I got on a double-decker bus this week. Yes, and you thought they were just a tourist attraction in that London. But no, they are actually still in use and fairly widespread around here, 217 miles north of London (as the crow flies). And here’s why I hate them.
I spend the entire journey absolutely terrified it’s gonna topple. They drivers don’t even take care with their machines. They treat them like a single-decker. The one I got on was an old one. They stopped making them in the late ‘90s. It was creaking. The seats were metal, not plastic. The windows were loosely fit. Its engine made a horrible racket and occasionally the exhaust fumes were black. And the ceiling was closer to the floor than I am when standing. I’ve never been on the upper deck of one. I’m afraid the trees it keeps hitting are gonna come through the window. They’re dangerous those buses, but still work, so they’re still everywhere. And I was on one. Holding on for dear life.
It was hot already, but that bus was a sauna. They don’t really have air conditioning, just a faint breeze from some tiny windows that open and the occasional draft from some sporadically placed grates on the floor. Don’t know why those grates are there, though. They feel like an asthmatic is coughing on you. Probably is.
I was travelling from our beautiful town centre (stop laughing) all the way home. Like that pig in that documentary. Or story. Or fable. Whatever that thing is you say to children who seem to believe toes are pigs. Plus, why would my toe go all the way home? Surely, it is home? Anywhere but attached to said foot is surely detrimental to the owner of said foot. Surely that doesn’t call for a nursery rhyme, but rather a surgeon. The things we say to children to make them laugh, eh? ‘You’re adopted’. Oh no, wait. That would make the parent laugh. Never mind.
The town centre voyage was the tip of the lethal sweaty bus journey iceberg. My town is unique in the UK, as it was the first, and still is, the only town to be entirely laid out in a grid pattern, like New York City. I’ve been to New York City. I lost count of how many times I nearly was run over. Almost as many times as I had to go through a metal detector. What is it about grid cities? I’ve nearly been run down loads of times, here. But that trip into the town centre this week – that took the biscuit. It wasn’t a car that nearly mowed me down. Oh no. It was a student riding a unicycle. Damn near killed me. Only I could have ‘Killed by a Unicycle’ etched on my gravestone.
I was most relieved to arrive home in one piece. The mad unicyclist hadn’t killed me and neither had that sodding bus. Pah! What was I worrying about? But there was a pleasant surprise in store. A little baby before my eyes greeted me when I arrived home. That cheered me up. Momentarily. It was a baby relative. He wanted to play outside. We had such fun. But then he ran off down the road. I had to bring him back and he started wailing. All the neighbours were staring. Because they were outside. Because it’s been hot. I survived a drive-by unicycle attack and a bus of death, only to nearly die of embarrassment. Oh, boy.
It was a bad day.
I decided the best form of attack was comfort food and a bed. It was peaceful lying there. Calming. Temperature around the high 60s. A cool breeze coming from the window, caressing my fevered brow. The Olympics on the television. The garish colours of the hockey park giving me a delirious headache. I tell you what, if I decorated my house like that, I’d admit myself into a psychiatric hospital. Although it would be a fantastic deterrent against burglars. Police arrive. Oh look, some criminals are having seizures.
After getting all that off my chest, I can now finally relax. Now I have nothing else to worry about. Hang on, is that a moth? Oh dear God…
Save me, Superman!
“Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm”, said British Conservative politician and statesman, Sir Winston Churchill (1874-1965).
Peace Out :|:
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