This was a creative writing task - and each student had to invent a character, and tell a story from their point of view. They may encounter the characters highlighted by other students. When the tales were read out aloud, it was amusing to see the crossovers. Anyway, this is my tale - and my character was an attended at the science fiction conference. His name is Bryn Johnstone.
Happy Enough Bryn?
They called it Paradise but it wasn’t angel wings I saw on that last day. Last day of the conference that is. Perhaps I should explain.
First of all, my name is Bryn Johnstone. I was staying at the Paradise Hotel in Scarborough, attending the sixth MultiVersiCon, and yes - I am a self-confessed sci-fi geek and don’t apologise for that.
It hadn’t been as good as the last two gatherings I’d attended, but was still reasonably good fun. Part of the reason was that the hotel, in their wisdom, had decided to book two other conferences at the same time. One was some sort of medical or pharmaceutical jolly, and the other was full of the flat-cap brigade and cages of what I later discovered to be pigeons. As a consequence of this we had less meeting rooms allocated to us than usual, so it was a little more … intimate. We still had the main hall though, so the celebrity guests could address us all and share their anecdotes.
It was a quarter-of-an-hour until the next luminary was scheduled to appear, and the autograph queues were too long to join until then, so I’d gone to the dealers’ room to have another look around there. It was packed. Amongst those clad in black tee-shirts displaying slogans and promoting their favourite shows, there was the usual quota of costumed attendees, cosplaying their roles to various degrees. I saw all variations of Klingons – from those sporting the fishnet costumes and questionable fake tans, through the Mars-bar-bonced next generation, to the newest unusual incarnation. Between two stalls I even saw Wonder Woman and a Wookie closing a deal – under the disapproving eyes of the hotel concierge. I myself was clad in a uniform reminiscent of Space 1999 – I’d unpicked the sleeve from a grey track suit and replaced it with that from a black one. Well, you’ve got to make an effort, haven’t you?
I’d made some decent purchases. Within my Forbidden Planet rucksack I had a set of Babylon 5 Minbari/Earth-Alliance trading cards, a Stargate keyring, and an old magazine from that 80s cult show “Spark Farmers” that I’d had signed by Val Dirmitage himself. Oh, and a TARDIS pencil case.
Speaking of the TARDIS, when we filed back into the main hall, I noticed that they’d erected a blue box at the corner of the stage. Fans were milling about, making their way to get seated on the conventional – no pun intended – red plush chairs. Someone dressed in a cat costume – don’t ask me why – was weaving their way through the crowd in the opposite direction to everyone else, when I heard a commotion nearby – through an open doorway to the side of the hall.
When a flock of pigeons flew through the doorway, I was in their path. Two or three flapped in my face before gaining height, one even leaving me a present on my head. Unfortunately – although I didn’t know it at the time – I seem to be severely allergic to pigeons. I was finding it progressively hard to breathe and I dropped to my knees feeling disorientated, the black marble-effect vinyl floor looking – appropriately – like a star-scape. Someone shouted for a doctor, and the last thing I saw was Sylvester McCoy looming up, carrying an umbrella.
It was just as well the medical conference had some doctors who hadn’t originated on Gallifrey. They gave me something which brought me round. I think someone mentioned epinephrine, although it’s quite possible they were asking “Happy enough, Bryn?” After all, when you’re in paradise, and paradise is in Scarborough, you have to make allowances for the Yorkshire accent.
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