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Showcasing creative writing by university students around the world.

Illustration by Harry Sankey

Illustration by Harry Sankey

Published Tuesday, December 17th, 2013

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Same Old, Same Old Part III

Kwame took his meal and headed back across the loch to the cooker. There was some drained pasta from last night on the stove which he plumped up with mayo and the fish, sorting himself a meal of tuna pasta. He went over to The Table and was stopped by the Maître D’. “Dinner for two, please,” said Kwame, holding his pasta dish.

Kwame took his meal and headed back across the loch to the cooker. There was some drained pasta from last night on the stove which he plumped up with mayo and the fish, sorting himself a meal of tuna pasta. He went over to The Table and was stopped by the Maître D’. “Dinner for two, please,” said Kwame, holding his pasta dish.

“Do you ‘ave a reservation, sir?” the man asked. His head of expertly slicked hair coupled with his trait of opening his mouth very little when speaking gave him the air of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Maybe that was why he walked funny.

“Yes, I do.” Kwame pointed to a random name on the list, but made sure to let slip a couple of mint humbugs from his sleeve onto the page.

“Ah, yes, but of course!” exclaimed the Maître. “Mademoiselle Penitout, follow me.” Kwame wasn’t a fan of bribery, but he didn’t think this counted. After all, if he had made a proper reservation all of his money would’ve gone to the fat cat owner. At least this way he spread the wealth a bit, and introduced himself to a little bit of preferential treatment from the D.


The Table was a fancy place, always full of the biggest intellectual and artistic minds around. Kwame got a table by the window. To his left, Mr Blobby was in a deep and heated debate with Einstein about the Arab Spring. Kwame didn’t know much about geography, admittedly, and so chose not to interrupt. As he sat down he heard a slam on the table, followed by Albert’s voice: “I’m telling you Blobby: the Spring will not last! If we keep on consuming water at the rate we are now, there will be nothing but an Arab Puddle left by 2020.” Mr Blobby didn’t seem to take kindly to that, and before Kwame’s water had arrived he had stormed out.


Kwame started to tuck in to his pasta. He was pleasantly surprised: maybe it was the complimentary wine, but he was almost sure it was the best meal he had ever made. By the time his plus one arrived he was almost 7/8ths finished. “Oh hey bro, how’s it going?” Kwame asked through a mouthful of carboprotein deliciousness.

“I’m good, thanks. It’s been a long day,” Pat sighed. It was heading up to Christmas, and the post run was beginning to take its toll on the old man. Some of his red locks had started to turn grey and he had a frazzled look about him.

“Unlucky man. Don’t worry, in a few weeks it’ll all be over,” said Kwame in as comforting a manner he could muster.

Pat sighed again. “I know, I know, but between work and Jess’s kittens and sorting out the problems of all those bloody villagers… It’s taking its toll on my marriage, you know. Something’s got to give.” Pat looked really beat up. Kwame offered to buy him a drink.

“No thanks, K. I’ve got to go see the wife, then do a late night run. I don’t know how many more years of this I have in me. I had better be off.” Pat got up, and gave Kwame three kisses on each cheek before picking up his van from the valet. Then he was off again, singing away in the third person.


It was getting late now, and Kwame decided to head back to the mainland. Before he left The Table he picked up some dessert and took it home in a kitty bag for Olpy (the doggy bags always left a bit of fur in the food). It took about half an hour to get back, but he enjoyed the punt. It was starting to get a bit chilly when he landed at the bank. He headed to the living room to find Olpy practicing. He had gotten it into his head that he was to be a ballerino, and to be fair, Kwame was surprised at how much grace and strength were contained in those hairy little legs. Olpy turned off the music (it sounded like The Smiths) as Kwame came in.

“Sorry about the veg, Kwame,” he offered.

“Don’t worry about it, little man. I should’ve realised it wasn’t for you. Shall we forget it ever happened?”


Kwame then brought out the special desert he had picked up for Olpy: snake and cinnamon pie, his favourite. Olpy could barely contain himself and started doing the weasel war dance he did when he was overexcited: his tail puffed up and he darted from left to right in a frenzy, bumping into the coffee table and the antique electron microscope.


Kwame left him to his blissful occupation and decided to get ready for bed. He had an early start tomorrow, after all. And in any case he had bought a new bed and wanted to sleep in it. It was really comfy, with 100% clown hair stuffed pillows. As Kwame slept he didn’t dream, and rather too soon heard the all too present croak of his 6am alarm.


He showered, dressed, ate and hopped on the bus to Dundas court. He waved at Linda at the receptionist’s desk and set about sorting out the sheets in the laundry room. He stole a quick nap too. The residents started to head downstairs at around 10, and when he came into the living room he saw Joany, already with three edges of the jigsaw finished.

“Hi Kwame! I thought you’d never get here.”

“But of course, Joany. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” They finished the jigsaw, and Kwame found out what happened to the postman (he had left for India, around 8 months before the lady at number 6 became the mum at number 6). At four o’clock Kwame found himself in check for the third time in a row by Mr Parsons. Chess was not his game, and he was bored.


He left work to a light spit from a cloudy sky and decided to take the bus home. As he approached his door he heard a crackle from within, and smooth, melodic voices like on old vinyl or a gramophone. Kwame shrugged: he was in quite a musical mood tonight. “This could work,” he thought, and with that he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

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