The London Underground

By Elana Evans, aged 13

I barely hesitated as I spurred my wary horse Buttercup down the neatly chopped marble stairs after the robber. Unfortunately Buttercup did stumble a bit on the descent causing my rather splendid hat to slip gently off my head and land at the bottom a dusty rubbish bin. This rather ruined my entrance and I felt a bit unprofessional without my hat, but I'm sure I’ll get new a new, far more feathery one after I unmask this fiend and claim my glory.

As I entered the large grand station I was greeted with numerous shocked faces, some gasps, even a rather rude shriek and some points but I reassured the gob-smacked citizens with a wave of my hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, don’t panic, I know there is a crook in your midst, but the situation is entirely under control. You may call Scotland Yard if it reassures you but this conundrum causer will be brought to justice,” I said in my smoothest, most pleasant voice, making sure to accompany it with a dashing smile that has been known to make ladies swoon. Buttercup snickered in response, although I wasn’t sure if it was satisfy the terrified people or to demand them to get out of our way.

Suddenly, amongst the mass of people I spotted the person I’d been looking for- a smartly dressed man clutching a dull briefcase. He was heading for a weird looking staircase; I couldn't really tell what it was from this distance.

“Aha!” I cried as spurred Buttercup towards him, unsheathing my sword for effect. Some people in the crowd screamed, and I saw some take out a sort of strange rectangular shaped device and point at Buttercup and I. However, I didn't have time to wonder what it was; bringing a thief to justice was my top priority right now.

Then I saw it. The staircase was moving. Gosh, what has technology come these days? The robber however was standing on it unfazed as it moved down to the next spotless level. I wiped a bead of sweat of my brow and patted Buttercup’s glossy flank. This was a worthy opponent.

I took a deep breath and nudged Buttercup onto the moving stairs. I'm not going to lie, she objected at first even in front of an audience, (how distasteful) but a smart rap on the bottom jolted her onto the contraption.

I lurched forwards in the saddle and waited for what seemed like an age as the machine slowly edged downwards; the crook had now stepped of it and was walking towards a spiky hurdle that rotated when someone pushed it. It was all very strange and Buttercup and I were out of our element.

Just as we reached the bottom we were hailed by a ruddy looking man in a peculiar blue uniform clutching a fat whistle in one of his hands.

“Excuse me sir,” he said nervously, “but I’m afraid that you can’t take your horse down the London Underground."