The Riding Of A Hospital Trolley
The Riding Of A Hospital Trolley
It was a horse but not as you'd know it.
Dive into my short story, a true story about a time I would do anything for attention. Although what is fact and what is fiction I let you be the judge…
I was promised a stallion, large, white and decorated like a Celtic Christmas tree and I pictured me, on that horse, with a war cry to silence a town.
Nobody mentioned anything about paper mache…
The theme was Celtic hero's and I was chosen to play Boudicca. I had been promised a lot -except for a costume and a fee and was looking forward to the big adventure.
After all, I was the main attraction.
My pal says "I would do anything for attention," she says, that I'm "so driven for an audience that I would sell not only my soul but my best friend, my matching mugs and the secret recipe for long life, lighter than air, mayonnaise."
Of course, I disagreed with her, I have no idea how to make mayonnaise.
I stood outside the community center as 'it' rolled up the car park. I heard the squeak of the hospital trolley before I saw it and my heart began to pound. A giant, paper mache, shire horse appeared from around the corner, supposedly rooted to a hospital trolley despite its mid-trot pose; and before I had time to ditch my tartan and run, I was up a fireman's ladder astride a horse so wide it required a yoga position to balance.
With my pelvis locked into some sort of childbirth position that made even coughing uncomfortably, I looked about for escape.
The parade headed for the top of the main street with a 'braw view 'of the loch. I clung on with my flexible pelvis working overtime as three rope holders pulled the horse to the top of the hill.
I stared down at the pipe band standing to attention, not a sound.
"What have we stopped for," I shouted into the wind.
"The storyteller, " said the rope holder at the front, "Once she's finished we can head off, and then the Celtic wars will begin."
The judo team stood behind me. Celtic warriors and Judo is a slim connection, but apparently, with enough blue paint it is believable. And the crowd loved them. They began to chant. The judo team inspired by the chanting and the lack of adults began to push -egging each other on. They were fed up waiting, they had had enough of a storyteller they couldn't hear.
"Freedom" shouted a voice from the crowd.
"Bring on the warriors," shouted another.
"She's finished, let's go," said the led warrior.
Inspired by their leader the judo team filled their lungs and let forth a war cry. The crowd joined in as the local youths rampaged down the street like a Kung Fo film past me and my brakeless trolley.
The rope holders didn't stand a chance.
"Stop," shouted one of the rope holder as the warriors swept past him.
He grimly hung onto the rope until a girl raced past. She, lost in the moment yelling, "you can take our homes, you can take our mobiles, but you will never take our freedom," grabbed him and he lost his grip.
I watched him disappear into the distance.
With only one rope holder left the trolley staggered, tilted and began to roll, faster and faster…
"We've lost it," shouted the other boy who vainly tried to hang on until he skidded on a chip wrapper and fell to the ground. I looked back to see him sprawled on the tarmac, arms outstretched shouting,
The trolley picked up speed.
The pipe band scattered like sheep as my trolley rampage through the band. I clung onto the paper reigns like my life depended on it; which was as much use as toilet paper. One tug and the reigns cascaded down the road joining the rope holder sprawled on the road.
I rolled down the street, my arms flapping about like a cartoon chicken. I looked as much like a great warrior as Marg Simpson and was now screaming like her.
I passed the pipe major. He, a round man of sixty made a dive for the horse's leg, missed and fell to the ground. Within an instant, he was up- running like a stunt man half his age. He hurled himself at the trolley; wrapped one arm around its leg, and then used his legs as a break. His kilt flapped in the wind like a flag revealing a true Scotsman with a fine set of jewels -as impressive as his much talked about sporran …
I sailed, bumped and skidded past the Viking boat, knocking over the quartet, a few bins, and a paper mache beaver. The pipe major hung on, digging his heels into the ground.
"Come on lads," he shouted. "She heading for burger van, that thing will blow."
The pipe major's words moved many men who grabbed the trolley from all sides. They slowed the trolley down until, with a mere plop and a mountain of grunts I landed on the green, just shy of the burger van.
Not a roll was disturbed.
The crowd cheered as they circled around the pipe major.
"Best parade ever," muttered an elderly woman, her eyes on the pipe major sporran.
After all a parade without a burger van, is like a pipe major without his sporran."