Bound Together

I first caught sight of them as my bus turned the corner, gazing through the windscreen as I clung on to the bar.

They were necking at the bus stop in the rain: an elderly couple, he stooping, she on tiptoe, heads gently tilted, eyes lightly closed.

He'd burrowed his hands into the pockets of her raincoat; her's were on his face, brushing back his wet white hair and curling it behind the ears. We all thought they were waiting for the bus, so we stopped and waited ourselves.

The doors opened, but they did not come. They did not even look, his back angled towards the road, oblivious to the bus-full of passengers who were, for that minute, their audience, tapping at the window of their world.

We waited and watched. His hands were on her bottom now, I think, grasping through the pockets of her coat and the starched linen of her skirt. Their faces were creased up, wrinkles interlocked, gathered together in a comfortable fervour.

The doors closed - the bus rolled on, but our attention did not. Through the rain-flecked windows, the elderly couple continued to embrace, bound still together as they drifted from our view.

Mitchell Craddock

Mitchell Craddock strokes his moustache with one hand and slicks back his hair with the other. He reaches into the pot of chalk, scoops out a handful and slaps it between his preposterous palms. He adjusts his handstraps - they are firmly in place. The tight lycra clings to his skin. He is ready for the clean and jerk.

Craddock looks straight ahead, like a blinkered horse, picking a spot in the middle distance on which he can focus and unfocus, focus and unfocus. The same routine for the past fourteen years: one man, one bar.

Craddock squats. The lycra is pulled harshly across his buttocks. It is strained but does not split. He feels the seams dig into his inner thighs - a slight, sharp pain that concentrates the mind. He gently rests his fingers on the bar. He drums them lightly, then settles. The same routine...

Craddock looks back up to his middle distance point and focuses, unfocuses, urges all thoughts from his mind. But, try as he might, the world slithers in.

Mitchell Craddock, Olympic Champion. He grips the bar tightly.

Mitchell Craddock, MBE. A tear dribbles down his cheek.

Mitchell Craddock, National Hero. His knees sink to the floor.

Mitchell Craddock is spent.