Front Row Foreigners

I found a seat upstairs on a busy bus, my knees poking into the aisle. A baby was screaming below. Relentless and mind-numbing, it was enough to silence most of the passengers. How do they make such a powerful, aching noise? It’s a wonder of creation, it really is; few other sounds even come close. I’m pretty sure when the baby’s mine I won’t feel quite such a strong desire to put as much distance between me and it as possible, at least I hope.

The front row was occupied by token ‘front-row foreigners’. It is an unmistakable phenomenon of the 43 bus that the front row seats are nearly always occupied by people speaking a language other than English. When they talk, they talk loudly, safely aware of the linguistic ineptitude of their host country. Today’s representatives sat on a double seat each, managing a conversation while they stared out of opposite windows.
Not long ago I had been on a less busy bus, in the second row back, and I was puzzled by a passenger in front of me who appeared to be talking aggressively to himself in a tongue I didn’t recognise. Every few minutes or so he would mumble something, but he never ceased gazing out of the window. I thought perhaps our rainy grey climate had driven him mad. Then, after about 20 minutes, a person I hadn’t even noticed on the other side of the bus mumbled something in the same language and they both laughed. Neither made any physical movements to suggest they were communicating, but the synchronized laugh was unmistakable. Wierd.