celebrating and creating our own LGBTQ+ history in honour of Sheila McWattie

day twenty

Her dreams of a fairy tale white wedding, to a handsome, successful, independently wealthy Philosophy or English Literature lecturer, who had been a swimming champion in his School and University days (with a Bronzed Adonis physique as a result), 2.4 children, both with romanticised Celtic names with unpronounceable spellings, white cottage with dreamy garden and brace of effervescent Labradors (One chocolate and one black), all by the age of 25, had not only vanished, they had been roundly ground to dust and had disappeared into the corners of the sofa of life.

She sat staring out the window of the train from Glasgow Central to London Euston, wishing that the guy opposite would stop imitating a Friesian by chewing his gum with his gormless, open-mouthed and vacuous expression. Worst of all, people kept assuming they were a couple, the stewards speaking to them both at the same time while regurgitating the menu, or offering drinks.

The lights outside punctuated the gloom in her mind, as they flew past, illustrating random habitations that would remain unnamed. At least the complimentary wine was quaffable. As was some of the view at least! There were at least two very fuckable women on board her carriage, along with one guy that was making her drool. So drink in the view she did! That was, however, where it stopped. Much like sitting in a fine restaurant, but being on medication that required meal times to be strictly observed, and not when you are there, she wouldn’t be able to sample the fare! She was quite firmly off the market. And not through any choice or commitment, but simply that she had reached that point in life when to be with someone else was far too inconvenient and complicated matters inordinately more than was necessary.

Besides, who in their right mind would want to take her on, with her small warehouse of baggage and unfeasibly high standards in a potential partner? The baggage and the high standards we will come to later, however, when you match these aspects with an unfalteringly crap choice in partners, an inability to read the most blatant of signs and the self confidence of a juvenile pony beside the M25 at 6pm on a weekday, it becomes much less surprising that she had just spent yet another Christmas and New Year single, and but for the kindness and pity of her family, alone.

The train ploughed on into the darkness. The ‘Train Manager’[1] swayed along the aisle checking tickets. She looked around at the other passengers while Ed Sheeran played his cheeky/melancholy juxtaposition sounds in her ears. Across the aisle was a young man that looked particularly virile, though she strongly suspected he would be less than engaging once they were laying, panting into the bedroom air. He was Mr Right Now, as opposed to Mr Right. The Friesian was still trying, vigorously, to reduce the same piece of chewing gum to molecules. Two seats up on either side sat the women that would form the focus for an amazing threesome fantasy later that night, we’ll call them threesome a and b. It must be understood that she was aware that they are far more than just numbered fantasy items, she just didn’t need to delve that far to benefit from their presence in her thoughts. (And of course there was always the possibility that Mr Right Now would dander into the bedroom of her subconscious while her, a and b were getting funky.)

Yet again alone with her thoughts, she wandered off into the, darker, recesses of her imagination.

[1] Why the fuck they were called Train Managers now was entirely beyond her, although someone, somewhere must have justified the exorbitant cost of the changes to years old manuals and publications to the Board of Directors of ‘UK Rail Inc’ as a damned fine idea.

Kelly Tonks, 40, Folkestone

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