Is all of this correct?

I sat underneath a bus shelter staring at a five pound note sticking out of a pied purse, which lay on the damp chewing gum stained concrete slabs of the pavement on which crowds of people stood waiting for the number 34 to King’s Cross Station. I, Vicky Price, am one of these people, and perhaps like some of them, I too am about to embark on a trip, though perhaps my trip will be something grander than a quick flit at a posh restaurant in Soho, a one off holiday to Mexico, or new kitchen from Myrdal’s Magazine.

I’m going to see my Auntie Sean in Paris. I've never seen my Auntie in person before, but my father told me that she was a rich widow who’d inherited a vast fortune from her husband Maurice who’d been working for the Parisian government until last week when, on his returning home from work, suffered a heart attack. It’s a miracle that no one else was hurt in the accident, though apparently Sean is one of these devout religious types, so she had God on her side. I know what you’re thinking, and while I’d love to share in my auntie’s wealth, I’m not visiting her because of her inherited fortune. I’d been planning to visit her for three months now, and today, perhaps coincidentally or by chance, my manager Dave let me have the weekend off. It’s about bloody time.

Having spent the past two weeks dealing with his overly picky clientele, if I’d spent another minute speaking to Janice, I probably would've told her to stick Dave’s wedding plans and his clientele’s requirements where the sun doesn't shine. This probably isn't the best thing to do, but after working for the company for six years, he didn't even send me an invite, while Janice and her snotty office chums in management all have had invites. We receptionist folk just aren't appreciated, yet we are the ones who have to deal with Mr Howard’s querying this, and Mrs Barnet’s requiring that. I tell you, these toffee nose crooks are worse than my young Charlie’s crying. Blimey! On time for once.

The number 34 slowly pulled up to the bus stop as people began forming an orderly line, though an elderly gentlemen seemed to elicit anger as he stood perusing advertisements for the West End’s theater itinerary, rather than getting in line like the rest of the soggy, miserable and deflated folk who had just finished work, and like Vicky, all wanted to go home, have a good cup of tea and put their feet up.

“We’ll be here next year if this bloke doesn't get a move on,” bleated Sandra, who had just finished her daily cleaning of the ‘Queen’s Arms’ pub toilets. She held a cigarette in one hand, and a half eaten bacon sandwich in the other while gazing ahead in utter frustration at the elderly gentlemen

“I do beg your pardon?” he said.

“Look mate, while you might have the money to waste on some fancy West End jiggery-pokery, some of us wanna’ go home. Ain't that right love?” she said.

Sandra was standing next to Vicky, and sought her affirmation, though her callousness didn't reside so well with Vicky, as aside from being capable of showing Sandra’s aloofness herself, had always respected the elderly ever since her working as an elderly carer in her twenties.

“I’m sure he didn't mean to delay us, isn't that right, sir?” Vicky said.

“Quite right, and I apologise for my dawdling; though for your own safety I suggest you cease spewing such venom from that babbling mouth of yours, as in the future you may not be so lucky to stand in front someone as decrepit as myself,” he explained.

The elderly gentlemen oozed command granted through his archaic Englishness. His stiff upper lip, top hat, waistcoat, all helped portray his image of a Victorian gentleman, though I am sure that, if he were to dress himself in ordinary clothing, he would still portray a powerful image of nobility, as he appeared to be descended from the Saxons. He had a thousand yard stare quite unlike that of any man I had seen before.