Tuesday, 10 February 2009

Stranded eyelid-flutterers

Drank too much last night, got bills to pay
My head just feels in pain
Missed the bus again, and there'll be hell today
Late for work, again.
Even if I'm there, they'll all imply that I might not last today,
But then you called me then it's not so bad, not so bad...

– Dido, 'Best Day of My Life'

Today, the Intellectual Hooligan tells you a story. As is the case with all such tales, you should bear in mind the fact that the events recounted herein are obviously entirely fictitious and the characters entirely hypothetical. Any resemblance with real-life individuals is, may I emphasise, quite coincidental.

The above established, I ask you to picture a pair of seasoned travellers. Let us call them Duncan and (for continuity's sake) Gabrielle.

Such beautiful names.

Duncan and Gabrielle – eyelid-fluttering romantics that they are – are executing an airport rendezvous at, let's say (to choose at random) Birmingham International Airport.

('No better place' I hear you murmur, '... for a rendezvous of eyelid-fluttering romantics.' Quite, quite.)

Our heroes, travel-weary, aircon-dried and heavy-lidded (from all that fluttering), decide to lift their flagging spirits with a hot beverage or two, before stylishly monorailing their way towards the adjoined train station – wherein they propose to catch (expectation-defyingly) a train.

That Costa fake leather, howsoever, is so comfortable – the coffee so soothingly aromatic -- the conversation so scintillating, so witty – that time capers and dances its beguiling, um, gavotte. And the minutes gambol by unheeded.


[The Guillotine of Fate, correspondingly, swishes down.]

Arriving at the station, poor Duncan and Gabrielle discover – to their horror, dismay and mild embarrassment – that they have missed their train. Their fluttering eyes spraying teardrops hither and (mark ye!) thither – like four sprinklers on a hosepipe-ban-defyingly middle-class nouveau-riche front garden – the unfortunate pair cast about desperately for solace – like mice, casting about desperately for solace (and/or cheese).

But – alack! – the train that they have missed was the last train.

Ay. There's the rub.

Indeed, the only solace with which they are confronted is that of sweet-voiced pop songstress Dido, whose sultry over-the-shoulder gaze – whilst undeniably stirring – nevertheless fails to reassure their aching hearts:

'Oh aaaah-eeee want to thank you / For giving me the best day-eeeeh o-of my lie-eeef', she seemed to whisper.

Oh what shall become of our perplexed heroes? Tune in [fly, my pretty-yet-outmoded metaphor; fly!] tomorrow to find out.

The Intellectual Hooligan would like to take this opportunity to remind his devoted readership that, as stated in the prelude to this post, the events abovechronicled are without basis or parallel in real life. The fact that photographic illustration is provided should be discounted as anomalous.

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