"Isn't it a waste of time, father? Smoking smoke in and out of your lungs looks like not a quite idea for you," Micael suddenly uttered out of the ordinary towards his father who then smoked another down to his air pipe. His father did not utter any reply at all in an immediate time, but his face did.
His cheeks became relaxed and his eyes smiled from the very top of its lids. His forehead receded to crumble and his ears were back from his head, and after his mustache getting the sweet comb from his hands, he got his reply to Micael's.
"You see, son, time is not a waste at all, as if you can't trash something intangible in your hands."
"You think that's for the good of all?"
"No, son. Smoking is simply thinking about no one but your happiness. It will sure kill me like butter but it would make me happy like I am in a circus," said his father last and patted one of Micael's shoulders with his free hand while the other was busy holding a roll between his two fingers, and smiled. Micael smiled back but he had not the urge to utter something quite remarkable to be heard in the very first place, and so kept his mouth shut and just looked around with the roll of his eyes. There were pubs, patisseries, jewelry shops and the streets which had adorned by the light coming out straight from the sun.
While his eyes were busy roaming around the British space, his mother went on to check his being and asked him what he wanted: "What do you like to eat, honey? Since it's our first time here, the first one must be bomb, right?" Micael replied while his eyes were looking at the different omnibuses and carriages crossing the roads with the hooves of the horses and the circling wheels fixed about an axle, and his words had reached his mother's ears. "Fish and chips, mother. That's the food that I'll ever be wanted to taste, for they're called fries way back, right?"
And his mother uttered a laugh and talked after her eyes had stopped shrinking like bubble. "Anyhow, we shall find ourselves comfortable in our omnibuses as the helpers look like done and ready for the tip," he followed after the periodic whisperings of her mouth like echoes with consistent volume, and he agreed. Micael looked at the array of omnibuses (there were twelve of them) and the only whatnots he had seen where the three of them could fit in was at the second omnibus as the first was filled with navigators and some important men that had known his father from the verge of the birth of time; they were his father's business partners, to be exact.
He called his father with his voice louder than the last time he shouted, and his father turned his head towards his whereabouts and threw the dead roll of his smoke unto a tall bin right beside him.
"Shall we get going? I am kinda hungry to be honest, father," he shouted once more as the head of his father had completely turned towards his'. He never replied with so-mething tangible by his ears but rather it touched his eyes.
He could see the smile of his father as he walked towards him and his mother. He noticed the walk, too. It was quite elegant. So elegant it looked like a practiced kind of traversing. He indeed wanted to be looked upon by so many brits out there roaming around the streets of their big great country, as if anyone was no brit, at least by blood, at all. They looked different than the Aussies. They sounded different, too. Micael remembered what he had heard from the lad he came across before the archway, and he took no time into mentioning the quite reaction of the lad onto his accent, and his father reached his foot a foot near.
"I came across this guy and I said 'today' after he uttered such blabbering, and he laughed! What's wrong with our accent? It doesn't sound like funny?" "No, son. Ours were never funny. We sound like one because their accent got no bullshit to tell, that's all. Not to hit their race, by the by," his father replied with speed, and so did the reaction of Micael.
His eyes looked like dying as if they were churning. His stomach had crumbled like paper. His hand was in his tummy and half of his mind was concerned about his wounded sole which started to sting like a ka-ngaroo's one solid kick, but he knew he had to continue. They had to, and he spoke after the gas of his last laugh had been used: "So, we call this another journey, land-wise?" "It should be one, son. So, shall we find our seats inside?" replied his father unto him, of which Micael and his mother both agreed willingly.
Louis went to the front the omnibus and opened its door from behind. Micael's mother entered the omnibus first, with her hand holding unto his husband's as she stepped inside. "Mind if you hold mine, too?" cracked Micael after his mother had found his seating inside, and his father just laughed. He never replied. His eyes only looked at Micael's and his lips separating like the hands of the clock, and inside the omnibus he went.
And so did Micael.
He took a quite careful step with his right foot, let alone his heel touched the very step of the omnibus bus alone, and then his left foot followed inside while his hands were held tight right at the door's handle. After a step more, he sat right beside the door and closed it willingly, and there was a thud of which they all heard. It signaled the chauffeur of there whereabouts and the chauffeur sent it to others, and there they started moving slowly and caught their very speed as the Pratt family kept on talking side; there talk-abouts could be heard outside but the conversation had echoed enough around he walls of the omnibus which there were in, and only mere murmurs could be heard outside like a thunderous whimper of the clouds from north up to the verge of south. It could be heard but it sounded like something more than just conversations. They got themselves a cup of tea and drank on cups, for 'twas going to be a long day.
...