Chasing Amy-Lou

Describe a scene using no adverbs. This is going to be excruciating! So instead of describing something I was observing, I decided to describe something I experienced.

It’s Friday lunchtime and I’m due to catch a train to Liverpool to meet some friends from Belgium.
I’m already running a tad late and need to withdraw some funds so I decide to bypass the cash machines in the city centre and opt for the one on the train station instead.

I make my way through the city centre; bustling and swarming with locals, even for a friday. The heat is not yet sweltering but just warm enough to produce a trickle of perspiration down my back as I speed-walk up the narrow streets, dodging prams, wheelchairs, and feral kids who should be in school, as I go.

I glance down at my watch…ten minutes until the train departs; I quicken my pace. Up ahead I spot several orange barriers, strewn across the road as if they had just been tossed there by an angry giant. It could only signal one thing: roadworks. And with roadworks came adjusted pedestrian crossings, meaning I’d have to find an alternative route around the slow-moving, unemployed window shoppers with their heavily laden bargain basement bags, and the lunch time workers, out to grab a disgusting processed sandwich or a three day old pasta salad from the packed butty shop.

I scoot and swerve my way around the heaving and sighing bodies, deciding not to alter my route as this would waste valuable time. I feel like a football player in training as I dodge and traverse the crowds, almost two-stepping with an elderly gentleman as he tries to avoid my rapid advance.

Eventually I reach the train station. I almost jog along the concourse, cash machine in full view, but wait, what is that I can spy, plastered across the fascia??? NO! My already racing heart almost stops: “Cash machine out of order”.
OK, so now my plans for purchasing a coffee for my journey and paying for my ticket in cash have been scuppered. I sigh, I grunt and I utter a number of profanities. Reluctantly, I stomp towards the ticket office and pay for the train ticket on my card.

God dammit, I think, as I slowly climb the stairs to the platform. My mouth was dry and I needed a drink. I dived into my bag and pulled out my purse which was lighter than a feather. Inside I spied £1.70, not enough for an overpriced, branded coffee but just enough for a drink from the crappy vending machines provided on the station.

Quickly and precisely I deposited my last pennies into the slot and made my selection. The train was minutes away and as my bottle of Pepsi made its way to the slot where my waiting hands would eagerly snatch it up, I felt a sense of relief wash over me: everything will be ok; I’ll have my drink, I can get cash once I arrive in Liverpool and I still have a minute or so before the train arrives.

Clank. I push the door to retrieve my drink. Clank. Nothing. I frustratedly try again. Clank. Nothing. The door is jammed. In a rage, I boot the machine with my foot, I can hear the train approaching in the distance. Still, nothing. Again, I heave my body weight against the door; it’s stuck solid. I can feel anger boiling in my blood. My veins pulsating and I clench my fists, tightly, trying not to scream. First the crowds in the city, then the broken cash machine and now this! That vending machine had swallowed my last remaining coins, the one saving grace, the quencher of my ever-growing thirst! I couldn’t even buy a drink on the train now. My day had started disappointingly. I needed to calm down before meeting my friends. I swallowed the polluted, stagnant air. I soaked it into my lungs. I took another gigantic breath and brought myself back to reality. It didn’t matter now, it was only money and I’d be at my destination in an hour. These things happen, after all and I couldn’t alter what had occurred. However, I despise these dispensing devices, I really, really do.