Short Story... Don't mess with the London Underground...

I hate the London Underground. In fact, I hate it so much that I feel a bit sorry for it. Anyway, after a crap journey, I wrote this, and it turned out fairly well, so here it is...

Having taken the wrong branch of the District Line yet again, Potero stood on the platform and swore. He cursed the London Underground; the stupid people who made huge misleading signs, and teeny weeny correct ones, which they generally hid.
He cursed the engineers who designed the track, and he took the name of Harry Beck, the clever cartographer who made the tube's map, very much in vain.
He threw the fate of the train’s driver under the wheels of the next train; and sent all the other drivers after it. He also vented his ire on his former fellow passengers; cursing every last glance too quickly turned away, each conversation never started, every newspaper unshared then discarded.

He even cursed himself three times, for how stupid must he be to have done this thing yet again?
Rage should have turned his eyes black and fire should have sprung from his lungs to singe the hair of passengers with wheelie bags in rush hour, but it couldn’t, instead he stood on the platform in a funk.

As if it felt his anger, and who knows, maybe it did, the platform beneath him began to heave, as though a train was trying to break through right under his feet.
He fell to his hands and knees, vainly grasping for something to hold onto to prevent himself being cast onto the lines. Concrete splintered like biscuits under his fingers, casting ceramic tiles into the air, it felt like London had been struck with a force seven earthquake.

Potero didn’t hold out much hope for his safety, but, when the ground stopped convulsing he was still alive. He scrambled to his feet and started looking beyond the bodies of screaming, moaning people for a way out, but, before he could do anything, his attention became fixated by what was happening to his feet.

His leather brogues had become quite tight, too tight for him to walk. At first they appeared merely swollen, but it soon became clear they were growing. His shoelaces popped first, then agonisingly his big toes broke through the leather and flopped out onto the broken platform, huge, reddened, the nails now the size of his hand, the skin as tender as a newborn’s. Every rough grain of concrete grit rammed like needles into his sole.

“Arrrgh! My feet!” He yelled. But nobody came to his aid; somehow it was as if they sensed he wouldn’t have helped them in return. So, painfully and slowly, all on his own, he made his way up the stairs.

When he finally crawled out into the concourse, he found lots of people milling around moaning, saying they were hurt and generally getting in his way; at least that’s the how he saw it. Someone bumped into his tender feet, making him shriek and decide to get out as soon as possible. He rudely waved away the kindly administrations of a medic and headed for the nearest exit on hands and knees.

At long last making it to street level, he spied a street vendor selling slippers.

‘That’s exactly what I need.’ He thought, imagining the soothing feel of fluffy cotton slippers on his poor hurting feet, at the same time imagining them pink and wondering why.

“Hello there my man,” he addressed the stall keeper, “Do you have any slippers big enough for me?” He waved towards his enormous feet, which he needn’t have done, because they were now by far the most noticeable thing about him, even more so than his flourish of a moustache, monocle and the bat’s head buttons on his green ex-Russian army great coat.

“Ay up, guv.” The vendor replied, knowing he had to perform for the occasion. “Yes, but the only slippers I have that are big enough for you, are magic slippers, and they cost £100.”

“£100! That’s a lot of money for slippers.” Shrieked Potero.

“You pay the extra for the magic, Sir.”

“Magic? What do they do?”

“They float, Sir. Just like a boat in water, but in the air.”

Floating slippers! They sounded exactly like what he wanted.

“I’ll take them!” He cried.

“Right you are. That’ll be £200 then.”

“What? You thieving wretch! You said they were £100 just now.”

“Each, Sir.”

“Each?”

“Yes, Sir. They’re magic slippers, Sir. Them’s don’t come cheap now.”

“Aren’t you slightly over-egging the accent now?”

“Apples and pears, my lover, apples and pears. £200 for the pair, no less, no more. Very comfortable on.”

“Oh, alright.” Grumbled Potero, plucking the money from his back pocket. It was rent money, but he was desperate.

When he put on the slippers they felt beautiful, the inner was made from the softest lamb’s wool and they cushioned his hurting feet beautifully, as if he were standing on a cloud. In fact, from below, watching him precariously gripping a street lamp, trying to keep level, it looked very much like he had two little fluffy nimbo-cumuli strapped to his feet.

“Well, try ‘em out then.” Yelled the stall owner, wondering if that was the plural for nimbo cumulus.

“What?” Potero yelled back down.

“Take a step.” The man called back, impatiently.

“What, a step?”

“Yes! It’ll be a bit odd at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

“Won’t I drop?”

“No.” Lied the man, who hastily collected his wares, expediently gathering the stall’s tablecloth corner to corner and slinging it over his back. As he galloped off down the road, he muttered under his breath, "But be aware of the gap as you leave the train.".

Potero, who didn’t hear or see him go, tentatively let go of the street lamp and was soon bobbing up and down on the spot. Slightly wobbly but totally amazed; the floating slippers seemed to be holding his weight, it made him feel strange; an odd tightening around his chest, which anyone else would have recognised as excitement, awfully close to that light-headed feeling you get from jumping up and down on a bouncy castle for too long.

But it didn’t stay that way. As soon as he took his first step it felt like he was walking through jelly; as soon as one foot went up  the other would sink. He found it impossible to achieve an equilibrium, the slippers seemed to have a mind of their own, he found himself marching in the air, arms flailing about. Abruptly, he slipped, his feet skidded from under him and he was left hanging in the air upside down, with his face dangling in front of a glowing red bifurcated circular sign: the logo of the London Underground. This one marked a different entrance to the station from which he had emerged.

Frantically, he clawed for the sign, fearing he would slip from the cloudy slippers, but it was too late, they had other ideas. His fingers barely scraped the sign's plastic surface before he was whisked away, up over all the streets, roofs, and towers of the city of London and into the freezing cold stratosphere, where he froze into a deathly, Potero shaped, icicle.
The tube carried on as normal.