Chris' Personal *AFP web pages.

Henry McClay focused his eyes into the bottom of his empty tea cup, and frowned. He’d had a long day at work. It had lasted 26 hours. He sat virtually alone in the TV company canteen, his only companions scuttled around his feet looking for crumbs. He got up. Located the exit and strode purposefully towards it.

He felt a force pulling him back.

Every step got harder.

He was inching forwards.

His resolve failed.

He gave into the force and was sucked back inside.
‘Cup of tea, please dear’ He said to Mo, the woman at the counter.
‘That’s eighty four pence’
Henry found the correct money, picked up his tea, and went to sit down.
He was a tea-aholic. It has caused the breakup of his marriage it had caused shares in all major tea manufacturers to rise, and it had caused a lot of wear on his shoes.
Henry was, until recently, a TV producer. Now he was a tired ex-TV producer. He had produced a chat show. Today the guests did not show up, so his presenter had spent half an hour interviewing an empty chair. The chairs had said as much of substance as an average politician, but much, much more than a competent cabinet minister.
He knew his days were numbered, and to save the indignity of being sacked he’d resigned.
Henry sipped his tea.
He felt much better.
‘I’m going to kidnap my daughter from my utterly mad ex-wife.’ He said aloud. He didn’t know why he’d said it. So he thought it silently.
‘I’m going to kidnap my daughter from my utterly mad ex-wife.’
‘That’s better’ thought Henry, ‘I’m not the mad one’
She had left him on grounds of his excessive tea drinking. He had left her on the ground. What really annoyed him, was the way that coffee drinking judge had given her sole custody of their little daughter, Amy. She was usually slightly custardy. It just paid to make sure you were wearing an apron when you cuddled her.
He finished his tea, walked towards the door, and left the building. He came to the car park, located his car and opened the door.
The alarm sounded.
Henry searched for the button to turn it off. That task completed he pressed the button, silenced the alarm, looked sheepishly at the sole ant that had noticed the noise, wondered why he’d had it fitted, sat inside, and closed the door.
He often wondered why he’d bought his Jaguar. He had a faint thought that it was because he’d wanted one when he was a boy. That would be a myth. He wanted one because of the noise.
He turned the key, and the XK engine fired. He blipped the throttle, and the engine note rose to a growl, and died back to a purr. Smiling, he slipped the gearstick into drive, and lazily he drove to his house.
He opened the door to his house, half closed his eyes to lessen the shock and entered. He packed a suitcase and took some provisions from the kitchen, only taking essentials like his self reciprocating clockwork tea strain. He loaded the boot of his 4.2 E-type Jaguar, shut his front door, jumped into his car and with a squeal of rubber on asphalt, he was away.

Chris Chambers
chris.chambers@ukonline.co.uk