Ah, the joys of bus travel.
Well, I say ‘bus’ but it is more like a mobile sauna…
Behind me is a peroxide Typhoid Mary coughing up her lungs behind me. I pray that she is holding her hand against her mouth.
In front of me a girl is talking to her boyfriend while looking at her iPad. She says that something she is looking at is written in Chinese. Minutes later, “Oh, it is Welsh!” I struggle not to roll my eyes.
I have written an inordinate amount of blogs about being on the bus. I must come off as being quite obsessed. I am really not. I just comment on things that happen and I just happen to travel via bus a lot.
Anyway, to the side of me a woman is shouting to someone five rows ahead of me. She is swearing like she is being paid per cuss-word. The woman five rows ahead is swearing back. The cosmic swear jar has exploded and shattered all over the bus. I remain silent. I could complain but getting sworn at is not something I wish for.
The bus driver keeps stopping at bus stops. Waiting a few minutes at empty stops populated by cigarette ends and phlegm. Behind me, a tarry lung comes flying over my head and spatters in the aisle.
A woman tells another how she doesn’t like being called a slut but then, in the same breath, brags about “bagging five men last weekend.” Maybe she is referring to some kind of man-hunt with guns?
In front of me, a young man complains, in a voice that is half grunt and half snarl, that “without some baccy I’ll go nuts.”
A host of overweight women come aboard. They are wearing clothes that are way too small for them. Capturing lost youth is one thing but this is akin to shoving a sausage into a button hole. Fat spills everywhere. A tsunami of flesh waddles up the aisle, brushing against people, enveloping them and swallowing folks into the hidden pink depths.
On the front seats, old people mutter bitterly about how life was much better when they were young. You know, the good old days? The days where people died in their hundreds each week of things that are easily cured nowadays. The days where life expectancy was sixty if you were lucky. The days when smog killed thousands in London. Those bright fabulous days where homosexuals could still be arrested for simply being in love. Yeah, them days.
I know that I am being hugely unfair but sometimes I feel as if I am stuck in a Victorian freak show or on the island of Doctor Moreau.
Sigh, ignore me. I am in a mean mood today. The depression is biting deep at my perception and I can hardly complain about others when I am, myself, practically the bastard son of Grizzly Adams and Jo-Jo the dog-faced woman…