Fiction - Untitled

A random bit of writing, with no direction or intention other than I had just finished reading Lewis Carroll and quite fancied trying to copy his style. Uncertain if I've managed it, but I enjoyed writing this, and hopefully I'll carry on with it at some point.

Untitled

It all started the week before I was due to move home. As if I wasn’t busy enough: between arranging with one agent to move in, and with another to move out; with coordinating transport, assistance with the carrying, and the hundreds of little articles that need consideration before the big day; between all this, plus the day-to-day items that still had to be carried out, I scarcely had time for a cup of cocoa before bed.

Still, trouble has never been known to wait on a person’s convenience – the phone call I received that day during work paid tribute to that. “Belinda will be arriving on the five o’clock train. Please collect her from the station.” No input on my end was necessary. The speaker reeled off his piece and hung up, as brisk as a loose hat on a windy day.

“Of course she would arrive today.” I informed the tools of my trade, which were arranged on the ground before me. “As if I don’t have quite enough to do already.” The tools did not reply, understandably. Even if objects of wood and metal found a voice of their own, they, like me, would be too dismayed at this news to speak up, let alone offer words of encouragement.

‘Belinda’ was not a relative of mine, nor was she a dear and welcome friend, or anyone else I would be welcome to open my home to on short notice. She was, in fact, a rather unpleasant lady, well progressed in years, and with an obvious history of more-than-adequate dinners. The fact that I did not live alone, but shared my house with two good friends of mine, did not deter her in the slightest from volunteering my hospitality for her visit. And because of her ‘superior years and delicate health’ (as she would put it), I could not even dispatch her to the old, and slightly overused, spare bed, set up in the study for my usual visitors. Of course, I would be expected to vacate my own, comfortable sanctum, and brave the cold floors and creaking springs so that she may have a restful night. In short, she would take over every aspect of my simple life, and I could never expect a word of thanks.

And so, at five o’clock sharp, I was waiting (but by no means ready) at the station, taxi standing by so that she did not have to brave the bitterly cold and damp English weather which she always observed, regardless of actual conditions at the time.

In point of fact, it was a pleasant enough day, with the sun hinting at summer as it peeked through the clouds, and a light breeze to take the edge off the warmth of the air. I had enjoyed a lovely walk to the train station, with only the shadow of my appointment at the end to darken my thoughts. Nevertheless, I retained the vestiges of my good mood as I stood on the platform, and felt that maybe, this time, the visit would neither be so long, nor so tiresome, as they had previously proved themselves to be.