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Don't you know why they call it rush hour? It's not because you're going fast - you can barely move, crammed on that tube... no. It's the tunnel gremlins that are moving fast, scurrying to get their feed, filling their bellies with your tasty dreams.
They live in the tunnel walls and ooze out for breakfast and tea. It's your dream dust they're after, with a side of succulent aspiration.
There's nothing you can do, shoe-horned in like that. Back crooked, head bent, standing up against the door with an armpit to your ear. You can't even rap an arm around yourself to hold on to what is yours; instead your hold on to your bag.
The gremlins crawl out, soot-blackened and calloused bellied, Their fingers and toes finding spaces between the rocks on the track floor, nooks in the walls.They wait for the vibrations, bulbous eyes shifting. Then they see the glint, like light on dirty grey marbles; as it passes they leap, quick as a flash, with a twisting motion, hold on to the sides of the tube, grasp the undercarriage.
Wide crooked smiles sit uncomfortably on their faces.
They gently rock the train to unsettle the dream dust. Some escapes through the open windows at the back of the carriages, carried on old breath and aftershave. The lazies jump off and scoop up what they can. The rest keep rocking, knowing the lions share will be at the station.
Inside, the passengers are feeling drained, irritated and achy. They think it's because someone's bag is resting on their knee, or because another passenger's music is too loud. Maybe it's the smell. In fact it's none of these things. It's their innate sense of loss; like a dull pulse as hope leaves them, a background noise, a feeling they can't quite place.
And when the train pulls in, they all stand up, now empty husks off to work. The door opens and it's the passengers' turn to scurry, dragging their feet along the floor, inadvertently sweeping out all the dream dust.
'Mind the gap' the voice says, but they don't listen, and all the dust falls into the black space. If they look down, they'll see the tunnel gremlins, heads flipped back and mouths open, eyes glowing bright amber as their bellies fill.
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Mug
Where is it? He knows it’s here… somewhere. It tastes best in this one; he knows it. Always has. It’s been drummed into him from the time he was old enough to turn on the kettle. Tea tastes best from the green mug.
When he gave the news he wanted everything to be perfect. The tea had to be in the green mug. He could hear the kettle starting to boil as he got on his knees so as to reach to the back of the low cupboard. The floor hadn’t been mopped in ages but he needed that mug.
He arched his arm so as not to catch the tops of the mismatched mugs, but his shirt sleeve caught a tall one and it went tumbling down. His stomach tensed at the clang.
“WHAT’S THAT!”
“nothing…”
He stealthly lifted the fallen mugs and rearranged the orphaned bunch as if they still held pride of place among their original sets.
The green mug was on the left.
Denby.
It was her favourite. Earthy and thick. Solid. Able to take the heat. You knew you were having a good cup of tea when it came out a Denby. That’s what she always said. But there was only one.
He took the Tetley teabag and placed it in the mug. He let the kettle sit for 60 seconds so the boil could settle. It had to be a full minute for the perfect cup; and once the water was added to the mug, another 60 seconds to brew. Patience was a virtue. Another of her favourites.
“WHAT’S TAKING SO LONG”
“coming.”
His eyes were still on the kitchen clock.
Right, now two stirs and the teabag come straight out. Then two sugars and a dash of milk.
He looked at the golden-brown triumph; it truly was beautiful against the green. He wanted to sob with joy and he felt ridiculous. He took a saucer and placed the mug on top, as she liked it. They didn’t go, but they fit perfectly. Like everything in this place. Her mausoleum of odds and ends; her living shrine.
As he walked into the living room, the liquid swaying with his heavy step, he rolled her eyes. She didn’t like it when it spilt onto the saucer. But it was only a drop.
“Give it to me.”
As she took the saucer, she spilt some more and gave him the eye. He should have been more careful.
He took his place in the armchair, the back of his knees high above the edge of the seat.
One deep breath as the mug touched her lips.
“i got a 2:1.”
“URRGH. Too weak. Your sister makes it better.”
Wow! This reminds me of making my mother's tea when I was a kid. The fear of getting it wrong, that one special mug which she would not do without, its all here.
I love it!