Monday, December 01, 2008

[minutiae] and the gloom of the bus station


At first glance, waiting for a return bus from a cold and windswept bus station in the town centre, just as the dark had fallen with a thud, did not promise a scintillating time but stranger things have happened.

Having done the doings and thinking I was late, the jacket collar went up, the Thinsulate toque was tugged down, I got to the stand and there we all were, side by side in the gloom, grandmothers, grandpas, mothers with kids and shopping, young spivs, chavs, schoolkids and me. No one spoke; every one of the Pod People sported a blank look.

"N7 been along yet?" I couldn't resist asking the woman standing beside me, all muffled up, at which she showed bewilderment, "Not sure. N4 should have been 'ere at fifteen past. I got 'ere at quarter to and must a' missed it like."

A glance at the watch said 16:20.

"Nah, it never came," piped up a bearded type, front right, wearing a kagoul. "N7 neither."

"It's very late, the N4," spoke up a grandma to my left, sitting bolt upright on the rounded red steel bench, her shopping on the seat beside her. "It's already fifteen past and they're usually so punctual."

"Twenty past," I threw in an unheeded correction.

There were about thirty seconds silence.

"Must have been held up," added an elderly voice from a vaguely visible figure, further along to my right.

"Or roadworks," replied the grandma and everyone else stared fixedly towards where the bus stubbornly refused to come from.

"Oh look," a mother called out, "Is this it coming now?" Everyone peered into the gloom and it was certainly a bus which had swung itself round the corner and into our lane but ... and this was a big but ... it had stopped behind a stationary bus at the stand one up from us and wouldn't show itself.

Someone stepped onto the road and reported back, "Nah, it's the N7." I looked at the woman beside me and felt I needed to say something. "Never mind, the N4'll be along shortly." She smiled that resigned look and clutched her collar even more tightly to her neck.

The long, long queue finally got on, all were seated, the bus was heated and the lights inside meant you couldn't see anything outside, as the hiss near the driver signalled we were off on our grand adventure.

Immediately, behind me, some girl saw it as the cue to start up. "I bought an Advent calendar today, from Marks and Spencers." Silence, then, "I really like that tune, y'know. It's really nice like."

"Oh, I bought that one too," answered her friend. Silence. "I really like that tune too."

More silence. The first girl had obviously been considering this last remark.

"I'm taking it back tomorrow. I'm not havin' soomit wot evera'one else has."

Someone dinged the bell, eight or nine of us got up, the driver swung round the corner and jammed on his brakes, sending us careering towards the exit door. "Cheers," I called back to him, falling off the bus at the same time.

It was a bit chilly outside so I zipped my collar up to the top and pulled the toque down even further over the eyebrows.

7 comments:

  1. Short stories. Write short stories. Like Joyce's "Dubliners".

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  2. This reminds me of my conversations at work ;-) I have much more interesting ones when I travel by train...

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  3. I love the way you include such interestng details in your stories.

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  4. Interesting, James...
    parallels occur here too :)

    wishes,
    devika

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  5. I forgot to mention the international diversity of blogging too. :)

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  6. That's a lovely story, james. It's very Gervaise Phinn like in its telling.

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  7. Your all-too-typical bus driver is evidence for my Axiom Number One of British Life: the working classes hate the working classes.

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