How it was.
Now it’s later in the evening, the 43 reduced to once every half an hour. I wait under rain and the orange street lights, surrounded by a haphazard scattering of evening bus riders; mothers and misfits and melancholy wanderers, and those that are like me, and those that are so different from me, and our breath and our sounds are muffled by the heavy clouds that linger not far above, up-lit with the pallid glow of the city.
I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes, watching the other buses role past and kick up spay, the damp slowly rising up my trouser legs. I wonder where all the 43 busses go when the sun goes down and the rain falls. Perhaps they migrate south.
Eventually, a single decker, left alone and struggling to cope. Through the heavily steamed windows I make out a heaving mass of people inside, and once aboard I can only hover in the door well, next to the driver, standing well forward of that notice - the notice that, as all bur riders know, we are not supposed to stand forward of.
I allow my eyes to wander across the sea of faces: such diversity. As we push southwards the passengers begin to thin, the bus breathing a sigh of relief as more people get off than on, and I find a seat behind a ginger haired student reading a book on the histories of women’s imprisonment.
There is no moral to this brief anecdote, it offers no emotional cadence and has no witty remarks to wrap it up, because this is not a story with an ending, this is just how it was.
I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes, watching the other buses role past and kick up spay, the damp slowly rising up my trouser legs. I wonder where all the 43 busses go when the sun goes down and the rain falls. Perhaps they migrate south.
Eventually, a single decker, left alone and struggling to cope. Through the heavily steamed windows I make out a heaving mass of people inside, and once aboard I can only hover in the door well, next to the driver, standing well forward of that notice - the notice that, as all bur riders know, we are not supposed to stand forward of.
I allow my eyes to wander across the sea of faces: such diversity. As we push southwards the passengers begin to thin, the bus breathing a sigh of relief as more people get off than on, and I find a seat behind a ginger haired student reading a book on the histories of women’s imprisonment.
There is no moral to this brief anecdote, it offers no emotional cadence and has no witty remarks to wrap it up, because this is not a story with an ending, this is just how it was.
posted by Geoff at 11:10 am
4 Comments:
So many memories. All of them scarily similar to this.
"The passengers begin to thin."
It's a diet bus! Just what I need right now.
I Geoff, interesting in another life I use the other spelling of Jeff, but onto comments, I do'nt know if you have ever noticed the noise traffic makes as it speeds past you whilst you wait for the bus to come, or the strange fact that in the last 12 months I have never been on a bus that brakes or accelerates gently.
Sorry forgot to say brilliant blog
I know the feeling. I spent over 40 minutes waiting for any bus, whether it be a 41, 43 or 48 yesterday, to pick me up and take me home. Eventually, a single decker, Finglands 41 came. Packed to the brim with horrible, clammy students, talking in over-loud voices about their zealous expeditions during the day. How I wish that some of the students had never arrived. Alas, they did. =D
Never know, I might see you around.
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