//Mr. Spencer// "John!, John! Oh, please wake up - you're snoring. If you want to go to sleep, go to bed! Now wake up! The old man was slouched over the aged sofa chair in the lounge. The fire was crackling and his wife was attempting to read a book. The man's mouth was wide open and his snoring rattled and vibrated the many ornaments decorating the room. A drop of saliva had started to accumulate around his mouth and his eyes were tightly sealed. It was 9:45pm and the old man couldn't find the will to pull himself off of the chair with his walking stick just to eventually go back to sleep again. The old woman was getting impatient. "John, get up now or I'll clout you!" With the sudden threat of pain, the old man's eyes opened and the snoring stopped. He, too, was annoyed. "Bloody hell, Anne! I can't get one minute's kip without you babbling on in my ears! The doctor said I need to rest my arthritis and it's been a tiring day". "You always blame it on the arthritis, John", Anne replied. "And you haven't actually been busy all day, I'm the one who's been having to clean the dishes and wash your clothes. All you've been doing is sitting at the window with cups of coffee complaining about the kinds playing outside. I've been traipsing around the house doing this and doing that and you know what? I get no thank-you's. I am fed up at the amount of times you ha........ Anne's voice got quieter. The old man wasn't concentrating any more - he'd heard enough. He just stared at the flames of the fire resisting the urge to throw his wife into it. Despite the temptation, he turned away, got up and trundled upstairs, completely ignoring his wife. Although she realised this, Anne could now concentrate on reading her book, which she enthusiastically got back to work on, angling her glasses on the end of her nose where she found them most comfortable. She crossed her legs as per usual and continued scouring the pages of her book with a feint sound of crackling in the background. The helpless old man stumbled up the steps feeling sorry for himself. As he just finished climbing the stairway, he sighed. Yawning, he sauntered over to the ajar bedroom door, pushed it open and tiredly got into bed, not forgetting to hang his walking stick on the hook on the wall as he had done for many years. As he closed his eyes, he was completely aware of the fact that he was still fully clothed, and thought of being young again. He knew that ageing was inevitable, but he missed being able to run around freely with no cares in the world. Despite this, the thought was diminished; he knew he wouldn't ever be able to do what he used to do. He emptied his mind and dreamt in hope that the 'EPT' activity tomorrow would relieve him of the stress of his day-to-day #life... the only answer to that - no chance. A sudden blinding light filled the room and the old man squinted as he tried to get up. He managed to make out the time on the clock, which read 7:35am. A voice shouted from downstairs. "John, come down and get some breakfast; the coach arrives at five to!" Rolling his eyes, the man reached for his stick, remembering that his clothes were still on, and made his way downstairs. A greasy scent of sausages hung in the air and his wife was eagerly awaiting him in the kitchen. "Come on, get a sausage Sani down you before the EPT coach arrives". The old man was quick to show his disgust. "Bloody EPT! You know I hate it. They're a bunch of patronising sods looking after people who belong in a coffin." Anne's face showed a look of surprise. "Don't say that about yourself! Anyway, the staff are just young people trying their best to help their elders, that's all, and it does you the world of good going out on those trips. Now eat up, they'll be here in fifteen minutes". Before having the sandwich, he reached for the remote and switched the TV on. He then scooped up the drowned sandwich with his wrinkly hands and bit into it. As much as it pained him to be looked after, he couldn't resist hunger. Anne continued. "Now, when you're gone, I'll go and see our Derek and I'll have to go to the chemists to get some painkillers because I've got a banging headache". "Oh!" interjected the old man in a frustrated yet dosy voice, "The flipping government are raising the bloody tax on alcohol again. I swear; they're trying to bankrupt us all, the thieving little gets". "Calm down", replied Anne. You don't drink that much anyway". "That's because you don't let me", muttered the old man under his breath. "What's that?", she noticed. "Oh, n...nothing. Pffft! Look at that. "Man kills wife with a crowbar". He rolled his eyes and continued with a blatantly obvious sarcastic voice, which his wife didn't notice. "It makes you wonder what goes on in people's heads sometimes. There are some psychos out there nowadays, I tell you." "Ah, quickly, the coach is here!" "I haven't finished my sandwich yet!" "Tough, they'll leave without you if you don't hurry up". "What's wrong with that?" inquired the old man. "Oh, shut it. Come on, get your coat on". "Coat? It's bloody boiling!" "Fine. Hurry up!" There was a knock on the door. "Get your shoes on, John, I'll get the door". The old man hated it when he got treated like a baby; in fact, he couldn't stand it. Anne undid the many locks on the door and opened it. A young, cheerful man in his twenties enthusiastically awaited. "Good morning, Mrs Spencer. I trust everything is well?" He had a sophisticated accent with effeminate tones. His teeth looked impeccable and his hair was cut and spiked to an inch of perfection. "Good morning to you...." Anne quickly looked at the young man's name badge. "....Gareth. Yes I am well thank you. Don't worry, John's on his way, AREN'T YOU JOHN?" Inside, the old man snatched his stick from where it was stood and stomped out of the house. The young man greeted him. "Oh, good morning Mr Spencer! What a pleasure it is to see you, and looking so good as well! Please, walk with me to the Elderly People's Trips coach and be ready for a ride of a #lifetime!" Quickly kissing his wife on the cheek, the old man walked straight past Gareth to the coach as if he wasn't there. "See you at 20pm love!" called Anne from the door. "And don't forget to have fun!" The old man grunted and was followed by the younger man onto the coach. He scoured the coach as he sat down. "Hm, looks like we're off to the crematorium", he thought to himself and raised his eyebrows at the woman sat next to him. The doors closed, the coach's engine started and his wife waved at him. "Could this trip get any worse?" he asked himself. The woman next to him suddenly started to sing 'Yellow Submarine'. Yes, it could. Just as the coach set off, Gareth picked up a microphone. "Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the EPT club. Today we are going on a different route that's even more exciting than yesterday's". The old man sighed. "We're going on the outskirts of Didsbury today to tour around there instead". The old man used to live in Didsbury with his parents, but that was a long, long time ago. "Another bloody history lesson", he said to himself and leant his head on his fist and closed his eyes. After what he hoped was a couple of hours but was actually about one, the old man awoke. He could still hear 'Gareth' babbling on. "... and to the left there is Fralton Parish Church which was established in 1764. It is a very classic style church and is very active up to the present. And we are now just passing Maple Square Park and...". The old man suddenly leapt up. He ignored what Gareth was saying and stared out of the window. He knew Maple Square Park, but that was 24 years ago. Could what was there many years ago still be here? He looked through the park for a particular building, a building he had not entered for a long time. His eye suddenly caught a familiar sign. In faded brown letters, it read: Y.A.C. - the Young Adventurer's Cult. That was it. It was still there. When it was out of view, the old man looked back and stared at the seat in front of him. It had been so long, but he left for a reason. Despite this, a fiery urge inside him persisted that he went back. He, however, didn't know that that would be a good idea. But he was determined to return. When he was dropped off at his house and was greeted by his wife. Inside, they sat down at the old wooden table with a welcoming cup of tea on the drooping tablecloth with the pink circular pattern the man hated. He sat down, stared into his warm beverage and caressed his grey stubble. "So, John..." Anne started. "Did you have fun then?" The old man simply carried on looking into nothingness. "I know going out isn't your cup of tea.... get it, becuase you've got a cup of tea in fr...". The old man's face remained straight and his gibbous eyes stayed still. "Oh, come on you humourless so and so, I mean, I'd love to go on those trips myself but I'm just too, too bu... - are you alright? You seem a bit doom and gloom. You can't have hated it that much". Anne clearly seemed completely oblivious to what the old man was thinking about. She persisted. "It's not as if you went to the bad parts of town, you go around all the nice plac... -" "Anne." The man suddenly interrupted. "Yes, darling. What?" "I saw it." "You saw........... what?" "The club I used to go to". "Well you've been to lots of clubs in the past. Do you mean the swimming pool in Rishworth where you used to swim?" "Y.A.C., Anne. I saw the building." "Oh......" The woman was finally stumped in her speech. "But surely that doesn't matter. That was a long time ago; we've both forgotten about it and that's for the better." "But..... I want to go back". Anne's eyes widened as if she had just had an overload of double espressos. "Back? But, the suing, the arguing, the fighting... Why would you want to go back again. As long as I live I won't let you go back, it's too risky". The old man sighed. "Yes, Anne, but it's about time I took a risk. It's about time I actually went out doing something I really enjoy." "You do go out. I take you up to the shopping centre every now and agai...." "But that's you", the man interrupted firmly. "That's what YOU want to do. I want to take myself somewhere on my own and do what I want to do for a change." "Well, you could've picked something more sensible like say.... bowls. Anyway. I'd rather you miss tomorrow so you can get over that club, you'll surely change your mind after you've had a kip. The old man remained silent and rolled his eyes. "Don't be rolling your eyes at me! Fine, you can go, but you're going nowhere near that bloody club. I'm going to the dry cleaners in the morning so you'll have to get yourself ready. Can you cope with that?" The old man hated being patronised. "Course I bloody can", he said with a frown, and went upstairs, not looking like he would be coming back down for the rest of the night. Anne started talking to herself. "I don't know, men these days treat us women like dirt. Its as if I'm his mum. He better not forget tomorrow morning, and be better no go to that Y.A.K. thing; god save us all if he does". "Right honey, I'm off". The man heard a muffled voice through his pillow. "Don't forget. I've done you some porridge. Don't let it go cold, I won't be long". Anne waited for a response and, after about fifteen seconds she lost her temper. "For god's sake John, get your bloody old lazy arse out of bed", and then stormed off to the cleaner's. The man moaned and slithered out of bed like a nocturnal animal awakening from a winter's hibernation. "Do this and do that", the man started. "Blah blah blah.... Get your bloody arse out of bed - who do you think you're talking to, stupid old hag." This was the only time the old man dare say cursing things to her - when she wasn't in the house. It was very rare that the man got the house to himself and he walked downstairs to his steaming bowl of porridge, which was accompanied by a nice cup of tea. He sat down and his dressing gown hung around his plump body like a cloak. Anne never bought him the right size clothes and always thought that the old man was fatter than he actually was. He hated that. The old man sat down with a big smile on his face, took a sip of tea, felt the warmness trickle down his throat and started on his porridge, not forgetting to flick the TV on to watch the news. In his mind, there was nothing like a good morning sat in front of the TV with a cup of tea with nothing on the world that could bother him. *Knock, Knock*. "Oh bloody hell, who's this?" It took the man a while to get off of his chair and he headed to the window. *Knock, Knock* "Mr Spencer? Are you in?" The old man stopped in his tracks. He had just realised who it was and he had completely forgotten about it. "It's that bloody Gareth isn't it", the man said to himself. He crept back the table where he was sat and muted the TV. Clumsily, however, he dropped the remote and it clanged on the ground - he cringed. "Are you in Mr. Spencer? Come on don't be shy, the coach is packed and loaded and we're going on a trip today and having a picnic in Maple Square Park, and, may i say, the weather is beautiful!" "Wait a minute", thought the old man. "Maple!" I completely forgot about it. But Anne said not to. No, what does she know. I'm going." "OK, Mr. Spencer. If that doesn't float your boat, if you pardon the pun, I hope you change your mind for tomorrow". The old man could hear Gareth's footsteps sounding quieter as he walked back to the coach. The man made his way as fast as he could to the window, and opened the latch. "WAIT! I'm getting ready." Gareth turned around. "Fandabbydosey! You had me worried then Mr. Spencer! I'll be waiting in the coach sir!" he replied. The old man felt a sudden leap inside that he hadn't felt in a long time and he flew up the stairs, thrashed his dressing gown to the ground, raided the wardrobe, rushed down the stairs, not forgetting to take a breath at the bottom, snatched his walking stick from wall, and hurried outside, not forgetting to lock to door. He got half way down the garden pathway when he heard a *Flip* *Flap* *Flip* sound. "My bloody slippers", the man panted to himself as he rushed back to open the door get again, swap his footwear, lock the door and trundle into the coach. "Oh, well done Mr. Spencer!" exclaimed Gareth in his usually patronising voice. "Come on everybody, let's give this gentleman a round of applause!" The coach was silent, apart from Gareth's exaggerated clapping. "Okay then you lively bunch, let's go!" The old man sighed, found two seats to himself and collapsed onto them, feeling thirty years younger. "John, I'm home! I told you I wouldn't be long... John, I'm back!" Anne wiped her shoes on the mat and peered around the kitchen. "Where the bloody hell is he", Anne said to herself. She then looked over at the cold yet full bowl of porridge on the table with a half-sipped cup of tea. Her face scrunched up, muttering to herself "what a sly little bloody devil". "We don't know where we're going, got no way o' knowing, driving on the road--". Gareth's CDs were playing full blast from the radio. The old man was the only person without a hearing aid, and his ears - and head - were completely numb. He was on the coach for one thing, and one thing only.