“Dirty-British-coaster-with-a-salt-caked-smoke-stack…” explodes old Rufus, liberally spraying his fellow passenger’s laptop with spittle.
Alarmed, the man hurriedly changes seats, fishing frantically for a handkerchief.
Rufus grins, man-spreading luxuriously, until a bespectacled student nudges himself into the newly vacated seat.
“Butting-through-the-channel-in-the-mad-March-days…” continues Rufus, his accompanying vigorous elbow thrusts soon despatching the student to the outer deck.
Rufus resumes his louche-like sprawl, grinning, but almost immediately a blue-rinsed matron plumps herself down beside him.
He rolls his eyes. The ferry is busy tonight.
Rufus is cut off in full flow, as a wrinkled hand squeezes his knee conspiratorially, before beginning a slow and languorous journey towards his crotch.
“Lovely…” his new companion purrs, “a soul-mate. My turn now… let me see… “By the shores of Gitche Gumee, of the shining Big Sea Water…”
Rufus, horrified beyond belief, edges closer to the window.
This is nothing though.
Rufus only knows the last verse of “Cargoes”.
Mrs Dangerfield, on the other hand, once won a prize at junior school for reciting the entire 298 lines of “Song of Hiawatha.”
If you don’t know your John Masefield or Longfellow, this will probably mean nothing to you. This is an old story of mine, suitably edited and embellished for Sunday Photo Fiction. If you have 200 words to spare, give it a try, why don’t you?