Getting home.
Getting home wasn't funny. The train was timetabled for 11:20, so I left at last orders to catch it. It was freezing - below zero, definitely, and by 11:50 the train hadn't shown up and an annoucement said there'd be a replacement bus. Eventually that showed up with no heating, so I sat huddled on one seat, nose in a book, waiting to get back to London.
We got back to Kings Cross for about 1:30am, where the bus stopped and threw us all out. The prostitutes were out in force, and I was told that I'm good looking enough that they'd do me 'two for the price of one', but I declined. Whether I'm actually that good looking, or whether they just wanted to get some money to give to the pimp so they could stop hanging about in fishnets at 1:30am on a below-zero morning I don't know - didn't want to know.

I got the night bus back to Victoria with the last of my cash and set off to walk home from there - it's not that bad a walk, perhaps 30 - 40 mintes, and by that time I was cold enough not to really notice it any more. As it was, I amused myself whilst walking by writing scenes where literary characters from different genres met people they really could not have met ("Do you know what I'm going to do?" Announced Mr. Toad of Toad Hall one bright, sunny summer morning. "I'm going to buy the biggest, fastest motor car I can find without roll bars or seatbelts!"
"A wise cousel, my leige", whispered Grima in his ear...)

Just round the corner from my house there are a string of old emply shops, and standing outside them were a bunch of policemen. Police aren't an unusual sight near us; the nearby estate breeds a seemingly limitless supply of young men who divide their time equally between going to the gym and dealing crack, and the police occasionally round up the latest batch so I didn't think much of it.
As I got closer, however, I realised they were just hanging about. There were a couple of girls there too, looking fazed. As I approached the body language of the group shifted subtly from waiting anticipation to 'keep away' vibes. But still they just stood there, saying nothing, ignoring as I approached. It was a very unusual moment.
Then I saw the roll of carpet at the focus of the group, and the feet sticking out of one end, and an arm and top of a head sticking out of the other, and the blood. The body lay stiffly, and no attempt had been made to place it in the recovery position or help, or anything. The only thing moving was a thin trickle of half-coagulated blood from the side of the carpetting.

I walked past, head down, trying not to look.
But all of a sudden, I didn't feel much like writing comedy any more.
(davywavy, Fri 25 Mar 2011, 9:56, Reply)