Trifter

In lieu of anything more uplifting to write about I return to one of my favourite topics: Public Transport (this is a perfect example of a misuse of the word ‘favourite’ by the way). Remarkably though, this topic is somewhat relevant as it was only last week that a train service I use was cancelled. And though this cancellation was only for a very small part of a single day, it (mere chance of course) coincided exactly with the time I normally reserve for travelling home. Sadly, I was left no alternative but to take The Bus.

I harbour no innate hatred of buses, but it is an inescapable fact that the enjoyment of city bus journeys is directly related to the time of day one ‘chooses’ to travel; alas my journey unfortunately corresponded exactly with that thing we call “rush hour” (’we’ = urbanised* humanity).

Despite the famed red buses of London I was cheated in that I found myself boarding a black bus! This was clearly a bad omen, but at the time I was young and innocent, and I settled on a mere shrug, asking myself: What next, a red taxi?

(In point of fact I have now seen a dark-purple taxi, and though this does not balance the heresy of a black bus it is no doubt the Universe’s perverse (though half-hearted) reaction to my sarcastic query.)

The Bus itself revealed more of how Fate intended me to spend my evening: a double-decker vehicle streaked in grime; dirty windows only partially translucent thanks to a clinging moisture that could only have come from the lungs of the passengers; powering the thing was a motor that sounded like the coughing of a thirty year old dog.The driver sat slouched in his booth, he was no longer a true human; he had clearly never left the seat, had instead somehow become absorbed into the machine, the only question in my mind as I swiped my card was: did he control the bus, or did the bus control him? I feared I already knew the answer when I saw his bloodshot eyes.

I pressed myself into a seat on the upper deck, my left knee uncomfortable against a shard of damp metal protruding from a tear in the padding. My senses were immediately dulled by a thumping din originating from a pleasant group of gentlemen spitting (not a typo, I’m afraid) on the back row; the screeching wail of a lady on her phone did not help.

Like this the journey progressed, and to the stink of the man beside me and the rustle of plastic bags the bus jerked its way slowly down high street after high street; I felt nauseous.

A dog whined from somewhere below, or was it a baby? It took me great effort not to join the poor thing in expressing its misery; but inside I knew that down that route lay only dark depression and possibly suicide; instead I counted my fingers and gritted my teeth.

The sun sank towards dusk, signalling clearly that the evening was wasted; and yet it still glared an irritating orange light that caused me to squint, hurt my cheeks and made me feel sick.

Needless to say, I had developed a headache and my book held no appeal. As I normally would take the train I had no idea how many years this voyage would claim, but even then I recognised that this was probably a blessing. The disadvantage of a double-decker is that one can see the road ahead: in my case gridlocked to the horizon.

Not normally given to claustrophobia, it took me several seconds to identify the strange illness that came over me; my self-diagnosis confounded by the very symptoms I was trying to diagnose! had I actually enjoyed the upper deck as a child? Yes, I remember a clear feeling of excitement of being allowed to sit upstairs…. should I be comitted?

Good has come of this experience though: I now have an elevated appreciation of the train, and a very real sympathy for those who live so far from a station that they must rely on the buses each and every day! To those people I offer my condolences. To others, like myself, I point a finger and say “stop complaining! It could be worse!”