VOTE ON THE STORY YOU'D LIKE ME TO CONTINUE!

OK chaps and chapesses. Here is a story I started writing a while back. Just found it on an old PC. There is another as well that I shall post soon. I am tempted to carry on with one of them. In the same vain as the insane number of inane TV programmes that beg us to vote on their outcome I am allowing you; the reader to decide via the wonderful tool of democracy which you'd like me to carry on with...

Not totally sure how the world of blogging allows you to vote, but if you really want it you'll find a way!

1. Another day, another dollop.

It was all very well documented. Even the most superficially minded 17 year old student could manage these set tasks. But, Al, this morning was struggling to remember the intricate details regarding the opening of the café. Tuesday mornings always proved a problem. Tuesday mornings in Watford were especially a problem. Having smoked 40 cigarettes the day before and a similar amount of alcohol units consumed confrontation with the order of propriety preparation was inevitable.

Nothing worked. The world was out of balance. How could Al even begin to consider ensuring that the café’s over-priced food was fit for service, being within the government guidelines when the land surrounding him had been torn from its moorings and left floating queasily, undulating. The need to ensure that the precise science of coffee making to provide skinny, Italian-sounding beverages dusted with a whisper of cocoa so adored by people who commute to work by train was not a priority to a man whose unshaven appearance was bound to attract unwanted attention from middle management.

“Forget to shave this morning, Al?”

Al hadn’t forgotten to shave this morning. Far from it. He had taken much consideration of the factor of wanted hair removal. He had reached the point of being all lathered up and raring to go, but decided that this emerging beard was a good one. It had a more realistic beard approach to it. The sort of beard that was symmetrical, showing the world that OK, who cares if Al still worked in the same job he had at university, this was a beard of a man who could be quite at home in the civil service.

Saying nothing would not suffice, but speaking would illustrate that Al was not firing on all cylinders. “Yeah”.

That should do, keep all parties happy. Dignified the middle manager with a response but held close the true nature of Al’s condition.

Sylvia edged passed. Al withdrew his stomach from her direction of passage. An unwanted act of CO2 expulsion from his lungs struck Sylvia as she went passed. Al loved Sylvia, she was hot. She was one of those ballsy, mid twenties girls from a former-soviet country. Her knowledge of English was poor, but her grasp of the British way to avoid embarrassment by keeping mum always made her more interesting. She would say anything to anyone. She didn’t find black people attractive. Fair enough, Al hated gingers. But it was the situations that seemed to trigger Sylvia into action. ‘I don’t like black people’, shot from her emotionless face in the direction of a black man in the queue. That’s why Al liked her. There was no maliciousness in her comments, just the lacking of a social grace that made her often inappropriate choice of nouns and adjectives so amusing.

“Al, you smell of alcohol”.

She was certainly consistent