Staff Shortlisted Entry
Ravel wouldn’t be impressed. The stirring notes of his Bolero looping in my head ba-ba-ba-ba, du-du du-du-du-du, ba-ba-ba-ba since I’m in danger of doing a Torvill and Dean on the concourse. Adverse camber, understatement. I’ve rushed from John.E.Wrights. My marvelous mind offers, classical, operatic aria or stupid song lyric for every occasion.
It’s The Ride of the Valkyries when I drive up the A614. Perfect for stress inducing Z-bends and hidden dips (can’t help but ask “where?” every time, same goes for concealed entrance) I’m forced to pa-pa-pa-pa-PA-pa, pa-pa-pa-PA-pa more loudly for every idiot petrol head’s reckless attempt to overtake in oncoming traffic. An unexpected exhaust issue means chauffer service today.
The Sherwood Arrow awaits me, though that sad snake of sullen faces suggested the black hole of buses had taken it. I have an enormous box of A0 sized foam board “I’m making an exhibition of myself boarding with board” I compose. Grasping the pole and my change I contemplate how long those satisfying sounds of cash in the kit that goes clunk will be heard.
Marketeers thanks for your marvellous misnomer. This bus route is neither straight nor direct (makes me quiver!) The meanderings begin at that sharp right round the White Post Island. Finally, a ding and disembarkation at my destination. Now I risk dicing with death, dumped on the wrong side of the road for Rufford.
I survived crossing the A614. The technician is delighted. I’d rather have paid for delivery.