Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Platinum Tourer

(My first piece of writing in the class. My wife and I had just returned from a holiday to Central Europe, touring by coach, so I tapped into the memories of that and the words flowed. I'm not sure why I wanted to end on a humorous note, it was probably that I was still trying to shift those holiday pounds, that had leapt onto my midriff through the delicious buffets, and wanted a bit of revenge!)

I jerk awake, looking around with sleepy eyes, blinking dopily. A head nods to my left, grey hair, that was probably combed to perfection this morning, now mussed and tousled. Further ahead, the tinny beat of a walkman drifts from a lady's headphones; I ponder whether to introduce her to the pleasure of the earphone... not for her pleasure, of course, but for all those of us around her who are trying futilely to figure out just which song the beat belongs to.

I lean out, looking down the aisle, quickly taking in the view ahead of the coach, a seemingly endless motorway lane, for as far as the eye can see, the borders flanked by tree after tree after tree. The driver's hand comes into view momentarily as he adjusts one of the dozen mysterious buttons on his console. A chill draft of air down my neck tells me it is the air-con. I shiver.

Murmurs drift down the coach, half-heard conversations. Hopes, dreams and aspirations of what may await us at our destination, perhaps? I idly thumb the guide book, drawing the bookmark out, casting my eye over the entry I was reading before the hypnotising murmur of wheels on tarmac won through. What awaits us, I wonder? I'll take anything, as long as it's not *another* all-you-can-eat buffet.


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