On Toleration

I flashed my pass at the driver and trundled upstairs only to be greeted by a strong smell of unwashed person. At least that’s how I describe it, but it’s probably a medical condition or something. It smelt bad, and I felt sorry for who ever it was, stinking like that all day long. That small piece of sympathy somehow made the smell bearable (kind of). I can accept such an experience as just one of the many intricacies of bus travelling; you take the rough with the smooth, and that’s ok. Not so when the rough is a smoky bus.

There are like fifty no smoking signs visible from every seat, yet every now and then someone near the back on the top deck decides that their desire to light up is more important than the comfort of every other non-smoker there. The smell of weed is the worst; it makes me feel a bit sick. I want to get up and say something, not be nasty, just ask them kindly to put it out, please.

But I don’t, I just sit there with everyone else and pretend I haven’t noticed it. I feel so English, and shy, like if the person in question were to walk past me and slap me on the head I’d apologise for being in the way. It’s pathetic. I’m not exactly small, and on a half full bus I needn’t be afraid, yet I am. In fact, I suspect the smoker justifies their decision by telling themselves that if anyone really cared they would say something. So perhaps I will.