sorry to hear about the bad experience you had on your
journey from Liverpool to Leeds on 15 March 2015. I understand from your
comments that the on board toilets were in a poor condition causing an
unpleasant smell. I have also noted that the contents of the safety
announcement from the driver were inappropriate. Finally I was extremely
concerned to read that on more than one occasion another passenger was
smoking on board the vehicle. I do personally apologise for the discomfort
caused.

The comfort of our customers is one of our highest priorities. We try hard
to ensure that all of the coaches operating on our services are in a clean
and comfortable condition. They are cleaned and inspected prior to every
journey to ensure that this is the case. It is therefore really
disappointing to hear that we let you down on this occasion.

In regards to the announcements, I can confirm that all coaches are
supplied with a safety CD, however drivers are permitted to make their own
safety announcements. Whilst drivers can make their own announcements, it
is unacceptable for the drivers to make inappropriate comments during these
announcements.

Finally with regards to your comments about the customer smoking on board
the vehicle. As you are aware it is not permitted to smoke anywhere on the
vehicle., We do have set procedures for drivers to follow when dealing with
individuals who cause, or may cause, distress or anxiety to other
passengers. Please be assured that the wellbeing of our customers and the
safe operation of our coaches is of the utmost importance to us. 

I am unsure if any passengers made the driver aware of this customer
smoking, however if he was, he should have employed these procedures as
soon as he realised that the customer concerned had been smoking. I am
sorry that this was not the case on this occasion and I would like to offer
you my profound apologies.

While I realise it may be of little consolation to you after the event, I
would like to assure you that I have contacted the drivers' manager and
have sent on a copy of your complaint. I have asked for the drivers to be
interviewed and for your complaint to be discussed in detail. The drivers'
manager will decide what action to take as a result of this interview to
ensure that there are no repeated incidents.

I would always advise in the future that if you notice any customers
smoking on board the vehicle you either alert the driver or you can text
the number which is on each window of our coaches, this will go straight
through to our Network Control Team, who can contact the driver directly to
make him/her aware of the situation.

Thank you for getting in touch, your feedback is important to us. If I can
be of further assistance, please call me on 03717 818181. 

Yours sincerely

Chris Daniels
Customer Relations Executive

Tel: 03717 818181

The Service Station

She was a mannequin

An exquisite beauty consumed by a sadness that was eternities old

Doe eyed. Porcelain skinned. 

Her perfect face seemed framed by shadow, a product of her charcoal sweater and dark silken mane of rich chestnut 

Her gaze was alert and innocent, yet she would not meet with mine

What is your name?

"Lilya"

Her demeanour and grace at odds with the cheap and dated decor of this motorway inn

Pine veneer headboard and embossed wallpaper borders

Wall lights with canvas shades

Tropical flowers faded with years of use patterned the duvet cover upon which Lilya sat

I tell her her name is beautiful

"Thank you" Lilya says, lowering her gaze like she was undeserving of the compliment 

I tell her she is beautiful

"Thank you", she says again, automatically

A few seconds pass, in uncomfortable silence. My attention wanders, finds the distant drone of the motorway and suddenly I become conscious of what I ought to be doing here.

"What do you do? Do you study? Work?" I ask briskly, the intense solemnity of her repose now beginning to confound me a little

".....work", she mumbles after a lengthy pause 

"What is your job?" 

At this she remains silent, perhaps slightly confused by what I could mean. 

I hand her some magazines to look through.

"Do you like anything there? Say which things you like. Do you like that? Is that something you might like to try?" I quiz, pointing to a couple engaging in anal sex

"I don't know", Lilya says timidly but now sitting more upright

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No"

"You don't have a boyfriend!"

"How many boyfriends have you had?"

"One"

"You're a serious girl aren't you?"

"Maybe"

"Ok, could you take off all your clothes for me"

I started at her feet, slowly moving the camera up her body, scanning her ankles, knees, thighs, her smooth waist, supple breasts, before arriving at her flawless face which held an eternal expression of indifference. As Lilya gathered her hair to tie it back I could see a scar running around her neck which clearly hadn't healed. A continuous red ring.

"What is that scar on your neck?"

Lilya looked directly at me and failed to arrest a smile that had escaped

"What scar?", she calmly replied, eyes now alive 

"Lilya, there is a deep scar around your neck that is weeping. Now tell me how you got it!"

"What scar?, she repeated gently. "What scar?", now glowing with the deepest satisfaction. 

The Bus Driver

After experiencing the intense fear of trying to pay for a bus fare with a £20 note last month, I unsurprisingly took great pleasure joining the bus driver this time, in generating some stereo disdain, which was then directed toward a woman trying to pay for a £1 fare... with a tenner! By Jove, did the pair of us tut and pfft! After much rolling of our eyes, stunned by the levels of audacity some people have these days, I sought to buy a ticket from my new buddy

Me: £2.30 please
Driver: Where are you going?
Me: Headingley...No, sorry. Hyde Park
Driver: Hyde Park? (looking puzzled)
Me: Brudenell Road?
Driver: I don't know where Brudenell Road is.
Me: You don't know where Brudenell Road is??
Driver: I'm not from round here mate!
Me: Well, where were you planning on taking us all?
Driver: Get off this bus

The Pin

The Pin

They don't see how we live. How our lives are spent lapping a worn, circuitous conveyor belt in a pitch black netherworld. They never have to suffer the incessant din the Machine's gears make, when you just want to gather your thoughts for a moment but you're being endlessly shuttled around a clanging metropolis. The only window of silent clarity to ponder our existence, and their's; when the Machine selects the next ten, drops us into the light, and retreats.

For a few seconds we stand facing them. Poised. There is pride, solidarity and purpose among us, before the boards begin to tremble, and another gormless sphere, expanding with menace, attempts to annihilate our resolve. They often contort their bodies in agony and wave fists of injustice when their spheres graze but leaves us standing, and this truly gladdens my heart.

Reg was the oldest pin. The Grand Daddy. But he looked the youngest. His flawless paintwork and smart red neckband as vibrant as the day he arrived. Each morning I would catch him muttering to himself, trying hopelessly to convince the rest of the boys that the universe had destined him for greater things, and that there was was a reason he had been made slightly smaller than everyone else. God obviously wished for him to never know the indignity of unjust aggression because whenever the Machine set Reg up, he would immediately topple over without fail.

One afternoon, minus fanfare; after the giant claw that aligns us had hauled itself back out of sight, Reg was left standing before us. He was head pin. We were utterly speechless. Deprived of time to contemplate what significance this could possibly hold, I caught sight of a suited man ahead, unleashing his might through a navy-blue sphere which ominously began consuming the horizon. I thought I could see Reg push out his chest and hold his head high.