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I Asked For An Autograph
by Mark Elliott


It was the early Seventies and on the outskirts of London and Paul Hall was fumbling his way somewhat uneasily through his adolescent years. Paul had been born in the winter of 1957. During his childhood he had watched television and seen the emergence of the Beatles and the Stones in black and white. He had watched The Black and White Minstrel Show, and he had seen 'Watch With Mother' while sat upon the unstable knee of his overprotective overweight mother, all in black and white. It had seemed as if everything that was made to entertain had to be in black and white. Then in the late Sixties the Hall family took possession of a coloured telly and Paul's world began to take on a slight tinge of fuzzy colours.

By the time he had reached fifteen years of age Paul was six foot tall, thin, gangly and very conscious of it. So much so that he walked with a considerable stoop in order to blend in with the more average sized youngsters that he went to school with. A reserved, pallid skinned young man with an awful lot going on in his developing mind, he was the sort of person that kept himself to himself and just hung around on the fringe of things, although secretly he longed to be part of it all. Being pale and almost ghostly in presence meant he was often the butt of jokes in school and a prime target for the bully boys that preyed on easy goals. At home he was treat like a fifteen-year-old baby by his nervous wreck of a mother, and looked upon as some sort of weak family link by his gargantuan bricklaying father.

So why the hell Paul Hall decided to go and dye his mop of dark brown hair vibrant orange, only you, he, and David Bowie will ever know. The fact was, Paul had fallen in love with the music of Bowie when he first heard Space Oddity a few years earlier, and when Bowie exploded from the screen on Top of the Pops amid all the controversy and make-up, Paul was totally hooked. Since then he had collected anything to do with the fascinating phenomenon that was to follow. He bought 'Sounds' regularly and cut out all the press clippings, and he bought every Bowie record he could get his hands on with the pocket money he was given by his mother.

In his room after school he would listen to, and try to emulate his hero by posing and singing in the mirror. Once when his mother and father were out he had blow-dried his hair into a dirty brown limp spike and he had taken a bright red lipstick and dark eyeliner from his mum's make-up bag and painted his young lips and eyes. He had pouted and sang. He had played air guitar and lived a two-hour life of a pop star, until he heard the front door slam and he rushed into the bathroom to remove the make-up before he was found out. That was the sad thing. Paul Hall was kept closeted and carefully wrapped by his overbearing parents. His mother didn't mind him listening to the records, as long as they weren't loud enough to shake her tranquillisers off the bathroom shelf, but that was as far as it went. Not even posters on the wall of his bedroom. And as far as Mr. Hall was concerned, anyone in make-up that didn't have 'knockers' was a puff! So Paul kept his posters and clippings under his bed, and he kept all of his longings locked up in his head.

Ziggy had hit the headlines with his bi-sexual tendencies and his outlandish style and poise, and Paul just wanted to let the people know that he loved it. The look of Bowie screamed that it was okay to be a little bit different and Paul wanted to do the same. He wasn't sure about screaming at everyone though. He just wanted to communicate with those people who knew what it felt like to be 'into' Bowie.

It had taken Paul an agonising week to decide whether to go red, and when he finally made up his mind he knew there was no going back. Sod his parents, screw his teachers and everyone else who might frown upon his actions, this was going to be the turning point in Paul's life. The first real decision he had ever made without consulting anyone. His mind was definitely made up.

Besides, he could always get a hat. He nervously grinned to himself as he dialled the number of 'Dyeing For The Cause', the trendy new hairdressers in the High Street.

"Halloo, Dyeing fut 'cause owmayayelpyoo?" said the girl with the northern accent.

"Oh, erm, yes, I er, I need to make an appointment please."

"Nop roblem, whenfur?"

"Erm Saturday please."

"Nop roblem whatfur?"

"Erm, a cut and dye, a red dye, well, I think it's like 'Henna red' or something."

"Nop roblem whattime... alftwo?"

"Nop, I mean, no problem." said Paul, sweating.

"Kaythen, name?"

"Er Paul, Paul... er yeah, that'll do" he said, just in case he changed his mind.

"Kay Mr Paulpaul see you Satdee, alftwooo!"

"Yeah, Kay, I mean, fine, nop roblem... shit!"

And so the appointment was made. Saturday came and Paul stooped his way along the High Street in his jeans and denim jacket and stood on the opposite side of the road to where 'Dyeing For The Cause' was situated. The fluorescent lime green and orange fascia was shining in the afternoon sun, making the shop stand out beautifully from the other colourless and unvarying shops in the boring old high street. He stared over the road, thinking to himself that it would be no problem to just turn away and forget the whole thing. He could use the money to buy a couple of records he had been after. He tugged at the lump in the back pocket of his jeans for the picture he had brought to show the girl in the shop. Thoughtlessly, he had chosen quite a large centrefold as an example, and as he unfolded and stared at it, the breeze rustled it in his outstretched hands and it seemed as if the character was trying desperately to burst from the page. That explosion of hair, shooting like fireworks in celebration of the fantastic head it lived upon. The attitude that oozed from the picture gave Bowie the look of a peacock in full show. Bowie was different. He was the full show. Paul longed to capture just one drop of it all and his heart quickened as he felt the urge to go just a little bit wild for the first time in his life.

Besides, he had brought the hat, just in case.

The door burst open and Paul launched himself at the girl standing at the desk, the picture held up in both hands.

"I wanna look like him... like Bowie... I want hair like him... I've got appointment!"

The girl recoiled slightly, then picking up the appointment book she said "Mr Paulpaul innit!"

"Yes that's me... Mr Paulpaul." He said, nodding from the side of the poster he was still holding proudly aloft for the girl to see.

"Kaythen, tek a seat, won't b'long."

Paul sat with the poster like a child on his knee as he watched the row of dryers opposite him, with the row of magazines held up in front of them. Women occasionally peeped around to take a look at the 'boy' in the hairdressers, as it was quite unusual back then. Other girls sat around the salon with their hair in curlers and tin foil waiting to be finished off.

At five fifteen that afternoon, the door of Dying For The Cause opened and Mr Paulpaul stepped, unstoopingly, out into the High Street with a grin like the Joker and a rather beautiful and impressive reproduction of the famous hairdo of Ziggy Stardust. For the first time in his life, he paraded down the road, trying hard, but unable, to avoid glancing in every shop window that he passed. Oh the feeling of pride that consumed him as he and his new spikey hair bounced down the street. People were looking over at him, some stopped and pointed. Young girls giggled and old women tutted loudly. But Mr Paulpaul didn't mind at all. Where once he had hated the thought of being the centre of attention because he had nothing to show, now he revelled in it. He had blossomed and began to shake off the slack cocoon of his boyish ways. The young peacock now had its plume. The transformation had been made in little over two hours. No longer did he stoop to avoid everyone in his path. Now he stood and swelled and strutted like the fine thing, whatever it was, he wanted to be. That is until he noticed a group of skinheads walking the other way on the opposite side of the road. He quickly pulled the red and white bobble hat he had just in case'dly popped inside his jacket, and slipped it over the new mane. Then in one clever move he fell back into his stoop and shrank by eighteen inches. The skins crossed the road towards him but Paul was pretty sure that they hadn't noticed his quick change. He decided to cross over anyway to avoid any confrontation and as he sloped across the road he afforded himself a sneaky laugh thinking that he had outfoxed them. What Paul had failed to realise was that the skins were wearing blue and white.

As he sat on the trolley having his chin stitched by the doctor, the nurses in casualty were very caring and very sympathetic. Then one of them said to him.

"I love David Bowie me, he's so sexy, you must be a real fan eh?"

Paul was slightly dazed and a bit puzzled. How did she know he liked Bowie, he hadn't even spoken to her about him. Then he realised his hair had spoken for him. He remembered throwing the hat into the air at the last minute on the High Street and screaming 'I'm a Bowie fan not a Arsenal fan!' before disappearing under a flurry of blows and kicks from the angry youths that had surrounded him. But that didn't matter any more. He was back to being Mr Paulpaul again and he felt the grin coming back. This was followed by a sharp pain in his jaw as the cut re-opened and blood shot out over the doctors white jacket.

"Hold still Ziggy," said the young doctor. And Mr Paulpaul decided there and then that there would be no more bobble hats and no more shying away from what he stood for.

"We need to get in touch with you're parents." said the nurse. "We can't let you go home alone in case you're concussed as you've had quite a beating. I'll get in touch for you. Just give me your name and telephone number, if you've got one."

"My name is Paulpaul Hall, and the number is 76506." said Paulpaul proudly. The nurse looked puzzled.

"Paulpaul or just... Paul?"

"It is Paulpaul actually, unusual innit!" He said, trying not to smirk.

"Yes, very, is it foreign?"

"Er... yeah. Yeah, it's erm... Venusian." said Paulpaul, searching his head for lyrics. The nurse took out a pen and paper and nodded slowly before saying. "And the number is 765?"

"06." beamed Paulpaul. And the nurse went off to make the telephone call, mumbling 'Paulpaul? Venu... Venusian?'

For an hour or so Paulpaul sat in the reception with the other accident prone and unfortunate victims waiting to be collected or seen to. As he did, he stared constantly at his contorted reflection in a gleaming stainless steel kidney bowl he had been given just in case he felt sick. The aches and pains waned as he moved his head from side to side checking the shock of bright orange hair. Then he shot bolt upright as he saw his mother rushing in through the door and he sat quite still as she flew past him and ran up to the desk.

"I'm here for my son, he's had an accident I must see him." said Mrs Hall, frantically out of breath.

Paulpaul sat silently watching his mother panicking. He felt like a ghost again, Like Randall, or Hopkirk, he couldn't remember which. His mother was the only person that had not taken one bit of notice of him since he had left the hairdressers that afternoon. He liked the thought of that. He obviously hadn't told his mother about going for his hair done because she would have kept him in and stopped his pocket money. He hadn't told anyone just in case he had bottled out and changed his mind.

"What's his name please?" enquired the nurse on reception.

"PPPaul... Paul Hall... I'm Mrs Hall, his Mother."

"Ah yes Paulpaul Hall..."

"Don't be bloody funny. Just let me see my son... he's been beaten up you know!"

"I beg your pardon?" said the nurse, quite taken aback by Mrs Hall's abrupt attitude.

"It's Paul... Paul Hall, that's one Paul... then Hall!" growled a fidgety Mrs Hall.

The nurse frowned and checked the paperwork again.

"Yes, well we do have a Paulpaul Hall, he should be..."

Paulpaul had stood up and walked over to just behind his mother, who was now shaking visibly and getting very angry with the nurse, as well as sick with worry over her darling baby boy.

"Mum, I'm here, I'm alright." Mrs Hall turned around to be confronted by something that vaguely resembled her pale, drab, stooping son. Only it was a tall, grinning, bruised and battered youth with a kidney bowl in one hand, a huge black eye, dried blood on his chin and the brightest, orangest, spikiest hair you'd ever seen in your life.

"Aaahhhhh!" shrieked Mrs Hall.

The nurses were really kind and very sympathetic as Mrs Hall was lifted onto the trolley. "I'm sure she'll be okay" said one nurse. "Oxygen masks and straitjackets always look awful but it's just a precaution really!" she said, as Paulpaul watched his mother being wheeled along the corridor, twitching on the squeaking trolley.

"Hmmm!" said Paulpaul Hall.

Paulpaul stood brushing his hair, performing into the oval mirror above the beige tiled mantle piece. 'Soul Love' was reverberating around the room from his mother's teak radiogram, which stood beneath the window in the small square sitting room. A thin metal framed photograph of the young Paul and his mother sitting on a seesaw was situated on the left-hand corner of the mantle. His father had taken the photograph when they had been on holiday to Blackpool in 1964 and it had remained upon the mantle ever since. Paulpaul hated that photograph. He hated the way he was dressed, in shorts and little white ankle socks. He hated the look on his face, the look that his mother called innocence, but what he now knew as blank repulsion. And he hated even more, the fact that it was his mother who was sat at the other end of the contraption. While his little sandled feet were planted firmly on the concrete, the other end of the seesaw flew high into the air with his mother shrieking into the limp grey skyline. He could hear the shriek every time he looked at the photograph, and he remembered how he had been able to see his mother's big purple knickers as she bounced herself into a frenzy, controlling the apparatus as well as her sons enjoyment.

He hadn't seen his mother since the day she had been admitted to hospital over a week ago, and even then it had only been for those few brief moments as she flipped at the sight of the new and improved version of her baby boy. Her reaction had not seemed extreme or unexpected, as he knew she was often on the verge of a breakdown. The endless bottles of pills and the vicious mood swings meant that the atmosphere in the Hall household was one of perpetual friction and instability.

Paulpaul was under strict instructions to stay away from the hospital from his dad, who as usual, was at work. The week that had followed the attack had been spent by Paulpaul doing an awful lot of what fifteen year old boys going through puberty do in their solitude, and swanning around the house enjoying his records at full blast while his mother was kept medically subdued in a hospital bed and his father earned the rent on a building site somewhere in central London. Paulpaul was recuperating at home and he was in no hurry to get back to fitness. His injuries, coupled with his mother's illness had given him the perfect opportunity to miss school for a couple of weeks at least. The bruising around his jaw was now yellow, giving him a jaundiced look and seven stitches clung to his chin like a tangled orgy of spiders. The swelling had gone down on the eye that had been blackened, but a thin purple line of bruising gave the impression of dark eye shadow running around the lid.

Paulpaul wasn't missing his mother, far from it. In the short time she had been incarcerated, Paulpaul found he had a lot more freedom as his father worked almost every day. After he finished work he went to the pub and then occasionally to the hospital, then invariably back to the pub again, which meant Paulpaul had the house to himself most of the time. His father seemed to be positively revelling in the honeymoon of her breakdown, and if anything his reaction had been more of a shock to Paulpaul than anything else. In fact Paulpaul had half expected a beating after his decision to have his hair styled, but not by anyone he wasn't acquainted with. He'd wrongly anticipated it would be his father who would have reacted violently ten days earlier. However quite the opposite had happened. Barring the odd comment, one of which included the warning not to visit his mother in hospital, his father had mostly ignored Paulpaul since the incident, and that suited both of them fine. Without Mrs Hall issuing endless erratic instructions to the pair of them the place seemed a lot more serene, and both Paulpaul and his father were quite happy for the arrangement to continue for the foreseeable future.

Paulpaul had to go to the hospital to have his stitches removed, and he had decided to visit his mother at the same time, despite his fathers instructions not to. His father hadn't told him how she was doing, and the lack of communication between them had begun to make Paulpaul wonder how bad she really was. None of the family had enquired of her well being, and Paulpaul thought she might be lonely and needing a bit of company. Also, there was an album he was after and he hadn't had any pocket money for nearly a fortnight.

He had a bus to catch shortly, so he went over to the radiogram and carefully lifted the needle before Ziggy had the chance to scream he was an alligator. Then with great delicacy, he raised the naked record from the turntable, spinning the shiny black wax in his fingertips and spanning the radius between the label and the rim with thumb and middle finger. He lovingly slid the precious commodity back into the white inner sleeve, before slipping the semi-clad beauty gently into its glossy overcoat. Ziggy stared at him from beneath the yellow streetlight and the K. WEST sign, and Paulpaul was wondering whether the sign had a hidden meaning. "Perhaps its 'Quest'" he muttered to himself as he went upstairs to put the album back into place on the shelf in his bedroom. Coming back downstairs he pushed his fingers through his pride and joy and grabbed his denim jacket off the bottom of the bannister before clashing the front door behind him and bouncing down the street towards the bus stop.

An hour later the bus pulled up outside the hospital. As Paulpaul was getting off, he brushed passed a girl getting onto the bus. She looked up at him and smiled. She was older than Paulpaul, about seventeen years old with very shiny, shoulder length jet black hair and the most gorgeous striking ice blue eyes that were glistening above the delicate, but profound white cheekbones. Like Paulpaul, she was quite tall and thin. She wore bright blue jeans, and a white tee shirt beneath a short leather jacket. Paulpaul was stunned by her attractiveness, and he struggled to drink in the beauty. He stood on the pavement and watched as she walked along the inside of the bus. She was still looking and smiling wildly at him. As the bus slowly pulled away, Paulpaul lifted his hand to wave her off, almost as if they were old friends. As he did she grabbed her leather jacket with both hands and pulled it open while cheekily sticking her tongue out. His heart leaped. He could see the tee shirt had a Bowie imprint, and he couldn't help but notice that the girl's nipples were pert and protruding through the cotton, as she wore no bra. The bus picked up speed and the girl sat herself on the back seat, turning momentarily to blow Paulpaul a kiss from the rear window. He stood mesmerised and shocked, and not a little turned on by the vivacity and impudence of this gorgeous girl, as the bus shrank into the distance along the main road.

Paulpaul couldn't get her out of his head as he proudly bounced through the car park and up to the casualty department of the hospital, running the short film of their brief and wordless encounter through his mind time and time again. No girl had ever struck Paulpaul in that way. Normally the girls at school either blanked him or said a simple and casual 'Hello Paul' but now that Paulpaul had arrived, with his fiery mane, people noticed. People actually looked and noticed that Paulpaul Hall had arrived.

His stomach churned when he thought of her, and then it became a whirlpool of anxiousness when he realised that he might never see her again. 'Shit, I have to see her again. I have to speak to her.' His mind was racing as he entered the hospital, but almost immediately the pungent smell of disinfectant hit him and switched the channel in his head to the day of the accident. He stopped and looked at the rows of chairs. Only a couple of people were sitting waiting to be seen. One was a workman with his arm in a makeshift sling, and the other was a small girl in her gym kit accompanied by what seemed like her mother, who was reading a magazine and telling the girl to sit still and be quiet. It was a lot quieter than the last time he was there. Then he noticed the reception desk where he had confronted his mother with his new hairdo and he recalled the commotion as she screamed he was the devil incarnate. The endless shrieking and screaming, and the squeaking of the hospital trolley.

"Young Mr Hall isn't it?" It was the same nurse who had been on reception that day.


"You look a lot better now. Have you come to get your stitches out?"


"Just take a seat, and the nurses will call you in when they're ready."

"Okay, yeah."

"How's your mum?"

"Yeah, fine, yeah... I mean, well I don't know really, I haven't seen her. I don't know which ward she's in see. I mean... I haven't been able to come over to see her because... because I've had to look after things at home, you know."

"Oh she's still in is she?"

"Yeah, but my dad says she's okay. She'll be home soon. But I wouldn't mind seeing her today, if I can find out which ward she's on."

"Hang on a moment then and I'll try and find out for you." The nurse picked up the telephone and dialled a short number.

"Hi Sue, it's Brenda in casualty. I'm trying to find out the whereabouts of a lady that was admitted on the... twelfth. Her name is Hall... Christian name..."

"Florry... Florence," whispered Paulpaul.

"Florence Hall. Any record there?" There was a few moments silence and the nurse tapped her pristine fingernails on the laminate counter.

"Oh. Yes, I see. Yes I know, she was. She was yes, very! Okay then Sue. Thank you Sue, byeee."

Paulpaul was wondering what all the talk had been about on the phone. The 'yes, very' bit had him concerned.

"Apparently your mum has been transferred. She's gone over to another hospital that erm... that's more suited to her condition, I mean it's a lot more equipped than this place."

Paulpaul's head dropped slightly and he raised his eyes to the nurse.

"Which one?" he asked tentatively.

"Stanfield House" whispered the nurse, checking her watch and writing something in the large register on the desk.

Paulpaul was stunned as he slowly wondered over and sat down.

Stanfield House was what locals called 'the nuthouse'. People went into that place and never emerged again. It was a huge old Victorian building set in its own grounds and surrounded by a ten-foot wall, and its enormous wrought iron gates were manned twenty-four hours a day. 'Not Stanfield nuthouse. She can't be that bad.' His mind was filled with visions of people in loose cotton hospital gowns wondering aimlessly around the grounds, while others were tethered in rooms and lying sedated. He could see his mother knocking hell out of the wardens and male nurses. She was a powerful woman, and had knocked his dad to the floor on two occasions in the past with fierce right hooks. 'Not Stanfield' he thought. His worry then turned to anger at the way his father hadn't told him, then guilt as he remembered it was his own actions that had sent her there in the first place. 'I knew she was bad, but I didn't think she was a nutter, not a real one anyway. I shouldn't have done it, I shouldn't have got my haircut, and things would still be the same. Shit. Shit shit shit!' But then he remembered how he had vowed to himself not to go back to his old and boring ways, and anyway, if he hadn't gone to the hairdressers that day, he wouldn't have seen the girl on the bus today. He made his mind up that he would try and find her again, and also that there would be no need to sneak a view at his dad's soft porn magazines for inspiration when he got home.

"Paulpaul Hall, can you come through please?" The nurse spoke with a lovely soft Irish lilt, and she beckoned Paulpaul, who got up and followed her through some double doors, up a corridor and into a small side room, still puzzled by the news of his mother.

"Don't be nervous, it'll only take a couple of minutes."

"No, I'm not, its just something else."

"Lie down on the bed and I'll have them out no time."

'I wish' thought Paulpaul as he lay back on the hard hospital bed and looked at the nurse's ample breasts filling out the uniform. She was about thirty-five years of age and she had a full figure with a pretty oval face and a short bob of auburn hair.

He lay back, closed his eyes and his mind switched back to the girl on the bus. How on earth could he find her again? Fortune had a wicked sense of humour, just giving you half a chance then whipping it away from you. Then he jumped as the nurse dabbed something very cold on his chin, momentarily opening his eyes to see the nurse right above him, then closing them again quickly, not wanting to be caught ogling.

"Cold stuff that isn't it?" she said. Her voice was beautifully warm and nearer now and he wanted to open his eyes to look closely at her but he was afraid. A gentle whiff of perfume filled the air around him and he could feel her breath on his face.

"Freezing." said Paulpaul.

"You're going to have a bit of a scar here. Nothing drastic though" she whispered.


Paulpaul could feel her breast pressing onto his shoulder as she dabbed and snipped at his chin. He had never been near a woman's breast, never mind have it pressed on his arm, and being the young adolescent that he was, Paulpaul was finding it difficult to keep his mind off sex. She put her hand on his cheek and said softly "Just turn this way a little will you, and relax."

By now his mind was connected directly to groin area, and the soft touch of her gentle hands on his skin was causing some serious discomfort in his jeans. He was imagining her turning his face to kiss him passionately. His hand being taken and pressed onto her bosom. His mind was on fast forward, spinning through a fantasy with this lasciviously wanton Irish nurse, who was completely oblivious to what was going on in the overactive mind of her young patient. Paulpaul could feel the blood rushing through his veins, heading directly south. It was all too much for him, the smell, the silken touch, the velvet voice and warm breath on his face. In his imagination she wanted him as much as he wanted her and she was straddling him on the bed, tearing at his bulging jeans while doctors and nurses passed by the frosted glass window only feet away. His legs began to stiffen, his eyes disappearing into the back of his head while lightness and breathlessness, and a feeling of total elation swept uncontrollably over him. His hands gripped the side of the bed.

"Gnnnn, aarrrrghhh... gggGod!"

"Now come on, it's only a few stitches coming out, a big lad like you should be able to handle that," said the nurse.

"Oh, ohh, ohh. I'm sor... I'm sorry." he gasped.

"Now look what you've done, with all that straining you've made it bleed, I'll have to get something for it."

The nurse turned and began fumbling around in a drawer for something to stem the trickle of blood. Paulpaul lifted his head up. He was trying desperately not to pant loudly and catch his breath at the same time. He looked down at his faded jeans and saw the denim gradually darkening. The nurse turned back to him and Paulpaul lay his head back onto the stiff white pillow, placing his hands over his private parts to try and hide the collapsing bulge and the ever-increasing wet patch.

"You must a have low one" she said.

Paulpaul was squirming inside, he thought that she had noticed and that she was talking about sperm count. His words were interspersed with a gentle panting.

"I don't know... it's never happened before... honest... I don't even know why it... happened... I couldn't help it, you know... the smell, perfume, and you, well... oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I've never even... you know, and..."

"No need to be sorry, lots of people have a low pain threshold, its all to do with the chemicals in your brain."

"What! Eh, pain, ohhh... oh I see, yes, you mean. Oh I do, yes definitely. I hate pain. A low threshold that's me. Always have had... its, its me chemicals... that's right, not enough of them you know... hehe."

"Well that's you done anyway. Just lie there for a while with your head back and dab the blood with this tissue. It'll soon stop. I'm just popping out to reception a minute."

Paulpaul lay on the bed motionless until he heard the door click shut. He was in a most confused state. A feeling of total embarrassment, sexual inadequacy and downright stupidity weren't the only things to come over him. He jumped up, took his jacket off and held it over his groin. Then he went back out into the casualty department, and with a wave of his hand still holding the tissue, he shouted to the two nurses at the desk. "I'm okay now, I think it's stopped. Thanks, bye." And he limped out of the hospital hurriedly in an exaggerated stoop with a trickle of blood running down his chin, and with his jacket clasped over the other, more embarrassing trickle of youthful exuberance.

© Written by Mark Elliott (aka Spud).

Arts Lab Writing Top Arts Lab Photography
Created: Dec. 2000 © Paul Kinder Last Updated: 15/12/00