Half of WH Smiths made a run for it as she crammed the sheep manual (lovingly titled<span style="font-style: italic">‘Get over it’</span>, by the one and only Dr Phil);  back into the mouth of her handbag<span style="font-style: italic"> or ‘RETRO,</span>( always in big Charlie and the Chocolate factory font)<span style="font-style: italic">SHOULDER HOLSTER’</span>if you bought it from the market.<br/>Fuck that shit.<br/>Anything with a 1940’s floral print came in either handbag or charity shop curtain form and should certainly never cost more than ten dollars. No if’s or but’s. That was the law of the jungle as Mammy would say…<br/><br/>Almost as though it had read her mind, the gran-strosity clipped her upside the ears as she scrambled to herd everything back in. Somewhere behind her someone was scowling. Probably a lot of someones. Even closer back there her jumper was making a habitual meal of the straps and threatening to tear her clothes off upon up-righting and the cheery Self Help manual wasn’t helping matters, arguing for its release and straining against the loud print.<br/><br/>It possibly wanted to run off and help the world, maybe it had an audience with the Pope?<br/><br/>That was always the way, wasn’t it? The second that you decided you were in a rush, so did your luggage.<br/>Did Haulage companies have this problem? When their vans slipped anxiously over the speed limits did their cargo slip anxiously from the straps? Or was there a fundamental difference between a haul and a lug? Could something as old as language dampen that sweet freedom instinct ingrained in inanimate objects… like car keys. They were a good example! How often did they gain a life of their own and made a break for it?<br/><br/>Today for example.<br/><br/>Was this perhaps a question for a thousand philosophers through a thousand ages and not one for some girl forced to take the train because of vanishing keys?<br/>Nossir.<br/>Good questions, REAL questions, came to anyone at any time.<br/><br/>Was<span style="font-style: italic">‘if someone’s reading my mind this could be embarrassing,’</span>REALLY be a good reason to deny them their opportunity to be mulled over? When was the last time someone sat and had a<span style="font-style: italic">proper</span>think on the opposing natures of The Majestic Haul and the Triumphant Lug? Chrissi, as she sorted her shit and checked her watch, liked to imagine that the two lumpy words no longer felt ignored by the articulating community in rue of prettier phrases (like ‘waxing moon’ or ‘silver quarter’) and that she had breathed new life into them.<br/><br/><br/>Eight.<br/><br/>O’clock.<br/><br/>Well, kind of eight-twenty-something, it was hard to tell with half the screen smashed in, looking like manufactured spider webs in the glass… Mystic Meg couldn’t read this thing! Maybe if clocks had palms instead of faces…<br/><br/><br/><br/>Somebody cleared their throat from behind her, the noise was a bullet. Or a warning that she was in their way, the two were strangely similar in the land of The Tube.<br/><br/>“Sorry,” the mumbled and let a man with half his net worths weight in baggage shuffle past. The train jerked to a halt and she found herself squeezed onto the platform like a zit. It was  eight thirty-spider web as she struggled up the corridor like a canned sardine looking for leg room. Chrissi separated from the flock, skipped the escalators and hauled (or lugged) ass up the numerous flights of tightly wound spiral fire stairs like a true travelling veteran.<br/><br/>Hurrying wasn’t in her nature, but she’d been scolded twice this month already for being late and the new boss had a three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy in place, which, honestly, was still a damn sight better than her previous employer.<br/><br/>These ways weren't common use and were practically invisible unless one day pointed out. They were made up of burning ether-y smells, yellow painted edges, soot speckled white tiled walls and flickering sodium tube lighting, traits shared in common with every other underground station and probably numerous circles of Hell. At least it was quieter here. You lost the usual nasally intercom announcements and the barks and chittering of a thousand passengers a minute dulled to a hum in a can. When the trains shook by, all signs of life were lost entirely, you were in the labyrinth intestines of a metropolitan beast listening to its urban intestines gurgle.<br/><br/>Sexy stuff.<br/><br/>She flicked a three-stringed violinist a couple of notes as she sped past for gusto alone.<br/><br/><br/>It was on rare occasion that the commuters ever spared more than a glance to the decrepit and suffering, let alone change. They didn't so much extend the arm of charity for the good of the ill as they used it to veer the vermin, low lives and homeless clear off of the platforms.<br/>Violin briefcases, begging dogs and all.<br/>Boom.<br/>Money went to sticker circles where the more talented bums held auditions for an allotted time slot, in fact, she was half surprised they hadn’t made a reality show on it yet. Guess all the best presenters hadn’t had their tetanus shots yet.<br/><br/><br/>Not that Chrissi blamed them, money was hard to come by and even harder to share in the current economic climate.<br/><br/>'City living', as the glad rag magazines called it, was a jading experience for most. Only the few that had slipped the cagey call of the rat race, and additionally developed a lax outlook, could ever really afford to take in so much of their surroundings. To anyone high strung (like most, for they are driven to be. What with all the business meetings, predatory taxi's, newspaper headlines screaming rape and bloody muggings, shrill hissings and acid stench of fast food, the endless commercials tallying up reasons why your life would be AND IS dreadful without the purchase of product X, clueless tourists milling around so slowly they could be going backwards, deadlines, parking wardens, you name it! It was a wonder any poor soul functioned without slow cooking on their blood pressure) yes, to anyone high strung it was a drain on the senses and a battering to the emotions.<br/>Your best option was to shut yourself down, set your priorities, run on motor functions and otherwise drown that, god given, gut instinct to do good and fight or get the hell out with a dose of aspirin and half a shot of fruit smoothie. The doctor said you needed that daily recommended allowance of 'fun and relaxation' and there it was. Bam. All in a neat strawberry and banana package, no laughing involved. Easy!<br/><br/>As far as Chrissi's memory stretched (mind you, it got thinner the further you went, like a wad of gum lodged in the grooves of a boot. Forgive her if she's wrong!) she could recall no real feat of generosity towards the homeless and sick, no matter how tatty their sleeping bag or worn their shoes. One time she even caught a guy making such an effort to avoid their sunken gazes that he tripped clean over a fellah who'd been making the dip between the escalators as homely as humanly possible.<br/><br/><br/>It irked her and she hated that it irked her. In reality it should have sickened her, infuriated her, kicked her into gear to take immediate action!<br/><br/>But then…<br/><br/>--She swiped her ticket and dove into the sun, skipping curbs and dancing between parked cars—<br/><br/>… then it must have gotten to her too, City living…<br/>Ouch. What a thought that was…<br/><br/>Living Scribe headquarters dawned upon her like enlightenment unto Buddah.<br/>Or at least the building that housed it did, headquarters actually sat in a labyrinthine conquest of rented box offices and sales insurance floors, one level even housed a tiny, hand-made doll company in the far corner, it wasn’t too pricey and it wasn’t too shabby. It wasn’t exactly like working from home like her last job either, but it would most certainly do!<br/><br/>Giving the security guy a hurried nod, she darted across the lobby, heat and movement now sucking her shirt into the small of her back and plastering her fringe to her forehead.<br/><br/>What if she HAD changed though?<br/><br/>Chrissi frowned to herself as she punched in the number on the elevator. What IF living in a City had broken her spirit, like those wild horses in that Disney film…? Nope. NOPE. That was just thinking stupid, you really couldn’t afford to think stupid in times like—<br/><br/>After a pleasant<span style="font-style: italic">ding</span>the doors swung open and she was immediately hailed by the most nasally New York accent on Gods green earth, “AH! There you awre!” Shantelle trotted over in her ever towering hells, just HOW she came to work over phones sounding like Popeye’s Olive Oil Chrissi would never know.<br/><br/>Panic flooded the system, her blood went cold, “Ohgod—how bad is it?” Chrissi winced tripping over herself on the exit. How could this happen, she left early, set seven separate alarms, bought breakfast bars for the love of—<br/><br/>“Ahhh no, no, nowt at awl deayer!” Shantelle held up a hand defensively, perfectly made up face looking all apologetic, “I gawt you a cawfee!” cue girly giggle.<br/><br/>Chrissi visibly sunk with relief and took the paper cup from the standard McDonalds cardboard container gratefully, “Cheers Shannie, oh, you have literally NO idea…”<br/><br/>There was a sudden change in Shantelle, her expression was a car crash as depicted by Avon, all grimace with pearly white teeth and stark red lippy, “Aaaactually,” she started and Chrissi’s heart stopped—oh she knew that tone alright..<br/><br/>“Shannie, baby, what’s happened?” Chrissi winced, ready for the looooong one sided conversation about the newest asshole she’d fallen in love with, but they both secretly already knew would screw her over. What she got instead was a sentence condensed down into one breath.<br/><br/>“OkayIwassposedtohavethisnewguyandhe’sgon’callintenminutes,butIgawta dash!” she bunged the other coffee in Chrissi’s hand and pulled out her faux fur coat hidden sneakily behind one of the cubical walls and shrugged it on before Chrissi had time to recover, let alone rebuke.<br/><br/>“Aaand cause I knooow, we’re such good friends,” she illustrated this by taking both of Chrissi’s hands in hers and giving them a friendly squeeze. It wasn’t exactly a lie, Shantelle was literally THE only person to take her side and look out for her since Chrissi started… “I wuuuus hopin’ you’d take it on? Plis?”<br/><br/>“Shannie…” Chrissi groaned, running a hand through her hair.<br/><br/>A squeal split the air, “AAAHHHH THANK YOOUUWA! Oh my GAWD, you’re SECH a good poirson! Stuffs on my desk babe!” a great fat lipstick kiss was smacked onto her cheek and Chrissi was left with hand dripping and sticky from leaked coffee, pools of sweat chilling uncomfortably in the AC and a day of work she had no preparation on, but you know, what else could go wrong!<br/><br/>Shuffling over to the drama-queens desk, she leafed through the sheet left out for her, “Teo.” She mouthed, lips forming the shape of the name, testing it out on her tongue like a new dish as she skim read the details.<br/><br/>Wait, this was Marks old guy…  No wonder Shantelle passed it on, getting to know new clients was easy enough, you started the relationships on your terms, they didn’t know what to expect so they had to trust you at emotional gunpoint, returning customers however…<br/><br/>Chrissi winced, this was going to have to be handled carefully.<br/><br/>“Shantelle,” someone shouted over the top of the cubicals.<br/><br/>“Shannie’s  gone awol, Boss,” Chrissi hollered in return, “I’m taking this one!”<br/><br/>She could almost see the scowl burning through the walls, “Fine then! I’m transferring you now!”<br/><br/>Chrissi nodded and picked up the phone, curling the wire around her finger and crossing her legs, like the world’s most professional teenage girl, “Hullo Teo, this is Christine Petrov, I’ll be acting as your new transcriptionist, how can I help you today Teo?”