This is an exercise to ‘Remember Remember’.

Take any mundane facts that would otherwise bore the living daylights out of you and create your own magical mystery story.

Facts:  John Smith who lives in Kent and likes camping, golf and television.

Here is mine…

One tent in Kent sat idly by on the shop floor, awaiting her stout hearted Spartan – her escapade away from the briefest moments of hope. Left only to be frayed and tattered, disappointment sunk in as she was left tainted with the mark of shame: £19.95 wasn’t good enough, not for these customers.

This air conditioned cesspool of domestic ‘necessities’ was her home. Uniform lipstick and three inch high prowess. The hospitable smiles, so diligent, set stoically bare by the crow’s feet of nineteen year olds. Tactical arrangement enfolded in a coagulation of exotic aromas, which often turned to a dizzying, sickly tang. Mr Smith wheezed and puffed as he toddled on, crisscrossing through the crusading consumerism on his bi-annual day out to John Lewis.

The Kentish tent could tell this rogue was an appreciator of the finer arts, not just from the clutched crimpled copy of ‘Hello! TV Heaven’ but from his eyes. “Oh, Oh his eyes”, she thought, “They gleam through to my lofty interiors”. She was entranced, in a state of sheer meditation, even medication, but she did not know why. The increasingly shuffling surrounding others, however, did. The extraordinarily illuminating eyes were indeed the very nature of his magazine. Two bulbous televisions, mistakenly at first glance clumsy spectacles, hung above the sardonic smile of an insomniac. Mr Smith had gloated incessantly about his ingenious plan for months prior to the operation, but to his dismay the bill still included TV licence and didn’t even include the full Sky package he had wanted. His wiry thin hair should have whimpered but instead stuck straight up, all ten inches of it haloing the bald patch.

The tent of Kent was homebred, a seeker of a relatively comfortable life. She had had one past relationship, the golf club set across the aisle. He was dignified, study and his silver-plated wink had frequently made her all twittery inside, just like the birdie she thought he would have no doubt scored if only given half a chance. But it didn’t last long. His uprightness meant stubbornness and even if he had wheels, he would never have wheeled to her. But now that flirtatious wink, once full of zeal, turned to a mould green tint of envy as Mr Smith advantageously approached the tent of Kent in a way to say, “You’re mine…”.

But yet again, it was not to be. Within the warranty limit, the ‘Spartan’ she had eternally longed for turned out to be a barbaric brute. The aesthetic dangling tree-shaped scent turned septic. Frequently his hair left electric singe marks and she was bruised, left wasted and was melancholic once again. It was Wednesday morning, Mr Smith was snoring and the beep beep beep of the bin men took her to join the other tents in the sky.