On Monday
night, I attended WriteNight at 15 Queen Street. As always, it was a
thoroughly enjoyable evening, filled with writing related fun.
We started
off the session discussing the launch party for our recently
published anthology of short stories, written by members of the
group, on the theme of Colchester. It looks likely to happen late in
June, so watch this space for more details.
Emma
Kittle provided the writing activity this time. She had a set of
first lines, which we had to pick from a hat, in order to produce a
story. We then shared our work. As always, the exercise produced
some diverse and brilliant pieces of writing. I always love the
range of work our group produces. Last night, there was a vampire
tale, a story of a reformed exhibitionist, a tale of unfaithful love,
a fantasy saga and a touching story of some sweary teenagers, amongst
others. I loved it.
Below is
my offering – a take on the opening line “She'd have to hitch a
ride home.”
High Class Hitch-hiker
by Annie Bell
She'd have
to hitch a ride home. Hitch a ride home? This was unfathomable for
Chardonnay-Rose. People with double barrelled forenames and daddies
with fleets of rollers just didn't hitch-hike.
Chardonnay-Rose
had always thought of herself as a philanthropic sort of girl. She
donated her daddy's tax money to the poor little orphans at Great
Ormond Street Hospital. She helped the environment by only using
the finest organic, natural peroxides, mixed with juniper and jojoba
to bleach her flaxen locks. She also ensured that her food was only
purchased from proper fair trade companies so that the poor little
African children that harvested the chocolate bars from the chocolate
trees would have some pocket money. She was a true activist, no
questions asked.
Bearing in
mind the evident generosity and self-sacrifice at her moral core,
Chardonnay-Rose could not understand why karma (bitch that it was)
had done this to her.
The night
had started well enough. She had deigned to attend the birthday
celebrations of her woefully middle class chum Sarah in her humble
five-bedroomed hovel and had been kind enough to be seen with her in
public. Mummy had always insisted that Chardonnay-Rose should
maintain this friendship, in order that she keep a connection with
the “common people”. As if she needed it!
When she
had arrived, Chardonnay-Rose had refrained from passing comment at
Sarah and her friends' packet-dyed shiny locks or their mere
'Designers at Debenhams' attire.
As the
group had sat, in Sarah's parents' Ikea kitchen, drinking sparkling
wine – imagine the horror – from ordinary glass flutes, she had
physically battled with her own gag reflex. She had even stooped so
low as to laugh at Sarah's friends' crude jokes, thrown around in
bawdy Essex accents, slathered with cheap slang and plastic fantastic
charm. Her fragile tinkle of a chuckle had been scarcely audible, as
they belly-laughed their way through their second bottle of fizzy ...
urine.
As the
night had worn on, a grotty taxi, driven by a Neanderthal named
Darren, whose drawl she could scarcely understand, had driven them
into town. Her companions had raised unkind eyebrows, as she held
the door handle with a tissue. What was wrong with these people?
A short
walk later, Chardonnay-Rose and her companions had trudged into a
smart wine bar. She had supposed it was smart – or, at least,
smart themed. The shiny backlit perspex of the bar was covered in
grimy fingerprints and sticky residue from spilled beverages. The
vodka was vile, cheap and stored at room temperature. Her gag reflex
was being tested again.
As
Chardonnay-Rose had looked around, she had noticed that surrounding
her were barely clad ladies, streaked with a marbled effect of orange
peely, chicken white skin and poorly applied fake tan. Their fleshy
folds were virtually exploding from skin tight tubes of denim, which
scarcely covered their chubby bottoms. Hadn't they heard of personal
trainers and spray tans?
The music
had been ok, she supposed but as the group stood up to dance,
Chardonnay-Rose had been forced to resist the urge to scream, as her
£500 Jimmy Choos had stuck, step by step, to the carpet.
Having
gone to all this trouble to please her impoverished friend,
Chardonnay-Rose had been astounded, when she noticed Sarah's awful
friends hurling disdainful looks at her! Sarah even looked
embarrassed. This had been way beyond Chardonnay-Rose's
comprehension. They should have been grateful that she had deigned
to suffer like this for them. She had made them look good, adding a
diamond sparkle to their dull sackcloth and ashes existence.
At that
moment, an overweight, sweaty, balding man had put his pudgy arms
around her, gripping her hips from behind and pulling them towards
his own. She had turned and whacked him across the face with her
Gucci purse, before marching for the door. Daddy wouldn't want her
molested in this way. She was going home.
Leaving
the bar without even bidding her companions farewell, Chardonnay-Rose
had pulled her Prada designed Blackberry from her purse and
speed-dialled Daddy's chauffeur. Just then, the phone had been
wrenched from her hand by a rancid subhuman in a filthy hoody, who
had sprinted off, with a spring in his step. Tears rolling down her
perfectly sculpted cheeks, reached into her purse for her platinum
card and attempted to hail a cab.
Three
arguments later, Chardonnay-Rose had been forced to concede that the
smelly men, who drove taxis required cash and she just didn't do
cash.
At that
moment, she had to accept that she was alone, lost and freezing, in
Romford. She'd have to hitch a ride home.
© Annie Bell 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment