The Fungus

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By the time Norman Layne arrived home he’d long forgotten the embarrassing collision with the attractive woman in Tottenham Court Road. There were other things preying on his mind now, ranging from the sweaty itch caused by the nylon shirt that Nora insisted was all they could afford, to the lingering fury he still felt towards the black youth who’d played his huge radio as though he owned the train. And there had been the humiliation of being called back to the ticket collector so that his pass could be checked even though he was always scrupulously honest about paying. But most of all he seethed at having wasted a whole afternoon in that cesspit of London’s West End. He had been specifically told over the phone that Bradford and Simpkins had a forester-bit brace tang which he urgently needed to continue his carpentry work. But when he got there they then told him they didn’t have it. He couldn’t understand it. He’d stood there speechless in front of the young and arrogant sales assistant and then realized he was suffering yet another of life’s endless, nasty tricks.

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