True Story about a Fictional Meeting with Alain de Botton III

I scooped up the crumpled piece of paper with Alain’s address written across it. His London address. Very odd. “Very odd indeed”, I repeated to myself out loud. I placed the note in the inner breast pocket of my jacket and shook myself gently as if to dismiss the rising sense of foreboding inside me. “Oh, quite odd, so very… odd” I said again, surprising myself with the immensity of how foolish I must sound. I huffed — daylight waits for no man, after all — stretching my legs out before me in conscious strides, battling the palpable objections in my legs, I rushed out the door towards Primrose Hill.

“Left, right, left, right…”, I told myself

After 5 minutes of mutiny, the recalcitrant bushels of wasting tissue I call legs had conceded to my urgent calls for forward motion. I could feel the beat of feet bashing into pavement coursing up my feeble bones and sending vibrations through my chest. My embattled neck, long since negligent of it’s original duties, let my head sway in an uncontrollable ellipse like a tetherball.

Entering the tube station I slowed my gait, widened the gap between my shaking legs for improved stability, and clung to the escalator as it pitched us all slowly downwards into the screeching hot air below.

To Be Continued…

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