Not too Much to Ask
By Mark Burrow
Age is a right bastard. Creeps up on you. I remember the moment I realised I’d never have a tommy tank on the Orient Express. I was devastated. Proper gutted. Some blokes, they dream about free climbing El Capitan, cycling the alps, taking their family to Disney World or Disneyland. Not me. I couldn’t give two fucks about exercise, panoramic views and Mickey Mouse twats. As for a family, no chance. Have you ever noticed how fucking exhausted parents look? People used to say to me, “Have kids, you’ll never regret it.” They’d be fucking nodding off as they said it. Fucking knackered. To be fair, things could have happened with a girl except it ended. Everything ends. I was a nasty bastard. Now I’m bloody lovely. Salt of the earth type. I look both ways before crossing the road, if you catch my drift. I go for a coffee in the park caff. Hobbling along. Crooked. I won’t lie, my life’s fucking shit. All I wanted was a wank on the world’s greatest train. Dreams of dark panelled coaches. Polished brass and velvet trim. Leather. Lots of shiny leather. Holding myself back until I hear that steam whistle cry. It’ll never happen. I realise that now. They wouldn’t let me on the fucking tube. Not the way I am around people. That’s the problem with your dreams. They fade if you let them. I see that now. All I’m left with is me. Here. Alone. Eating tinned fucking ravioli.