Story & Poem
by Kevin Strider
After a hard week's work in the press office, I treated myself to a short weekend in Llandudno, where the wind would blow my hair and the faint breeze from the Irish Sea would add a freshness to my otherwise pale complexion. This is the short story of the beginning of that short break....
After purchasing my second class return ticket, I decided to have a bite in the station buffet. I bought a six-pack of custard creams, a daily newspaper, and a large mug of tea, then sat down at one of the purple round tables, stained with the heat of many mugs.
The buffet was a reasonably tidy place, as far as British Rail buffets go. The wall was adorned with pictures of old steel shunters and a gold framed picture of how the station looked fifty years ago. Beside myself, there were about ten more people in the buffet, all talking and preparing for their own journeys.
Only one other person beside me was staying quiet, he was a rather scruffy looking tramp, who had just popped in for his morning coffee. He was wrapped in a thick sheepskin coat, marked by the varnish of park benches. He had a ginger beard and dark curly hair, and a smell that reminded me of seaty feet, mixed with mouldy cheese.
Anyway, to make the picture quite clear, as far as my table was concerned, imagine me sitting on a creaky chair, custard creams and tea in the centre of the table, all my belongings on another chair to my left, and of course, the tramp sitting directly opposite me, sipping his cup of coffee.
Well, I eventually opened the six-pack, and took out one of the biscuits, dunked it into my tea and hid behind my newspaper. Whilst I was reading the column entitled "What's On at the Local Theatre", I heard a rustling noise. Peering round the edge of the page, I was amazed to find the tramp helping himself to one of my custard creams.
At first I was going to politely tell him to get the hell off my biscuits, but then pity suddenly took over and I said nothing. After all, it would probably be the only thing he'd have to eat all day. So, instead, I grabbed another biscuit and, putting my paper down, slowly munched away right in front of him. Now there could be no mistaking whose biscuits they were after that.
Surprisingly, he helped himself to another one, slowly taking it out of the pack and munched away in exactly the same manner as I had done.
Right, I said to myself, he's in for it now, this time I was going to say something. I was just in the process of beginning to do so, when somebody dropped their tray, smashing all the plates and sending food and coffee across across the polished floor. The moment was gone, along with my anger.
After a short delay in helping to clear the mess up, I got back to the table and ate the fifth biscuit, feeling quite confident that the tramp wasn't going to take the last one. He couldn't be that cheeky, surely?
Imagine my shock as he casually popped it into his mouth, brushed his beard, stood up and hobbled out of the buffet. This was the right time to say something.
I jumped up and rushed to the door, tripped on an old lady's suitcase and all her clothes spilled out revealing a pair of 8 foot long tights and a bottle of fake suntan lotion. Blast, he'd gone, saved by a suitcase.
After apologising several times to the lady, I went back to the table and gathered my things together to go to platform 3. As I lifted my belongings off the chair, there sitting under my coat was a six-pack of custard creams -- my six-pack of custard creams that I had purchased only twenty minutes ago from that very buffet.
And a poem......
Ode to a Hedgehog
He wandered lonely as a Hedgehog
Over hills and fields and dales
Until he crossed a rail track
And got hit by British Rails.
Copyright The Bentilean, 1991, 1999
Kevin was also The Bentilean's own philosopher, author of "Is there a God?" -- the only thing ever to elicit a write-in response from the readers.Back to: The Contents Page | The Archive | The Bentilean Main Page
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