The first story I ever wrote

Oh’ God no!!, It’s Sheila Braithwaite, pretending to struggle with her two tins of peas, in her oversized Sainsbury’s extra strong reusable carrier bag. It’s definitely her, with her blue rinse, and the unmistakable Beige full-length Bingo-bopping flasher mac. Who could forget them dark-brown PVC synthetic fur lined boots that zip up at the sides.

She’s got her Dennis Taylor upside-down glasses on, but two far away to make out her pointed nose and Witch like chin with a mole that has two long hairs curling endlessly out of it. Crows feet galore, but I dare not stare too much, in case she spots me and gives me that snare like stare of entrapment that could turn even Medusa to stone.

I could see her pouring on the pity, with an Oscar winning performance of the definition of pain, second only to a Russian Labour camp documentary. Scanning the area whilst feigning near death using the two tins of peas as the tools of her back- breaking oppression.

The pity beacon set up ready to snare yet another kind helpful yet to be helpless victim. I know her through my mum, though she curses the day she set eyes on her and has been in therapy ever since. My mum used me as a decoy one fateful day, a selfish act to escape her mind-numbing ear bending qualities and I’ll never forgive her for it until my dying day.

Four hour of endless rattling, cups of tea and coffee creams couldn’t get a word in edgeways, didn’t see her draw breath between sentences, paragraphs, and monologues. I went home with what seemed like a microwaved head, bladder problems and sheer determination not to cross her path ever again.

The woman could talk all right, she could speak for England in fact she could speak for the planet, that’s probably why the aliens haven’t invaded yet. It took ten day of Prozac assisted Hypnotherapy to get over the experience and I still have nightmares about it. I only went around to give her a wrongly posted letter; I wonder why my mum sent me and why the postman posted it at the wrong address.

I normally help old people, I’m quite a kind person really, but in this case a full-scale tactical body swerve is the only favourable solution. Good job I’m in a crowded city centre and I’m nicely blended amongst the crowds, but I’m too close in her range to make a break or she’s bound to spot me.

Oh’ shit her once snail pace struggling seems to have speeded up, I’m sure she’s spotted me and she’s coming directly toward me. Time for evasive action she’s much too close so I sneakily turn my back, tilt my baseball cap forward and pretend to look at the special offers in HMV’s window. I then raise the rolled up newspaper I’m holding to the side of my face so she can’t get a glimpse of my side profile.

I can see her reflection in the glass getter closer and closer, twenty yards now, deep breaths to calm my jangling nerves. Fifth-teen yards, still shaking starting to perspire, ten yards, hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Five yards, bowel movements kick in and she only goes and takes a rest, I can almost feel her breathing down my neck.

I’m absolutely damn sure as positive she’s clocked me, please oh pleases God not me again. She fumbles with her carrier bag, it slips from her grasp, a tin of peas roll out, rolling directly towards me, time to make a move.

The voice of doom called out to me "young man can you pick that up for me?" Just hearing that voice put me on autopilot, so still with my back to her I broke into a Linford Christie shouting "BOMB, BOMB, BOMB" in a disguised voice so she wouldn’t recognise it was me. I ran at top speed until I found an alleyway leading to a car park where I could relax, safe in the knowledge that I escaped a fate worse than death.

The bomb squad came to diffuse a tin of peas, but no way wanted to question Sheila they knew all about her down the Police station. Since then I’ve been in hiding, burnt the clothes I was wearing and took a vow never to mention this story to anybody. But the beauty of this story is that no one would dare tell Sheila, so if you want to, go ahead it’s your funeral.