Barnaby And The Sideways Walk
Fictionish
Mr Barnaby Blathers needed a license to walk forward, which was the most ridiculous thing he’d heard since they’d banned walking backward on Tuesdays.
He strode along the road with the confidence of a man who was going to achieve things.
He blissfully ignored the car horns and shouts of:
“Oi! Mate! Are you blind?”
From angry motorists he walked out in front of. Barnaby didn’t care. Today was the day.
He arrived more by luck than judgement at The Department of Forward Momentum.
He stepped in through the door and headed for the reception desk.
“I’m here to see a Mr William Strait, please!”
The receptionist tapped keys and checked who he was.
“Right, Mr Blathers. His office is on the first floor. You can take the lift or the stairs. He is in the third office on the left.”
“Take the lift or the stairs? I have my own, I shall leave them where they are!”
He walked off, leaving the receptionist blinking like a sat-nav with a migraine.
And made his way to the third office on the left. He knocked and entered.
“Ah, good morning, Mr Blathers. I see you found us.”
“I did, and I’m very glad to meet you.”
“What appears to be the problem?”
“I’d have thought that was obvious. I need to walk forwards.”
Mr Strait shuffled some papers, cleared his throat and looked out of the window.
“You are not qualified, I’m afraid.”
“WHAT? I’ve been walking sideways since you lot introduced cycle lanes!”
“That may be so. But in order for me to issue you a Forward Momentum Certificate you need to have already been walking forwards for a month…”
“Now look here, Mr Bloody Strait, not straight! That is a con!. I cannot walk straight. Because you idiots insisted on putting cycle lanes where I walked perfectly well for years!”
“Ah. And was that forwards? Rather than sideways?”
“YES!”
“Hmmm. I need more evidence of that.”
“How the hell can I do that?”
Barnaby sighed.
“I’m not leaving until you issue me a licence.”
“Well, you also don’t meet the other criteria, either.”
Barnaby froze. Like a man realising he’d stepped in something unpleasant—and it was bureaucratic.
“WHAT? What am I missing?”
Mr Strait cleared his throat.
“You need receipts for the shoes you’ve had to buy since walking sideways.”
He picked up some papers from his desk, but they slipped out of his hands onto the floor. He bent over to pick them up.
Barnaby, in a fit of rage, seized the moment. He raced (sideways) around the desk. And swung a well-aimed boot.
It planted itself with some force and precision, right up Mr Strait’s substantial arse.
Mr Strait yelped, and stumbled over, sideways. He landed in a pile on the floor.
He scrabbled himself together and stood, rubbing his left arse cheek.
“I will NOT tolerate physical violence, Mr Blathers. Leave NOW!”
“GIVE ME A LICENCE, YOU UTTER MORON!!!”
Barnaby flexed his leg. And looked over, making a suggestive kicking action.
Mr Strait cleared his throat.
“Under the circumstances, I s’pose I can approve a licence…”
“Good, get on with it!”
Mr Strait limped to his desk. Produced a official looking stamp, applied it with some force to Barnaby’s application and handed it over.
He walked around his desk, sideways. And screamed.
“Look WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME!!!”
Barnaby grabbed his licence and strode to the door - gloriously forwards.
“I bid you good day!” He called and left the office, slamming the door behind him.
He strode along the corridor to the stairs, forwards.
He saw a middle aged couple just leaving reception. They were both walking sideways.
“Could you tell us the way to Mr Strait’s office, Please?” They called.
“Yep, you can have the stairs or lift for free, I’m told! He is in the third office on the left. He’ll be holding his left arse cheek.”
Barnaby walked STRAIGHT out of the building, smiling.