In the wee small hours, a small bespectacled drunk with a
rasping Balkan accent gets on to the night bus as i’m going in to work, and he refuses
to show a pass or a ticket. He stomps to the back seat of the bus and sits down with his arms folded. When the
driver stops the bus engine and asks him again, the drunk accuses him of being insulting and untrusting, and
the air turns blue as he vainly attempts an appeal to the silent passengers for
sympathy. The driver opens the doors and
very politely asks him to leave, but the drunk refuses with another flock of
expletives. Sighing, I get up and walk through
the bus to have a word with the man. I could probably pick him up and carry him out. Instead, i sit quietly beside him, tell him the only rude person on the bus is himself, and then i remove his spectacles and get off the bus
myself, and walk briskly away in the direction of travel. He follows in something of a panic, whining
that his glasses cost over £300. With a
smile, i stop and hand them back, and then skip back on to the bus. As the driver shuts the doors, which always
seems to take forever, the drunk rushes up and gets one foot on the threshold,
but i place my hand in the middle of his chest and out he goes again ! And off we go.
( Earlier, at Clapham Junction, a cherubic young woman wearing tiny red devil's horns was practising some really elegant dance moves by the bus stop for ten minutes ... and she really could dance ! )
( Earlier, at Clapham Junction, a cherubic young woman wearing tiny red devil's horns was practising some really elegant dance moves by the bus stop for ten minutes ... and she really could dance ! )
Later, at first light, Ashdown Forest turns pink.
The loved one struts in from a good day at the library and presents me with "Enemies At Home", the latest Lindsey Davis.
.jpg)
