David Bandeening senior councillor for the Phogian Society had completed a meeting at the Dagenham Town Hall. The ill-educated mannerisms and ill considered remarks, exchanged, and ‘volleyed about’ had been as arrows into his heart. And now he came away in an access of relief.
‘Why this godforsaken hole Dagenham?’, he inwardly reflected to himself. He hurriedly began to make his way back to the Merc. But now he saw no sign of the silvery beast. All he saw was a singularly dreary pathway: just a forlorn dark road athwart an oppressively drably coloured [hued] self storage depot. ‘E Gad’, he uttered in an access of ‘utter depression of soul’. Then he felt a twinge of fear in his ‘dear little heart’, and in his little pot belly; then rising to his chest as it dawned on him he was alone in this dark and forboding area. So much that his formidable tweeds would do him now. He contemplated whether he should utter the Jesus prayer, but…
So then he, pattering, checked his Anderson and Shepperd pockets, and forking out his phone, so it was, his heart now rose to his throat when he saw that the battery remained at 8%. His footling wallet was in the car. Would have to ring a bally taxi. The rain lashed in prodigious unrelenting torrents upon his [luckless] head as he abided in a nasty corner of the self-storage depot awaiting his taxi. And he waited, and he waited. He was ready to do some horrible harm to someone’s face. He wanted to cry out at the lonely street lamp, which illuminated the place in a singularly unpleasant, stomach turning, insufferable, orange, mineral glow. He got the phone out again. The ruddy thing had been on in his pocket, and was on the point of dying, and had now… died. Now the fear was upon him; he begen to visibly quake. On his trembling legs he began to make his way in the terrible and oppressively heavy rain to what may have been vaguely discernible as a main road. He was almost tearful. He remembered the softlit summer days, aboard the merry raft, singing the boating song: those merry little boating hats: laughing: gaiety. Even now he wanted to be with his despised wife, or perhaps with Nancy.
For the only thing left to him was to try to talk his way onto a bus. Assuredly they would recognise him, and he’d be back in Holland Park before you could say ‘I’m a jolly rotten wagoner, with a jostling wagon of rotten eggs’.
He didn’t like the look of a congregation on the pavement some way ahead of him. He considered crossing the road: but this would be obvious. He would have to brave walking through them. His heart was beating very fast
In one way or another he made his way to to what looked like the most desolate, lonely, ill-lit, and luckless bus stop in the world: the most frightening, terrible, terrifying bus stop ever; a solitary construction amid a rain-pelted, vast, forlorn pavement, with not a soul in sight, and the street lamps illuminating the dancing rain on the concrete and tarmac for yards around.
And now he arrived, at the bus stop, at this ill-lit, isolated, rain-pelted, forlorn, bus stop, in this foul and soul of unpleasant weather, and was forced to stand just like anyone there, by a puddle, by the pillar at the side of the bus stop: and the scene was all entirely empty, the streets around utterly desolate, save for one, graceless figure reclining on the dark plastic seating, in this drenched scene.
The sat indicator announced that is was 16 minutes until the next bus
He tried his phone again – dead as a doornail – and instantly regretted it.
And the hooded figure was looming before him. ‘Showe me Your Phowne…’
…The hooded figure was looming before him. The towering size and power of the man seemed awe-inspiring and terrible, formidable, and and indestructible: unbelievable. And you could not see his face. ‘Showe me yur fowne’ he said, in the most deplorable charmless tone. ‘I’m not sure I understand you’… He said – ‘now look here, just take the bloody thing’ – but the figure dealt him a most progidious blow to the side of the head. His head bounced off the pillar of the bus stop, and his ears started ringing: his legs felt weak. The figure punched him in the ribs. ‘Look here, help! Hi!’: and now he fell to the soaking pavement. And it was here [Here it was] that Mighty Luke was walking on the other side of the road. But before long he had been beaten to a pulp. ‘Hoy there leave him’ he cried. A curle’d lock loosed itself on Bandeening’s foread. This was extended into an unpleasant ‘s-curl’ of blood trickling down the middle of his head. ‘I am undone’, he wailed. He rushed into the scene and dealt the aggressor a flying kick who now lay in a puddle comtemplating his miserable fate.
‘I’m sure I can organise for you a substantial reward’, uttered Bandeening. ‘Have you any change for the bus?’ Bandeening mopped his brow with his blood soaked frilled handkerchief on the bus, and looked a sorry sight. As he approached nearer civilization, he was dismayed to see someone avoid eye contact with him. He felt like crying out; he felt like reaching out and tearing the heavens to the ground; ‘Im not just some drunk, or some felon! Do you know who I am??’
He passed that night in considerable dejection, and his wife surveyed his broken face and thought what a bally wimp he was. He had a gigantic swollen eye.