Alison Wells Author

Been on hols, so this is an old one. It’s inspired by the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. Yes, I walked it, unlike Callum.

Bloody Hell, its freaking high up here – must be eighty feet. Don’t look down Callum. I said no to bungee jumping – swinging into oblivion with your legs being yanked off. But this is has to come close, yeah? A sixty foot rope bridge and a grouchy looking ocean underneath.

Got bloody roped into this Management Training. Hempenstall hired in a shower from the Docklands with their ‘Feel the Fear’ programme. If I had hold of them now they’d be feeling the fear alright.  I was going to pull a sickie – those headaches have me fairly ropey- but I knew I’d hang if I didn’t prove myself after the fiasco with the Daily Maid Advertising Campaign. They told Hempenstall ‘we’re not paying good money for old rope.’

You go one at a time, when you get the nod. Christ. I’m throwing mock punches here, like the boxers, to get the juices going. There goes Jessica, bouncing like an oompaloompa. ‘Fat Bottomed Girls you make the rockin’ world go round.’ She’s no size zero, but she’s gettin’ microscopic. It can’t be that far, can it? There’s a knot in my stomach. Pull yourself together man. For Hempenstall. Show some moral fibre, he said, some staying power. SuperCallum, the invincible. SuperCallum, fragile-egotistic, why is he always stocious?

No-one has ever fallen off the bridge, they told us. Not intentionally anyway. Ha Ha. God she’s over, they’re bloody giving me the nod. Come on Callum. Don’t look down. Oh freaking hell, feck the job, cos you know what? I’ve just copped. Once you get over, you’ve got to bloody well turn round and come back. Hang it.