Seat-bagging - A Steve Rant

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It was getting towards the end of the evening, last orders was just a few minutes away. Johnny took a slurp of his beer and wondered what was wrong with his friend. A whole evening of beer had nearly passed and not one hare-brained rant. Something must but wrong.

‘I’ve invented a new word,’ Steve said shifting in his seat.

Johnny rolled his eyes, he'd thought too soon; this could only be going in one direction. 

‘Seat-bagging,’ Steve looked proud as punch.

‘And what’s that?’ Johnny had no choice but to take the bait.

‘It’s when idiots put their bags on the seats at the airport gates meaning other passengers can’t sit down.' Steve said, Johnny nodded, he had a point, but hew was sure he'd heard that word before. 

'I’ve got this theory,’ Of course you have, thought Johnny, ‘that airports are actively trying to make the travelling experience less comfortable. I'm sure there are fewer and fewer seats at the gates, I’m not sure why, maybe so they can get plug sockets in or something but there seems to be fewer than before.’

‘Maybe people are more likely to use the shops if they can’t sit down.’ Johnny said. 

Steve nodded, he was a little miffed that he hadn’t thought of that himself; it was good.  

‘Anyway, so there a fewer seats and half the ones that are there are full of bags.’ Steve paused to take a swig of beer. ‘Then when I come along and ask them kindly to remove them so I can sit down, they look at me like I’ve just asked them to sit their granny on the floor. It’s only a bloody bag, what is so precious about these bloody bags that they can be on the floor for a few minutes?’ Steve was on a roll and Johnny felt like he was caught in the avalanche. ‘We as passengers should be sticking together in the face of airport hostility but instead we are turning on each other. Seats are for bums, floors are for bags, it is a simple equation, we all learnt it at school. You know what they should do? They should allocate seating at the gate in the same way as it is allocated on the plane, you know 23C sit there  etc.’ 

‘How would that work?’ Johnny said. All the planes are different sizes. It’s impossible.’ 

‘Well they should do something, It’s not just airports, people do it on trains and on buses too, seat-bagging it is the scourge of modern society.’ 

‘Have you finished? Johnny said. 

Steve nodded, ‘I think so,’ he said catching his breath. 

‘Good now get the bloody beers in, it's almost last orders,.’ Johnny said handing Steve his empty glass. 

99 Red Balloons

As with a few of my pieces recently this is a work in progress, something I think is both worth sharing now but also worth developing. Your thoughts appreciated. 
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It was a smuggler's night and no mistake. High, dark clouds hung over the city, there were patches of clear sky but there was no moon to give the game away. The river looked treacle black and the buildings that towered over it were shadows of their former selves. A light breeze ruffled my hair as I stood high above the town staring into the blackness, the tip of my cigarette providing the only light. It was eerily quiet, countryside quiet, not city quiet. one or two cars travelled along the city streets but otherwise the roads were deserted. It was 3 a.m. and the city was mostly tucked up in bed.
Something on the river caught my eye, movement, a flash of something. I blinked and refocused, stared, trying to notice it again. No,my mind must be playing tricks on me there was nothing to see. I took a lungful of smoke, there it was again, maybe a swan or a duck or a leaping salmon. No it was bigger than that and more than one. It was like seeing a fish in the water from the harbour walls, one becomes clear, then two, three, four before suddenly the whole shoal is visible. Now I could see the river was dotted with kayaks, black kayaks paddled by figures dressed in black, moving in unison like a swarm of ants. In the distance I could hear a syncopated beat, the sound of helicopters approaching, I looked around and saw dots of light growing bigger across the sky, illuminating the cityscape. The kayaks were like moths to the light, moving towards the illuminations. The kayaks evolved into upright forms, men moving ashore, swarming the banks, invisible to the casual observer but clear to my eyes.
So it had begun, we'd been warned, told it would happen but no one quite believed it could, quite believed it would. Like losing your virginity or your team winning the cup, you knew invasion was a possibility but you never thought you'd live to see the day. In a way it was a coward's invasion, sneaking in when everyone was sleeping, but better a velvet transition than a bloody, brutal conflict. I stubbed out my cigarette and went back into my flat. Life would never be the same again, the clock could not be turned back. Even if the intruders were beaten back the damage was done. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? And tomorrow was just the start of it. As I tried to sleep I had the lines from a long lost song in my mind, panic bells, it’s red alert there's something here from somewhere else, the war machine springs to life, opens up one eager eye.

Back to School

Dark clouds hung over our little house, nasty, grey clouds that seemed to erase the summer from my memory. Rain threatened but would stay away, not wanting to ruin my brand new uniform. The Radio 1 breakfast show filled my ears, it had been weeks since I’d last listened to Mike Smith and the team.

I slowly got dressed like one might for a funeral, my own funeral. Crisp white shirt, black tie, black blazer. My shoes were so well polished I could count my spots in them. My mum smiled as she had done every year for the last 12; I’d gone from being her little boy going to school to her little man going to sixth form, taller than her now; she had to tiptoe to give me my traditional 'off to school kiss'. I could see the pride leaking out of her eyes. For her this was a big day, a landmark occasion, she’d fuss around me and take the traditional phot photo. As for me, well not once in those twelve years had I looked forward to this day, not once. And somehow today it felt even worse.

It’d been a long hot summer; 10 weeks since the last exam, 10 weeks of part time jobs and full time tomfoolery. 70 days of buying cider at the off-license and drinking it in the park. Over 2 months of swimming in the sea or down the Knap. Nearly 1 fifth of a whole year hanging out at the fairground. I’d done a lot that summer, done a lot of growing up, first job, first hangover, first kiss, first cigarette and of course, I’d lost something I’d never get back. But now the shackles were back on, it was penance for our summer crimes and the punishment was 2 more years hard labour. Maybe it felt worse this year because now it was voluntary, now I was going to school out of choice not because of the law. Who would choose such punishment.

But no, the real reason for my heavy heart was the fact that Molly Jones had gone. Her parents had decided a boarding school was the best place for her A-Levels, away from the distraction of boys, namely me. So off she’d gone taking her burgeoning body with her.

Tears ran down her face as we kissed for the last time.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ I said.

‘Tommy don’t,’ she replied, ‘it’s over.’

The words stung, it had been a summer of wasps but this was the deadliest sting.

So I traipsed to school, had I been moving any slower I might have gone backwards. I was a sixth-former now, a grown up, but walking like the moody 14 year olds around me.

I slumped behind my desk waiting for our form teacher to take the register when she walked in the room.

I’d never seen a room sit up so quickly and even the sun poked its head from behind the dark clouds to take a look. Lucy Beckland, had never looked so delicious in all her 16 years. She’d been in France all summer with her family and it showed. Her once pale skin was beautifully tanned, her nose just seemed a little more upturned and her breasts were enough to make a grown man cry. But it was her legs that had caught my attention. Her uniform was on the short side of regulation and her legs seemed to go the moon and back. I could feel my mouth drop open as I stared at the wonderfully tanned calves and seductive thighs. She smelt of bitter oranges, an intoxicating smell that I would never forget.

‘Can I sit here?’ She said giving me a smile that broke my heart already, was there a trace of a French accent in her voice? 

‘Oui, um yes,’ I said, thinking that maybe I wouldn’t miss Molly so much after all.
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