The first thing is from my English mock exam "Think of a place you know well. Decribe it at two different times of the day". This is the first part, in the morning, I'm not sure where the rest is.
On the route of the 19 bus
“On the route of the 19 bus…” The Clash crash into my ears via my headphones, as I sit lodged in the back seat of the red Routemaster. A man, he looks fairly grumpy, turns around, his rough grey hair barely moves with him. It’s about 6am; far to early to talk to strangers, far too early to ask them to turn their music down. But his face says it all. I slide my thumb over the volume control, and push it down ever so slightly. He shuffles in his seat. I turn it down a tiny bit more.
The windows are clear and clean, as I’m the first person to sit here this morning; the glass is absolutely grease free. The air is also clear and clean, and cold as well. Outside it’s just light, and it’s foggy and it’s snowing. I say snowing, but it never really snows here. The pieces of white dissolve into the concrete, so it’s no wonder London is never white.
The bus turns into a dead Piccadilly Circus. There are a few people walking slowly, and a runner with a dog in a neon Spandex suit…tragic! My Walkman drops, and dangles dangerously on the headphone wires. I move, very slowly, very cautiously to pick up the machine without it dropping. The floor of the bus is wooden, dark brown with half-inch thick grooves dug into it. It’s dusty, riddled with flat black circles of chewing gum, and at the edge is a 50p coin which I pocket. I love long bus journies…it’s nice to be able to enjoy the world in a totally passive manner. It doesn’t really work in cars though…there’s always a squabble over who gets the window seat or something trivial like that. But obviously I need the window seat!
-
"On the route of the 19 bus..." I hum silently to The Clash, 'Rudie can't fail'. There's a small wiped space in the steam of the window, a kind of portal into the outside world, and the outside worl s near black. In the darkness, there are specks of colour; the red, amber and green of traffic lights; the blues, lilacs and pinks of neon stips and the creamy whites of house and street lights: Piccadilly Circus at night very much resembles hundereds and thousands strewn across a chocolate cake. The bus comes to a stop and several people sit behind me. On sits infront and her hair spills over the edge of the slightl greasy metal bar.
I can hear the conductor pacing towards the stairs on the lower deck. I sink int my chair, pushing and forcing my body into the orange and brown velvet. I just know that he's going to ask me for my photocard and I just don't have it. The bus is almost full when he come up, and I trace his movement as he penguins his way down to the front and then back up to the minddle. Suprisingly he just quietly smiles and informs me that I "must 'ave it next time, love". I get off two stops later and realise I lest my Metro on the bus. s***.
"Decribe a shop"
This particular shop was very small. It was on the corner of a tiny street, very central, yet very cut off from the rest of the city. The shop was rather strange - it sold odds and ends; bits of junk, stuff without a category.
The man who ran the shop was old and little, his hair was past grey, and he looked as breakable and frail as the small hand-painted porcelain items he kept on the desk near the till. The window on one side was leaded, with panes of antique hand-rolled glass: it had once been an inn. When the man had bought the shop, many, many years ago, he had only the money to replace half of the shops windows, and in had stayed that way ever since. The small panes of glass on the old half of the window reflected the small puddles between the cobbles in the road in a rather haphazard way, whereas with the large, flat, mass-produced pane, a mirror image was produced.
The old man was, for the 14th time that week, polishing a small brass pocket mirror. He looked up to the clock, which he had placed up above the door. His eyes ‘read’ the wall, from top to bottom. At the very top was a dry spiders web, woven long ago, moving despite the lack of wind or a draught in the shop. Further down was his clock, acquired from a railway station, the man had painted it pillar-box red himself. Scanning even further down was the shop’s name and details, delicately stencilled on with gold ink, but reversed, as to allow prospective customers to read it from outside. Not that it mattered anyway, the old man thought. He put down the mirror, got up, and began pottering around his shop, neatening each little item as he went.
He was sad - over the past ten years, the regular influx of customers each morning had dwindled to just two or three, and more often than not, they were merely lost tourists eager to be pointed in the right direction, probably to buy a plastic mug, or a tea towel printed with some overrated landmark plastered all over it, thought the cynical, and rightfully so, old man. So he often attempted to sell these ‘customers’ an 18th century map of the world, or a ships compass, in all its strangeness.
Something I wrote a couple of years ago, and then couldn't finish.
D.N.A
Part One
Chapter One
As sunset drew in, Delta Nadia Atthews stumbled across the moor. The sun was a red fiery ball floating in a sea of red, pink and yellow, highlighting the purple hills. The light was warm, unlike the frosty translucency of dawn. But the light was fading, and Delta was beginning to have complications reading her compass and map. It did not matter really; Delta wasn't any good at reading the things anyway. Only 3 hours ago Delta had been enjoying a bowl of soup. Now she couldn't tell where she was. "If only I hadn't been split up from Keyaa and Sam" Delta whispered aloud. It was true. Keyaa and Sam were back at base camp now. But, Delta thought, as soon as they noticed her missing, they would send out a search party to look for her.
Delta felt cold and lethargic. She dragged herself up another hill. "Ahhh!!!" She screamed. A pair of yellow eyes stared up at Delta. Behind them, a woolly grey coat. It was only a sheep. Delta's feet ached, and her old tattered walking boots were squelching with muck, and grit was denting Delta's feet. She put her head up into the sky. It was drizzling, just lightly, but hard enough to make her blink. The plum illumination, signaling the end of day and the coming of nightfall, highlighted the mauve and cerise heather. A current of air whispered a whistle through feathery grasses. A lone tree stood on a wind swept mound, the surreal light conceiving mystical shapes with its boughs. And up in the sky there was a star. An eerie, emerald star.
She carried on walking, but her hunger was taking over her. She stopped to sit down on a large, flat rock, to dislodge a small pebble in her boot, and to fumble with her numb fingers for her last square of Kendal Mint Cake. She removed the stone, and savoured the last few crumbs of Mint Cake. Delta looked around. The low-lying heather appeared to be creeping up on her. She slowly realised how dark it was, and how quiet it was when she wasn't walking or chewing. She looked around, slowly, in masked fear, and screamed a high scream! Someone was tugging on her coat! She turned around to face them, but only to realize it was just the sharp spurs of the bright yellow and khaki gorse, trapping her hood. She exhaled, both in relief and disappointment. She moved on, hastily.
A rustle startled Delta. She twisted on the heel of her worn walking boot. Day was almost over, and Delta broke into a run. The frosty cold was beginning to crush her. She reached a ledge and stopped with a halt. And there, in the basin beneath, a dome shaped structure. Could it be? Could it really be? The elusive Donaughue Works! Donaughue Works was unchartered and not listed anywhere! No one knew exactly where it was, and the government altered satellite pictures showing the Works. People spoke of them in the village, but it was just rumours. Gossip, you know the kind.
Delta stood looking in awe at the dome. She could feel emotions crawling up her throat, begging to be released. She was sick with excitement, and overcome with fear.
Delta set down into the basin at once, cautious not to skid on the slippery clay earth. It was steep down the hill, and she had to keep halting to avoid falling. She needed to stop, but gravity was speeding her up. A rock on the ground flew her into the air, she clawed at the wet roots of some tree, but she fell with a disturbing thump.
Chapter Two
Delta opened her eyes so she was just seeing through her lashes. A bright light shone through, like the light in a dentists. She opened her eyes fully now. She was in a room, with four 'walls'. One wall went up to the ceiling, as a normal wall does. Two more did not quiet reach the ceiling by about two feet. The fourth was not really a wall at all, just four green shields, the kind they have in hospitals. Through the gaps, although she could not see any detail, Delta could make out the shapes of people as they walked by, and a desk with a large grey machine on top. In the background, she could hear a buzz, like that of a computer. Delta tried to sit up. She was strapped down! Although she had obviously been so for the past few minutes, it was only now that she begun to feel trapped and claustrophobic.
One the panels slid open, and three men walked in to the room. One man had a stethoscope laced around his neck. The other two held clipboards. They were clad in white overalls. These came to about five inches below the knee. Underneath these overalls, two of the men (the man with the stethoscope, and one of the men with clipboards) were wearing white trousers. The third, bearded, man was wearing hospital green trousers. The overalls had pockets, each with a blue biro poking out. They all carried handheld computers in their pockets, and had laminated identity cards clipped some place on their overalls. 'Where am I?’ Delta queried. The man with he stethoscope looked at the man with the beard. The man with the beard adjusted his glasses then answered: 'You fell." 'Where am I???' Delta asked again, frustrated. The bearded man spoke again. ‘You are in, err, a hospital. Of sor...' 'A hospital where? What hospital? Can I see my mum?' Delta interrupted, tugging at the straps. The bearded man began to talk again: 'I'm not sure if that's possible at the moment, y'see we need to see if your condition is stab...' 'What condition? I want my mum' The bearded man continued on as though Delta hadn't said anything.'...we need to give you a few tests' Delta tried to sit up, but realising she was still strapped down, she sighed, accepting defeat, then said 'What sort of tests?' The three men swiftly gathered around her bedside, pushed up the side guards, unlocked the wheels (each with a satisfying 'snap') and proceeded to roll Delta out of the room. She worried silently as to what sort of 'tests' she was required to do.
They went through an open hallway, with cubicle offices on one side, and rooms identical to Deltas on the other. At the end of the open hall was a white door, and through that was a white room split in two with a clear Perspex partition. The walls on the slightly bigger section of the room were lined with electrical equipment, and in the other part, the room was plain white, with a chair in the middle. The chair was covered in all sorts of sensory devices. The room was filled with the murmur of computers. It wasn't hot, and it wasn't cold.
A fourth man joined them in the room. He seemed to be of North African origin. He had short bubbly stubble on his chin. He wore a white trouser suit, with green trim. Delta happened to notice he was also wearing white rubber boots. Without a word of order, he began to attach sensors to Delta, rubbing conductive gel on each spot he stuck a sensor.
A picture was projected on a projector screen. A cow in a field, then several others, a car, a man, a tree. The four men crowded round a laptop computer to see what it showed. After Delta had been shown about twenty photos, the man with the clipboard put it down and prepared a needle. He scooped a small amount of something or other from a Petri dish, dissolved it in some liquid, and then carefully measured out small drops of a liquid from a small brown bottle 'What are you doing?' The man in the suit said, 'That's much too much.' A printer across the room was spurting out data on sheets of that paper with the holes in the sides. The man with the clipboard made sure air bubbles were absent from the syringe, then slowly injected the pink fluid in to Delta's arm. It wasn't painful. It was just like a numbness flowing through her veins.
Chapter Three
When Delta awoke again, she was in a new room. It was decorated in pastel shades of blue and yellow, and had a childish sense about it, but in a sophisticated way. Five or ten minutes later in came 'Rosie'. 'Rosie' was a nurse with a sticky-label that read 'My name is: ROSIE', who brought a plate of food. 'Rosie' had dark olive skin, and curly brown hair. She spoke with soft, British accent, Welsh, or West Country maybe. 'And how are you today, miss...?'Rosie asked. 'My name is Delta. Delta Nadia Atthews. And I'm okay. But I am hungry. And I want my mum." Rosie looked at Delta, thinking, and then said ' Well, I brought food. And I will see what I can do about your mum. But in the meantime, I'm sure there are loads of other kids your age on the Hedgehog ward. Uh, how old are you?' Delta was beginning to feel better, and so she answered 'I'm Fifteen. Sixteen in four months time." Rosie smiled:' Perfect…I mean, you'll fit right in with the other boys and girls.'
Jai
On the route of the 19 bus
“On the route of the 19 bus…” The Clash crash into my ears via my headphones, as I sit lodged in the back seat of the red Routemaster. A man, he looks fairly grumpy, turns around, his rough grey hair barely moves with him. It’s about 6am; far to early to talk to strangers, far too early to ask them to turn their music down. But his face says it all. I slide my thumb over the volume control, and push it down ever so slightly. He shuffles in his seat. I turn it down a tiny bit more.
The windows are clear and clean, as I’m the first person to sit here this morning; the glass is absolutely grease free. The air is also clear and clean, and cold as well. Outside it’s just light, and it’s foggy and it’s snowing. I say snowing, but it never really snows here. The pieces of white dissolve into the concrete, so it’s no wonder London is never white.
The bus turns into a dead Piccadilly Circus. There are a few people walking slowly, and a runner with a dog in a neon Spandex suit…tragic! My Walkman drops, and dangles dangerously on the headphone wires. I move, very slowly, very cautiously to pick up the machine without it dropping. The floor of the bus is wooden, dark brown with half-inch thick grooves dug into it. It’s dusty, riddled with flat black circles of chewing gum, and at the edge is a 50p coin which I pocket. I love long bus journies…it’s nice to be able to enjoy the world in a totally passive manner. It doesn’t really work in cars though…there’s always a squabble over who gets the window seat or something trivial like that. But obviously I need the window seat!
-
"On the route of the 19 bus..." I hum silently to The Clash, 'Rudie can't fail'. There's a small wiped space in the steam of the window, a kind of portal into the outside world, and the outside worl s near black. In the darkness, there are specks of colour; the red, amber and green of traffic lights; the blues, lilacs and pinks of neon stips and the creamy whites of house and street lights: Piccadilly Circus at night very much resembles hundereds and thousands strewn across a chocolate cake. The bus comes to a stop and several people sit behind me. On sits infront and her hair spills over the edge of the slightl greasy metal bar.
I can hear the conductor pacing towards the stairs on the lower deck. I sink int my chair, pushing and forcing my body into the orange and brown velvet. I just know that he's going to ask me for my photocard and I just don't have it. The bus is almost full when he come up, and I trace his movement as he penguins his way down to the front and then back up to the minddle. Suprisingly he just quietly smiles and informs me that I "must 'ave it next time, love". I get off two stops later and realise I lest my Metro on the bus. s***.
"Decribe a shop"
This particular shop was very small. It was on the corner of a tiny street, very central, yet very cut off from the rest of the city. The shop was rather strange - it sold odds and ends; bits of junk, stuff without a category.
The man who ran the shop was old and little, his hair was past grey, and he looked as breakable and frail as the small hand-painted porcelain items he kept on the desk near the till. The window on one side was leaded, with panes of antique hand-rolled glass: it had once been an inn. When the man had bought the shop, many, many years ago, he had only the money to replace half of the shops windows, and in had stayed that way ever since. The small panes of glass on the old half of the window reflected the small puddles between the cobbles in the road in a rather haphazard way, whereas with the large, flat, mass-produced pane, a mirror image was produced.
The old man was, for the 14th time that week, polishing a small brass pocket mirror. He looked up to the clock, which he had placed up above the door. His eyes ‘read’ the wall, from top to bottom. At the very top was a dry spiders web, woven long ago, moving despite the lack of wind or a draught in the shop. Further down was his clock, acquired from a railway station, the man had painted it pillar-box red himself. Scanning even further down was the shop’s name and details, delicately stencilled on with gold ink, but reversed, as to allow prospective customers to read it from outside. Not that it mattered anyway, the old man thought. He put down the mirror, got up, and began pottering around his shop, neatening each little item as he went.
He was sad - over the past ten years, the regular influx of customers each morning had dwindled to just two or three, and more often than not, they were merely lost tourists eager to be pointed in the right direction, probably to buy a plastic mug, or a tea towel printed with some overrated landmark plastered all over it, thought the cynical, and rightfully so, old man. So he often attempted to sell these ‘customers’ an 18th century map of the world, or a ships compass, in all its strangeness.
Something I wrote a couple of years ago, and then couldn't finish.
D.N.A
Part One
Chapter One
As sunset drew in, Delta Nadia Atthews stumbled across the moor. The sun was a red fiery ball floating in a sea of red, pink and yellow, highlighting the purple hills. The light was warm, unlike the frosty translucency of dawn. But the light was fading, and Delta was beginning to have complications reading her compass and map. It did not matter really; Delta wasn't any good at reading the things anyway. Only 3 hours ago Delta had been enjoying a bowl of soup. Now she couldn't tell where she was. "If only I hadn't been split up from Keyaa and Sam" Delta whispered aloud. It was true. Keyaa and Sam were back at base camp now. But, Delta thought, as soon as they noticed her missing, they would send out a search party to look for her.
Delta felt cold and lethargic. She dragged herself up another hill. "Ahhh!!!" She screamed. A pair of yellow eyes stared up at Delta. Behind them, a woolly grey coat. It was only a sheep. Delta's feet ached, and her old tattered walking boots were squelching with muck, and grit was denting Delta's feet. She put her head up into the sky. It was drizzling, just lightly, but hard enough to make her blink. The plum illumination, signaling the end of day and the coming of nightfall, highlighted the mauve and cerise heather. A current of air whispered a whistle through feathery grasses. A lone tree stood on a wind swept mound, the surreal light conceiving mystical shapes with its boughs. And up in the sky there was a star. An eerie, emerald star.
She carried on walking, but her hunger was taking over her. She stopped to sit down on a large, flat rock, to dislodge a small pebble in her boot, and to fumble with her numb fingers for her last square of Kendal Mint Cake. She removed the stone, and savoured the last few crumbs of Mint Cake. Delta looked around. The low-lying heather appeared to be creeping up on her. She slowly realised how dark it was, and how quiet it was when she wasn't walking or chewing. She looked around, slowly, in masked fear, and screamed a high scream! Someone was tugging on her coat! She turned around to face them, but only to realize it was just the sharp spurs of the bright yellow and khaki gorse, trapping her hood. She exhaled, both in relief and disappointment. She moved on, hastily.
A rustle startled Delta. She twisted on the heel of her worn walking boot. Day was almost over, and Delta broke into a run. The frosty cold was beginning to crush her. She reached a ledge and stopped with a halt. And there, in the basin beneath, a dome shaped structure. Could it be? Could it really be? The elusive Donaughue Works! Donaughue Works was unchartered and not listed anywhere! No one knew exactly where it was, and the government altered satellite pictures showing the Works. People spoke of them in the village, but it was just rumours. Gossip, you know the kind.
Delta stood looking in awe at the dome. She could feel emotions crawling up her throat, begging to be released. She was sick with excitement, and overcome with fear.
Delta set down into the basin at once, cautious not to skid on the slippery clay earth. It was steep down the hill, and she had to keep halting to avoid falling. She needed to stop, but gravity was speeding her up. A rock on the ground flew her into the air, she clawed at the wet roots of some tree, but she fell with a disturbing thump.
Chapter Two
Delta opened her eyes so she was just seeing through her lashes. A bright light shone through, like the light in a dentists. She opened her eyes fully now. She was in a room, with four 'walls'. One wall went up to the ceiling, as a normal wall does. Two more did not quiet reach the ceiling by about two feet. The fourth was not really a wall at all, just four green shields, the kind they have in hospitals. Through the gaps, although she could not see any detail, Delta could make out the shapes of people as they walked by, and a desk with a large grey machine on top. In the background, she could hear a buzz, like that of a computer. Delta tried to sit up. She was strapped down! Although she had obviously been so for the past few minutes, it was only now that she begun to feel trapped and claustrophobic.
One the panels slid open, and three men walked in to the room. One man had a stethoscope laced around his neck. The other two held clipboards. They were clad in white overalls. These came to about five inches below the knee. Underneath these overalls, two of the men (the man with the stethoscope, and one of the men with clipboards) were wearing white trousers. The third, bearded, man was wearing hospital green trousers. The overalls had pockets, each with a blue biro poking out. They all carried handheld computers in their pockets, and had laminated identity cards clipped some place on their overalls. 'Where am I?’ Delta queried. The man with he stethoscope looked at the man with the beard. The man with the beard adjusted his glasses then answered: 'You fell." 'Where am I???' Delta asked again, frustrated. The bearded man spoke again. ‘You are in, err, a hospital. Of sor...' 'A hospital where? What hospital? Can I see my mum?' Delta interrupted, tugging at the straps. The bearded man began to talk again: 'I'm not sure if that's possible at the moment, y'see we need to see if your condition is stab...' 'What condition? I want my mum' The bearded man continued on as though Delta hadn't said anything.'...we need to give you a few tests' Delta tried to sit up, but realising she was still strapped down, she sighed, accepting defeat, then said 'What sort of tests?' The three men swiftly gathered around her bedside, pushed up the side guards, unlocked the wheels (each with a satisfying 'snap') and proceeded to roll Delta out of the room. She worried silently as to what sort of 'tests' she was required to do.
They went through an open hallway, with cubicle offices on one side, and rooms identical to Deltas on the other. At the end of the open hall was a white door, and through that was a white room split in two with a clear Perspex partition. The walls on the slightly bigger section of the room were lined with electrical equipment, and in the other part, the room was plain white, with a chair in the middle. The chair was covered in all sorts of sensory devices. The room was filled with the murmur of computers. It wasn't hot, and it wasn't cold.
A fourth man joined them in the room. He seemed to be of North African origin. He had short bubbly stubble on his chin. He wore a white trouser suit, with green trim. Delta happened to notice he was also wearing white rubber boots. Without a word of order, he began to attach sensors to Delta, rubbing conductive gel on each spot he stuck a sensor.
A picture was projected on a projector screen. A cow in a field, then several others, a car, a man, a tree. The four men crowded round a laptop computer to see what it showed. After Delta had been shown about twenty photos, the man with the clipboard put it down and prepared a needle. He scooped a small amount of something or other from a Petri dish, dissolved it in some liquid, and then carefully measured out small drops of a liquid from a small brown bottle 'What are you doing?' The man in the suit said, 'That's much too much.' A printer across the room was spurting out data on sheets of that paper with the holes in the sides. The man with the clipboard made sure air bubbles were absent from the syringe, then slowly injected the pink fluid in to Delta's arm. It wasn't painful. It was just like a numbness flowing through her veins.
Chapter Three
When Delta awoke again, she was in a new room. It was decorated in pastel shades of blue and yellow, and had a childish sense about it, but in a sophisticated way. Five or ten minutes later in came 'Rosie'. 'Rosie' was a nurse with a sticky-label that read 'My name is: ROSIE', who brought a plate of food. 'Rosie' had dark olive skin, and curly brown hair. She spoke with soft, British accent, Welsh, or West Country maybe. 'And how are you today, miss...?'Rosie asked. 'My name is Delta. Delta Nadia Atthews. And I'm okay. But I am hungry. And I want my mum." Rosie looked at Delta, thinking, and then said ' Well, I brought food. And I will see what I can do about your mum. But in the meantime, I'm sure there are loads of other kids your age on the Hedgehog ward. Uh, how old are you?' Delta was beginning to feel better, and so she answered 'I'm Fifteen. Sixteen in four months time." Rosie smiled:' Perfect…I mean, you'll fit right in with the other boys and girls.'
Jai
