“Coming through!” I yell, negotiating the thronged station.

Heads turn.

“Last call for Dublin,” the Tannoy booms.

I run.

My case bounces, overturns and spills its contents.

The train doors hiss shut.

“Hard luck!” someone says.

That’s more sympathy than yesterday.

Tomorrow I might just have to trip and fall.

Mary Sheehan lives and writes in the sunny south east of Ireland. Unfortunately, she spends too much time doing both just in her head.