Alison (aka Accidento Bizarro) is the winner of Vol 2-15. She lives in West Yorkshire with her partner and two small train drivers. No, wait, they’re cowboys. Police cowboys. Police cowboy train drivers. Anyway. Having struggled to be taken seriously as an academic for far too long, she’s belatedly discovering it’s much more fun trying to make people laugh. She occasionally writes for Women’s Cycling magazine and Total Women’s Cycling, and is obsessed with dreams, crushes, and the insides of other people’s heads.
After Finchley Central, the tube comes up above ground. Commuters blink at each other, slightly bashful; like afternoon cinemagoers, the sudden sunshine drying up our black and white daydreams of detectives, lovers, motels, eggs easy over.
There aren’t many left, now. The girl next to me is still reading. “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.” We’re too British to move apart.
This is when I always get scared.
If I tip my head slightly, I can see you under the brim of my hat. You’re greyer, since the court case. After the surgery, I thought I’d be safe. You’d never recognise me again; never put me through it all again. But now, my palms are damp.
Totteridge. You get up, wait for the doors to open. As they close, I take a breath, then walk after you.