A Faerie Tale: Ice-Cream


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3. Step On It

Ben was messing with the radio. “Would you stop changing stations all the time? It’s getting on my nerves.” Bill switched the radio off and turned to the window; he moved his hair away from his eyes and stared at the endless stream of cars that was zipping by, fantasising about the ice-cream he was going to having in little over an hour.

He was dressed in his favourite outfit: leaf green shirt, buttoned at the collar; brown leather jacket with patches on the elbows; dark blue jeans and black and green trainers (favourite outfit; not best). His shoulder length, light brown hair had been neatly styled and his full beard trimmed. All in all, he thought to himself, I look pretty dapper. Ben, on the other hand, was dressed worse than the members of “Wham!” black, leather trousers and a horrible, bright pink and yellow striped shirt, which hurt your eyes if you looked at it for too long; something which people found it very hard not to do. The extremely remarkable clothes masked an otherwise unremarkable appearance: short, brown hair and stubble are pretty much the only things that could be said about him.

He’d met Ben eight years ago at university. They had shared lodgings for a year until Bill decided to switch from his aeronautical degree to a pilot apprenticeship, but in that they had become firm friends. Ben had gone on to get a first in film and was now a freelance director.  

“Hey, I was listening to that!” Ben switched the radio back on and turned it up until it was almost as loud as his shirt.

“Were you ’ell! You’ve not even had anything on for more than two seconds! All you’re doing is switching from one station to another, how can you say you were listening to it?” Bill turned the radio back down.

“I was trying to find something good.” Ben said defensively.

“How could you know what’s good and what isn’t?” said Bill. “You weren’t listening to anything for long enough to find out.”

“Yeah well... I...” Ben stumbled. “Alright then, you find something.” Bill started messing with the radio. “‘Would you stop changing stations all the time?’” Ben quipped in an annoying sing-song voice. “‘It’s getting on my nerves.’” He switched the radio off. “You see why I was doing it? There’s naff all to listen to.”

“All right, all right, no need to get sarky. Let’s just turn the radio back on and just leave it.” Bill switched the radio back on.

“...exploded in the centre of Chelsea. We know very little at the moment but we hope to have more information soon,” a voice on the radio droned. “We do however believe there to be no serious injuries. In other ne-” Ben switched the radio off.

“Forget it. I can’t be bothered listening to that rubbish.” Ben said miserably.

“Tell me about it, it’s depressing; especially with that guy’s voi-” Bill’s eyes widened with shock; his face paled. “Where’s the Ruddy Dumplings again.”

“Slap bang in the centre of Chelsea; why do...” He stopped as realisation hit him.

"Step on it." Ben stepped on it – the accelerator obviously – and the car raced down the motorway as fast as its three wheels, and the speed limit, would allow it. 

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