The town’s excruciating road system caused gridlocks everywhere! I never had much vim or vigour after work, but the little I did have I used on tailgating the car in front and cursing its driver.
If I had a pound for every time someone said to me, “You’re just trying to be different,” I’d probably be twenty or so pounds better off by now. Admittedly, in the great colouring book of life I did deliberately go over the lines in some places.
Quite unprepared for it I found myself adrift in the ocean of adulthood. Stability bored me and unpredictability scared me. But one thing I was sure about was shaking the dust of Pobblestrum off my feet once and for all.
In moving to the outskirts of Bogcragston I had exchanged Ladies and Knights for ladies of the night, wychert-lined alleyways for litter-lined streets and cob cottages for derelict hovels.
Oil leaking tractors used to cover rain-drenched farmyard rubble with multi-coloured patterns. As a little girl Kyla had imagined those sparkling hues were the places where rainbows had touched the ground.
No longer a little girl Kyla was like so many young women, empathetic and perceptive. She worried about the state of the world and the shape of her nose. She was also determined that come hell or high heels she had to get out of Omnidowns at the earliest possible opportunity.
So she scrimped and she saved and finally had enough money to put a deposit down on a small flat in the suburbs of Bogcragston, the county town. She didn't move there because it was picturesque.
In fact Bogcragston was one of the few places that had its appearance enhanced by the introduction of speed cameras.
The concrete roads were constantly covered with fuel spills and acid rain. Not rainbow residue anymore though, just toxic eyesores now. But despite her keenness to leave home she often felt like an exile from fairyland.
Although, oddly, she was probably the only one in town who was fine about the evening traffic. She quite enjoyed the unhurried pace. Oblivious to the car behind she found herself absorbed by some radio programme . . . your cells die, are then replaced, and the cycle of life goes on. Apparently every seven years you get a new nose. An idea that rather appealed to her.
From the outside my front door was just the same as the next. Granted, a different colour from Kyla’s next door, but much the same in every other respect. From the inside it sat at the foot of evermore, the doorway to everywhere else. Beyond it bands of gypsies could have been waiting for me to join. And how I dreamed of vardos!
I couldn’t leave though, not just yet. But there was no point in blaming the door for that any more than accusing the driver in front of following too closely.
Copyright © 2013 M J Race
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