Dedicated to all the hard workers,
and the hard workers that get them there.
The stunning upholstery that blanketed the Underground network was an undoubted sight-for-sore-eyes (SFSE) for every tired traveller. Many People had often wondered where this incredible fabric was designed. And it was on this particular day that a boy was to find out.
A warm evening halfway through summer, but with a hint of spring still remaining, positioned in a middle carriage, back seat on the right, window side, facing forward of course. A boy sat absorbed in a deep papery read, unaware that the empty carriage was slowly starting to fill up, but not with people...
...No! This was something far worse than your everyday commuter.
The Metropolitan line was renowned for its bumpy journeys (rumours that the wheels on the train had been hand chis- eled by someone that had never met a circle were more than likely true, others said that the line was built directly over a burrowing mole colony and that the giant mammals would bump into the bottom of the 07.13 train whilst coming up for air during their morning mud lengths) and also its purply- blue upholstery, a revolting shade of tomboy, which didn’t welcome any tired bum. But F it he had a long journey ahead so he got as comfy as he could.
The train stopped, the doors opened and the boy looked up. Only to see an empty carriage, no-one getting on no-one getting off, except from an empty crisp packet that duly departed and headed for the closest bin.
He delved back into his book. Deeper and deeper he fell into it (it was an interesting read, something about the principle economics of moon farming and it’s synchronized effect on the earths tidal system and effectively our human digestive system) Line after line he read, not noticing anything around him. But the air was changing, a new smell, a fresh temperature a sharp sound was cutting through the carriage. It swept a page the wrong way.
He looked up. Somewhere near Harrow, he thought. This time the train wasn’t empty. A whole world of purple and blue triangles had starting seeping through the windows, the cracks in the floors, the space between the doors, just about everywhere. The outside was no longer visible to him, as the air around him just seemed to form and re-spawn, the buzzing geometric shapes were multiplying rapidly.
Bigger and bigger they got sucking every breath of air from around him.
The boy, frozen with shock and paralysed with fear, sat not able to believe quite what his eyes were showing him.
His book dropped. He shook his head, his eyes blinked, he pinched and slapped him-self, but this nightmare wasn’t going away quite that easily.
He had to think fast, but what were these things and how the Chalfont could he stop them.
The more the carriage filled and filled the less oxygen there seemed to be for him. The boy was running out of time.
Frantically he searched through his bag hoping he had something that could help;
A Phone? Nope.
Nothing was working against this irrepressible plague. What was there left to do; Beg. Pray. Sing. Cry. Give up?
R U N
The carriage was full heaving. (Not unlike the first Chesham to Baker Street service. Probably as bad as when the first train breaks down, and sea of angry commuters rush to the next station). There was no way out, the air was nearly gone. So with one last effort the boy reached into his bag, pulled out the only remaining item and squirted it all into the
Falling back, he passes out.
The next thing the boy remembers, is waking up on the floor of the fifth carriage and looking up to see an crummy advert talking about personal injury claim the company’s strap line was name was ‘You Can Sue It’ and there was a semi famous athlete rolling on the around on the floor whilst money was raining over his ‘hurt’ ankle. He put his hand to his head feeling a shapely pain taking over him.
What had happened? Was it all a dream? He looked around the carriage, it was silent, silent and empty. No, it couldn’t have, he stood up and dusted himself off and sat back down on the disgustingly Ugly SEAAA!?
He stopped mid thought.
Were they now on the seats? Looking around, every seat the same. The purple and blue triangles imprisoned within the fabric, more 2D than they had ever seemed (completely helpless to the naked eye, but he now knew differently).
Looking to the window he was just in time for his stop.
Walking out onto the platform, he checked his hand and the weapon it was still wielding but not a knife, a spoon, or a bat did he hold, but an empty tube of Colgate toothpaste completely squeezed out. He tossed it in the bin, shook his head in disbelief and smiled.
So Colgate fights plagues of purple and blue flying triangles as well as plaque.