Talk to TFL

If you wanted to make an important phone call, surely the last place you’d be comfortable doing this would be the crowded upper deck of a bus? With this in mind, it seems bizarre to me that almost every single bus I have gotten on in the past few months, and believe me I have embarked upon many a bus ride recently, has included at least one dramatic telephone conversation from a stranger airing their dirty laundry for everyone to hear.

It seems TFL have not only sought to provide clean(ish), comfortable(ish) and fast(ish) transport for the thousands of Londoners to-ing and fro-ing around the city everyday, but have also, somewhat accidentally, provided a kind of mobile counselling service too. A very red counselling service at that.

It all started several weeks ago whilst travelling on the 243 from Dalston to Old Street at precisely 18 minutes past nine on a Monday morning. As the bus pulled up to the stop I knew it was going to be a tight squeeze so I sandwiched myself in amongst the other commuters, trying my best not to stare at anybody for that little bit too long, as is the unwritten rule on London transport.

After the rather large deposit of passengers outside the Geoffrey Museum I managed to wangle myself a seat, which was a relief as the driver was a particularly manic one that morning. As soon as I sat down I knew it was a mistake. Bob Dylan soon blurred into the shrill tones of the rather robust women sat beside me. I desperately fumbled around for my iPod to adjust the volume only to discover the volume was on full…damn Apple and their attempts at trying to preserve the world’s hearing.

The said woman appeared to be having a rather stressful conversation with the father of her child. Now I know that separations aren’t easy but is it really necessary for a small sample of north-east London to have to endure this stress as well? Travelling around London in rush hour is stressful enough without the added burden of having a one-sided slanging match taking place in the seat beside you.

I glanced around the bus to see suited men, mouths agape, unable to continue reading their minutes for the day’s meetings ahead. This woman’s conversation had completely taken over the airwaves. Once the rather lengthy ‘discussion’ had ended, the bus sat in a joint uncomfortable silence, the type where someone coughs for no reason other than to try and desperately break the tension. Picking up on this I reached over for the bell to secure my exit at the next stop and to my horror so did the woman beside me. The lack of telephone signal on the tube was my only saving grace…

Image by Monika Szyma courtesy of Flickr