Buses Aren’t Really My Thing

Getting off at the right bus stop is a lot to ask of a person. First, you’ve always got to know where you are. Now, this involves certain difficulties, such as being familiar with the bus route, and actually knowing what your stop looks like.

Second, you’ve got to concentrate incessantly, so you don’t lose knowledge of where you are and miss your stop. Now this involves certain difficulties, as buses have more distractions than a stationery supply closet. There’s the delight gained from watching the world go by as you gaze dazedly through the murky panes of laminated glass, not to mention the joy of eavesdropping on the conversations of other passengers; creating fictional portraits of what their lives might be like and fabricating what soap opera situations might be awaiting them on their return home.

Third, you’ve got to actually stay awake. Now this involves certain difficulties, especially if you (like me) are one of those people who fall asleep at the first instance of gentle motion.

The thing is, by the time you’ve remembered all this, you’ve probably missed your stop anyway.

So, as you can see, the bus and I have never been the best of friends – that is, in the days of old.

I go to a university outside of London, where I wouldn’t know where to catch a bus from, even if I wanted to (which I don’t). I was less than keen, on my return to London, to hop on the crimson clunker, but there seemed no other option when the sky opened and did what I felt like doing – burst into tears.

And at first, it seemed like the bus experience had taken a turn for worse, as the infamous female voice of the London Underground had branched out to her sister transport system and was loudly and nasally announcing our arrival at each stop, every thirty seconds. I was on the 263, through Finchley, and didn’t appreciate the constant reminders that I was heading to ‘Holloway: Nag’s Head’ – I dismounted in East Finchley, so the only thing nagging my head was this voice.

It pains me to admit it, but I may have been wrong. Recently, I’ve been getting two buses home from work every day, and I’ve come to love Sonya (accordingly named, because she gets-on-ya nerves). Her eternally perky voice pierces the otherwise impenetrable web of thoughts whirling around my mind: which allows me to stare out of the window, snoop on other passengers, even catch a quick forty, and still know when my stop’s coming up.

It takes no small feat to come between a girl and her Northern line, but now that Sonya’s by my side I can enjoy the delights of a ride on the ruby roadster, without fear of ending up in Holloway: Nag’s Head.

Image by Mike Fleming courtesy of Flickr