Sunday, 28 March 2010

The Sunday Story: Puffin.

We used to have a friend called Puffin. He worked in 'the arts'; illustrator or maybe photographer, I'm not sure which.

Puffin lived at the top of the road in our Sussex seaside town. He had a pleasant home, a pleasant wife, and pleasant kids. He seemed to have a very pleasant life.

One day it all fell apart. Then came divorce, loss of home, alcohol, even begging on the street. He once asked me for a pound.

I don't quite know what happened to him, but I would often see him wandering aimlessly around town, as his ex-wife took a job in a well-known high street store.

He took to travelling on busses. Finally, on a No 7 bus, he died. People just thought he was asleep as the bus went round and round its daily circuit.

Yes; he died on a No 7 bus, and no-one noticed! Not waving but drowning? No, not sleeping but dead.... Poor old Puffin.

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  1. Keep away from that No 7 bus Cro. Even with your bus-pass.

  2. Thanks for that Lady M. I'll do as I'm told!

  3. I hear that they have made it impossible to stay on the Circle Line all day and night, as you used to be able to. Since my life has been such a roaring success, this doesn't affect me, as I always travel by black cab in London, but it's a shame nevertheless.

    I suppose we all have to have an acquaintance like Puffin, and 99 times out of 100, I don't think there was anything we could do about them - maybe...


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