I’ve been doing lates this week, which should mean that life is fairly quiet and you get to drift off into your own thoughts while some automatic part of your body takes over the driving. It hasn’t been quite like that yet. On Tuesday (the first day of this working week), there was an open evening at a school situated in a backstreet that is sometimes difficult to negotiate. The authorities resorted to their usual remedy of diverting the buses up an even narrower street, with even more parked cars, which is also used by parents to reach the aforementioned school. Chaos was predicted but, as it turned out, other than slowing everything down, it wasn’t that bad - slightly worse than the regular Sunday morning congregation of The Church of the Divine Right To Park Anywhere, but not quite as bad as days when Crystal Palace are at home.

Last night, however, the traffic was just generally crazy, with jams or queues at every junction. I started at Beddington and, by the time I reached Norwood Junction, I was 18 minutes late. I spoke to a driver coming the other way and he was 40 minutes late, and counting. The reason for the congestion, I later discovered, was that the trams had been out of action all day.

Things did quieten down later, though. In fact, partly because I have a bit of a cold, I was feeling sleepy and had to resort to inventing games to keep myself awake. One of these was “spot the drunkard”. It’s not a hard game, but it helps you keep alert - one of them nearly stepped under the bus at Crystal Palace. Under my rules, to qualify as a drunkard a person needs to be more than just a bit pissed. They have to be completely incoherent, incapable of walking in a straight line, and generally unaware of what’s around them. On one trip I counted five. The winners, in reverse order, are: Third place: A lank haired gentleman with a can of Specialbooze and regulation white trainers, who took three attempts to put his money in the tray, and mumbled to himself from Norwood Junction to Davidson Road. Second: A middle-aged chap in a pink shirt who boarded at Reeves Corner and stood on the platform swaying uncertainly for about 2 minutes while he rummaged around in his pocket (presumably looking for change), clearly oblivious to the fact that a driver and about 20 passengers were waiting for him. First prize goes to the woman who staggered in front of my bus at Crystal Palace before meandering nonchalantly across a four-way junction just as the lights were changing. Cars, buses and lorries slowed down as she continued walking, totally unaware that she’d held back the flow of traffic like a modern-day Canute. (Granted, Canute didn’t hold back the waves - and he was a bloke - but you get the picture).

A special award goes to a woman who got on at East Croydon and attached herself to the windscreen while telling me all about her evening, her partner, her love life (with people other than her partner), and the medication she was currently on. Unfortunately, she doesn’t qualify as a drunkard because, though fairly incoherent, she could walk in a straight line and was at least partially aware that I was there.

For much of last night, I felt like I was driving a ghost train. I was doing a late shift on the 455, which at this time of night on a Sunday, is not busy. I took just £9.00 all night* and the maximum number of people I had on board at any time was about five. On one trip, I was accompanied virtually the whole distance by a very fat man who slumped into his chair like he’d just been shot, and remained motionless, with his head lolling to one side and his arms hanging loose at his sides, for the whole trip. The fact that he remained on board all the way was itself odd, because the 455 is not a bus for travelling long distances. It takes about an hour and a half to get from Purley to Wallington (a distance you can probably walk in 30 minutes) via West Croydon – a bit like travelling from London to Delhi via New York. I had visions of having to call an ambulace to take the bloke away but, upon arrival, he surprised me by jumping up almost athletically and striding off the bus. He even said, “thanks driver” on his way out.

It’s always nice when passengers thank you. For that matter, it’s nice if they say anything consistent with the idea that you might be human. The kind of treatment bus drivers often get is illustrated by my first 15 minutes behind the wheel yesterday (before it got quiet). In that time, through no fault of my own, other than trying to be conserate, I received two black looks and was sworn at loudly. The first dirty look was from a car driver who had to wait for me while I served a stop (as if I had any choice!). The second, ironically, came from a passenger who was annoyed at me for rolling the bus a few yards beyond her stop, so as not to block in another car driver (you can’t win!).

The abuse incident was actually quite amusing. As I approached a stop, a wild posse of teenage girls detached themselves from the shelter and ran, squealing and giggling hysterically, to meet me. I was under the impression that thay were just a bit over excited about getting a seat (even though the bus was empty) so, as there were other people waiting patiently, I went past the charging girls and brought the bus to a halt where it is supposed to be brought to a halt – at the stop. However, it turned out that the girls weren’t running for the bus, but from an irate young bloke who was evidently chasing them. He bounded through the door, virtually foaming at the mouth with anger, and stormed right up to the girls as if he was about to tear them apart. However, at the last second, he remembered himself and pulled up short, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides in a cartoon-like picture of frustrated anger. Realising he could go no further without actually resorting to violence, he turned on his heels and tried to make a dignified exit from the back door. Unfortunately the door was shut, By now, probably feeling foolish as well as impotent, he headed towards the front door where, seeing me looking at him in the mirror, he snarled, “What are you looking at?”. I shrugged and let him get off. What else could I say? In fact, I sympathised with him. I don’t know what they said (or did) to him, but I’ve seen girl-gangs like this plenty around the Croydon-Carshalton area. They are savages. Often drunk, and dressed to kill, they wear their make-up like warpaint and terrorise the neighbourhood with their arrogant loud-mouthed behaviour. The fact that the poor bloke stopped short of actual violence probably says a lot for him.

* At the end of the day, drivers have to deposit any cash taken in a machine, for which they receive a receipt. Drivers often use the amount taken as a rough guide to how hard they have worked (even though in this day of travel cards, Oyster cards and freeloading kids, you can have a full bus without taking a penny). Nobody likes to be seen to be working hard and, although it’s never articulated, it’s kind of accepted that the less money you’ve taken the cooler you are as a driver. The reverse is probably even truer. Inexperienced drivers, or those who are slow for other reasons, often get hammered, picking up far more passengers than their faster colleagues. On the 410, no driver would be ashamed to announce that they had taken £15 in a day, but they would be a little sheepish to admit that they had taken £50.

The last week or so has been quite eventful on the road. There have been diversions, delays of every kind, road traffic accidents, a suicide, a wedding, and I have even been threatened at gunpoint. Ironically, now I have decided to start blogging again, last night (despite being a Saturday night), was perhaps the calmest I can remember. The only incident worthy of note was the police closure of one road in West Croydon. It was taped off and closed to traffic, although I never did find out why. Probably a glassing, or some other incident involving the consumption of lager.

In the absence of any fresh events, I might as well flesh out some of the above. Traffic delays and road works are hardly worth mentioning, but the suicide, even for Croydon, was unusual. I had just pulled up at a new stop in Tamworth Road (rather pretentiously called Centrale) when a girl who works in the staff canteen, who just happened to be at the stop, asked me to wait a moment while she called the police. Apparently, just as my bus rolled up, someone had jumped from the top of a multi-storey carpark - an event most of the people nearby were alerted to by the distinctive sound of flesh hitting concrete. I didn’t see any of the gory details (thankfully), but the truth of the news was confirmed shortly afterwards when an announcement was made over the radio that the whole of Tamworth Road was closed by the emergency services and buses were diverted. I have no idea why the victim jumped, unless it was exasperation at the time they’d beenwaiting for the bus – I was running about 20 minutes late at the time.

To say I was threatened at gunpoint is true but, luckily for me, it’s not quite the way it sounds. I had just pulled up in Towpath Way (a road in a not very nice housing estate) when two hooded characters jumped on the bus, one of them thrusting the point of what looked like a gun under the assault screen and yelling at me “give us your money” or some similar request. It only took me a second to realise the gun was plastic and another split second for the words “only joking” to penetrate but, during that short time my heart did a somersault and my galvanic skin response went haywire. "Only Joking"! Hilarious. What sort of moron, in this age of drug-related shootings and massacres in school playgrounds, thinks that holding up a bus with a plastic gun is the sort of thing you do for a bit of a laugh?

On a lighter note, 10 minutes stand time at Crystal Palace was brightened up the other day by the sight of a traditional bride and groom in full costume promenading between the buses. I don’t know whether they were fellow drivers tying the knot, or a couple cutting costs by traveling to their wedding by bus, but it brought a smile to my face. As luck would have it, I had taken my camera to work that day. Also as luck would have it, by the time I had put the batteries in it, the picture opportunity had all but disappeared.


To change the subject completely, I am currently reading a book called Human Traces (Sebastian Faulks) and, this morning, an item therin prompted me to look up hysteria on the net. I was amused to find the following: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Female_hysteria, which includes the following gem: “Patients diagnosed with female hysteria would undergo "pelvic massage" — manual stimulation of the woman's genitals by the doctor to "hysterical paroxysm", which is now recognized as orgasm”. I bet you can’t get that on the NHS.

I was walking past a bus garage one day, on the way home from a hard day's lecturing at the local university, when I noticed an official-looking folder lying on the floor next to the bins. Thinking it might be mislaid notes belonging to one of my students (left on a bus, perhaps, after a night of debauchery), I examined it, only to discover instead a ragged sheaf of handwritten scrawlings which appeared to have been penned by an anonymous, but clearly literate, bus driver. Intrigued, I read further and found myself drawn into the strange parallel world depicted therin. It seemed a shame to let such a body of work, rich in social observation and valuable insights, go unnoticed by the world at large. Unable to seek permission from the anonymous author, I decided to take the liberty of publishing the musings myself and, having first asked my secretary to carefully type them onto a word processor, I uploaded them onto this website. Maybe the driver in question will one day see his writings and return to claim his work.

You could of course swallow the above tale hook, line and sinker. I think it's a nice story. The truth is more prosaic. Though clearly literate, I am myself a bus driver. I have never been a college lecturer and do not currently have a secretary. The sheaf of handwritten papers and the folder are fabrications. The preceding entries were, in fact, typed directly onto a computer sometime between 2004 and this moment. The reason they appear now in one glut is that they originally appeared on another site, which recently underwent some changes I didn't like. In a fit of pique and confusion caused by the fussy new interface, I pressed the delete button and consigned the whole lot to the great trash can in the sky. Fortunately, I kept a copy of some of the entries on my hard drive, which now form the substance of this site to date. It's only a hint at the grandeur and scale of the original, but at least it's something.

If you see a literate-looking bus driver searching for something near the bins outside a garage, please tell him about this site.

I haven’t posted in a while, but why should I make excuses? It’s not as if somebody’s paying me for this (although I am of course open to offers). Actually, I have a perfectly good excuse for the recent lack of entries, although I’m not sure to whom it might be made. It is that I’ve been on leave for a couple of weeks and my mind has been occupied with things other than buses – a malfunctioning boiler, the need for sofas, and the worrying injury to Arsenal midfielder Cesc Fabregas, to itemise a few.

My first day back behind the wheel was Saturday. At first it felt really weird, almost as if I’d never driven a bus before (I didn’t tell the passengers that). But, after a few minutes, I was back into the swing. It seems it’s something you never forget - just like riding a bike, only with four wheels, and bigger.

Actually, I really enjoyed it. It’s funny but bus driving is fulfilling in a way that working in an office isn’t. Certainly, working with a computers and things can be more interesting and (occasionally) more intellectually challenging, but there is something rewarding about exercising a purely mechanical skill you’ve honed by long hours of practice (or hours of mindless repetition) – a skill that has become so automatic, and so near effortless, that you can almost watch yourself do it. Blacksmiths probably feel that way, and tennis players.

Incidentally, in terms of the actual skill sets involved (shifting of balance, judgement of corners and gradients, etc), the nearest I can think of is skiing, or hang-gliding. And people pay good money to do both those. Unfortunately, I broke my thumb when I tried the latter, and usually end up with my face planted in the snow and my skis running downhill on their own when I do the former, so it’s probably best not to stretch the analogy too far.

Getting back into groove so easily after an extended break also reminded me how difficult it used to be. It’s been almost two years since I picked up my first unsuspecting passengers, but I can still remember the seat-of-the-pants feeling as, barely able to negotiate corners at walking pace, I found myself having to thread bus loads of people safely around what seemed like mind-bogglingly complex routes while keeping an eye open for hidden stops, suicidal pedestrians, and homicidal van drivers. Stops were no less fraught, with the pressure to operate doors, count out money, and answer passenger queries - all while trying to keep to what seemed then like impossibly tight schedules.

The training is no help. Would-be bus drivers are taught how to pass their PCV tests and very little else. Doing this is not easy (plenty fail) but it is no preparation for driving a bus in service in London. A bus driver’s first days on the job are a bit like those of a rookie pilot in the First World War. After a few weeks of training, they are thrown into battle to fight for their lives. If they don’t crash and burn in the first week, they’ll probably make it to the end of the war.

Those first weeks were scary, gruelling (you run so late you don’t get much stand time), and often hilarious, especially when you take a wrong turning. Once I had to do a three-point turn with a double-decker full of school children because I accidentally drove up a road with a low bridge further on. Another time, also with a crowded bus, I got lost and wasn’t sure whether to take a short cut to get back onto the route, or go back to the beginning. So I put it to the vote (the passengers opted for the latter).

In short, a bus driver’s first few months are tough. If you make it in one piece (and lots pack it in) you feel like sticking around for a while, if only to enjoy the relative tranquillity that sets in once you have found your feet. I found them a while ago and, at times, it feels quite rewarding. If you think I’m exaggerating, try it sometime. There’s always a demand for bus drivers in London.

An annoying thing happened at Wallington today. I was just about to pull away from the stand when a woman came up to the door waving a £10 note and asking if I had change. I had not long started so I wasn’t sure and had to check. I found I did (just about) so, having stopped the bus, I counted out £8.50 and gave her a ticket, at which point she announced that she didn’t want to travel. She just wanted change for the parking meter. So there I was, left open-mouthed with no change, and an unwanted ticket that ended up costing me £1.50. And she was wondering why I was annoyed with her!

This is just one example of the confusion that can arise over cash transactions on buses. Passengers often seem perplexed (not to say aggrieved) when drivers don’t have change, even more so when the driver refuses to give them a refund they think they are entitled to. The reaction is understandable, but is rooted in a misconception about the money in the cash tray. Contrary to popular belief, neither the bus companies, nor Transport for London provide a float. Any money the bus driver starts off with at the beginning of the day is his or her own. Furthermore, every ticket sold must be accounted for. If a driver has sold £50 worth of tickets, he or she must bank £50 in cash at the end of the day. If there’s a shortfall it comes out of the driver’s pocket.

One of the most annoying things that can happen is that someone asks for a ticket and then changes their mind (for instance, discovering at the last minute that they have a pass). The driver is then left with £1.50 worth of ticket that he or she must account for (there is a facility to cancel tickets but it only works for 30 seconds after the ticket is issued, so you have to be quick).

It’s equally galling when people use buses as a means of passing off foreign coins or out-of-date currency. It might seem a harmless way of getting rid of unwanted shrapnel that has only been given to you by somebody else after all. But, once again, it’s not the company that’s paying. It’s the driver.

Equally annoying is when people get on a bus and empty the contents of their piggy banks into your cash tray. This always seems to happen during the rush our, so you are faced with a dilemma – make everyone on the bus late for work by counting out coppers like a miser, or take the cash on trust. You might argue that most people are honest and, anyway, it’s only pennies. But that misses the point on both counts. Firstly, people DO deliberately try to short-change you. I remember one occasion when a man in a flash suit handed over a pile of silver. It was 10p short and, by some coincidence, he just happened to have exactly 10p ready in his other hand! Secondly, even if it is pennies, it’s a matter of principle. Nobody likes having to pay to work. And nobody likes being conned out of money (even 10p), especially by somebody who’s probably earning more than you are.

In my opinion, the whole idea of buses blocking already congested London traffic while grannies count out £1.50 in small change is absurd. Either cash fares should be scrapped altogether (in fact TfL seem to be working towards this already). Or (admittedly a less likely option) bring back conductors!

Bus drivers frequently suffer at the hands of rampaging schoolchildren (See last Sunday’s entry), so when on Friday I was presented with a chance to inflict a little harmless discomfort on some of them, I seized the opportunity with glee. The joyous episode started when an old geezer in a wheelchair boarded the bus at Crystal Palace (A young woman helped him on and, as he clearly wasn’t entirely I control of himself, I assumed she was his helper, but it later turned out I was wrong). As he settled in near the back doors, I quickly realised that, as well as being a complete loon, he was drunk and stank beyond belief, exuding a potent mix of urine, alcohol, unwashed clothes, and shit. I opened the window and turned on the fan, but even this did not fully banish the stench. It was about this time that the bus was overrun by the first wave of rowdy schoolchildren. As usual they charged the bus, jostling each other in their desperation to get on. And as usual, the ones at the front stampeded in while the ones at the back pushed and shoved. It wasn’t long, though, before I started to hear the first murmurings of regret from the vanguard. By the time I closed the doors, even the ones at the front of the bus were complaining. The old geezer seemed oblivious as, by this time, he was well into the second verse of a loud sea shanty, which, punctuated by snatches of bawdy commentary, he kept up for most of the journey. It was with unusual relish that I pulled up at the next stop to allow the second wave of kids on. And I found it hard keeping a straight face as I asked the kids crowding the windscreen to “move down inside the bus please”. Needless to say I drove especially carefully (I had a wheelchair user on board, after all), so it may have taken a bit longer to get from stop to stop than normal. I might have been a bit more cautious about opening the doors too. The suffering kids certainly complained about the slow progress, bless them. I enjoyed the moment, but the episode was to take a different turn when the bus emptied out a little. As I pulled up at the Whitgift Centre in Croydon, a passenger who had just boarded the bus complained about the mess on the floor. I looked around to see that the old geezer had apparently pissed himself. After a moment’s thought, I took a deep breath and went aft to find out where he was going (in the hope that it wasn’t far and I’d soon be rid of him). But he greeted me with a blank stare, his red eyes bulging insanely from behind a greasy unkempt beard. I know when I’m defeated. I got back in the cab, put in a call to the controllers, and drove on with the old geezer still aboard. As it happened, there was an official at the next stop, so I explained the situation and he agreed that it was time to take the bus out of service. The bus sat there for about 15 minutes, hazards flashing, wheelchair ramp down, while old geezer (now comatose but clearly breathing) sat in the bus alone in his wheelchair and a puddle of his own piss. The police arrived shortly afterwards and, having first protected themselves with rubber gloves, gently removed him. It turns out he is known to the authorities. Despite having only one leg, he is homeless and comes with a health warning, “Take care: spits and bites.” I’m glad I didn’t try to persuade him to get off earlier. Once the police had done their job, I took the bus back to the garage to be cleaned up. I’ve no idea what happened to the old geezer. The last time I saw him he was ranting at passers by at West Croydon bus garage. He probably got on another bus. I’ve shared this story a few times around the garage since it happened and have discovered that I’m not the only one who has a good urine yarn to tell. One old hand told me over a bacon sandwich in the canteen today that he was once driving a double-decker when the ceiling started dripping. It seems someone on the top deck had taken a piss. Naturally, he was allowed time to go home and have a shower, even though he’d just had one. Another driver apparently reached up to change the destination blind and, upon opening the flap, was met a gush of amber fluid down his arm…

I locked myself out of the bus again yesterday. This happens surprisingly frequently, not just with me. The last time I did it was during the summer when I stopped for fish and chips while running light to the garage. I felt a bit of an idiot as I stood next to my immobile bus waiting to flag down another driver while my takeaway got cold and my meal break slowly disappeared. This time, it wasn’t hunger that caused me to leave the all-important T-key inside the cab, but an urgent need to piss. Luckily, on this occasion, there was a bus a little further up the stand, so I was able to simply stroll up the road and borrow the other driver’s key.

Naturally, the incident provoked much piss taking, and a stream of anecdotes about being caught short while driving. Desperate drivers have been known to relieve themselves in bottles, or against the wheels of their vehicle, but I prefer to find a bush. James, the other driver, agreed enthusiastically, and we spent an entertaining couple of minutes comparing notes about suitable bushes. James then volunteered that some kind of cover was especially important when doing Number Twos, and then declared proudly that he had marked his territory with a Number Twos at every bus stand in Croydon. This for me was a little too much information, especially as I’d just relieved myself (Number Ones only) in one of the very locations he’d specified. Unfortunately I couldn’t get rid of the image and was plagued by a faint aroma of shit all the way to the Palace. It occurs to me that Number Ones and Number Twos should perhaps be added to the important numbers for bus drivers I listed on January 30.

To misquote Bob Geldoff, I don’t like Sundays. At least when I am working lates. The duties are longer, the schedules are tighter, and I end up working harder than I do in the week. Added to this, past a certain hour, the cafes and newsagents are closed, so the two things that make stand time a pleasure (coffee and a decent newspaper) are hard to get. Things didn’t begin well yesterday when the only paper I could find was The Sunday Times. After much deliberation I bought it and almost immediately regretted the decision. I have never liked the Sunday Times. It weighs a ton and has more sections than a public library. But whenever I actually dive in and read a section I always end up feeling as if I’ve just eaten a plastic tomato - all appearance and no flavour. It reminds me of Sky TV. Millions of channels, all of them rubbish. There is a connection here.

After a succession of disappointing articles, I gave up and returned to the book I’m reading at the moment - The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl. After a promising start, this too is proving a bit of a disappointment, although it’s fun trying to guess who it was written by. Some bits read like they were penned by one of her panting clients, others as if they were written by an American. Why does a London call girl constantly refer to drapes and sidewalks?

So, after a few disappointing reading sessions, interspersed by an annoying number of largely uneventful trips back and forth between Crystal Palace and Wallington, Sunday Evening drew to a close. Another day, another dollar. At least the coffee machine at Crystal Palace works.

As well as driving buses and reading the Guardian (Observer on Sundays), I also occasionally listen to folk music. So when I heard about BBC4’s three-part documentary Folk Britannia http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcfour/music/features/folk-britannia, I naturally dusted off the VCR to record it. Great stuff. If I had needed a reason for buying a freeview box, this would have been it. It put disparate styles and movements into context and aired some fascinating archive footage of people like Leadbelly and Ewan McColl. It also contained a lovely anecdote that demonstrates how misleading rigid musical categories can be. It seems, the BBC was scouring the country for authentic folk music handed down from generation to generation, and found an eccentric Irish musician called Margaret Barry. Among other things, she sang a haunting traditional song called “She Moves Through The Fair”. They spent hours recording it, broadcasted it, and then asked her where she had learned it. She replied that she got it “from a gramaphone record”. So much for tradition.

Did I mention that school kids are a bus driver’s worst nightmare? On Friday, I had an experience that left me in shock. I was doing a guest spot on the 455 and arrived outside a certain school at the wrong time. I should have twigged that something was up when I passed a bus sitting stationary with hazards on 100 yards short of the school. The driver gave me an exaggerated thumbs-up and a broad grin as I passed. I soon found out why. As I pulled up, getting slower and slower as the full dread of what was awaiting me dawned, a swelling mass of blue-uniformed pre-adolescent flesh rose up into what is best described as a tidal wave and broke upon the bus. As I opened the doors, the torrent surged in and around me, lapping up against the assault screen, swirling around, under and over seats, hand-rails, and anything else in its path. Accompanying this human tsunami was a noise that would have chilled the hearts of a Roman legion as about 100 teenaged girls (and a few boys) screamed at the top of their voices. The expressions on their individual faces varied from glee to masks of anguish as they jostled, punched and clawed at each other in a desperate bid to squeeze themselves onto my groaning single-decker. For the first time I think I truly understand how the Beatles felt when they were mobbed by fans. At first I simply couldn’t believe it. I’ve been mobbed outside schools before but had never seen quite this level of hysteria. I eventually managed to get the doors closed and drove off slowly while the jostling and screaming continued at full volume. The bell was, of course, constantly ringing (although I could barely hear it beneath the din) so I had to serve every stop down the road, and each time I opened the doors, a renewed scramble for position took place. About three stops down the road, as I was pulling away, I noticed with horror that the front door was still slightly ajar. With visions of kids spilling out along the road, I pulled up immediately, turned the engine off and ordered everybody off. There was much complaining and asking of dumb questions but, once it became clear the bus was going nowhere, the crowd dispersed. I was left, shell-shocked, to inspect the damage. In their excitement, the little angels had managed to wrench the door from its hinges. The bearing of the door had been forced from its track and was now impaled on the interior light above the entrance. Bits of smashed glass were lying on the road. I eventually managed to force the door back into position and drove on as far as the garage, where the engineers checked the bus out. I’m not sure how badly the bus was damaged, but my peace of mind was shattered. I had asked to work this duty instead of my allotted one because I was going for a drink in the evening. After this, I needed one.

A passenger gave me a tip last night. I picked him up at the traffic lights and set him down near his house. He was so grateful that he left an extra £1.00 in the cash tray as he got off the bus. This is to be encouraged. Please pass the word on. Bus drivers appreciate this.

Since yesterday afternoon I have been on the lookout for a young lady of dubious taste, semi-clad in pink. I haven't suddenly devloped an unusual fetish - it's just that for the last two days I have boarded my bus at Beddington to find that someone has left behind personal possessions of the pink variety. On Tuesday it was a rather fashionable Nike tracksuit top, yesterday it was a small handbag. I'm wondering if it's some weird kind of striptease. On Friday I will perhaps find a pair of pink briefs and will look in the mirror to see a naked nymphette on the back seat of my bus. Wishful thinking.

I had another distracting passenger yesterday. A middle-aged bloke of Middle-Eastern appearance sat at the back and spent his whole journey muttering what seemed like a prayer. I was glad when he got off. It's sad, but last year's bus bombing has made me nervous of peolple of Middle Eastern appearance who sit at the back praying. Of course, it could have been my driving, but I don't think it was that bad.

The nearest my life came to being in danger last night was on the second last trip. I took the bus into a notorioius cul-de-sac in a council estate and had to slow down slightly to avoid a scruffy looking bloke out walking his pet pit-bull (owners like pets, pets like owners?). As I pulled up to the stop he came up to the open doors and snarled at me, "Don't look at me! Don't... fucking... LOOK at me, man!" In what was clearly meant to be a threatening manner. I didn't find it hard to comply with his wishes - I didn't particularly want to look at him. They warn you in training not to get involved. People out there have their own problems, they say. And, to be honest, in cases like this, it's easy to turn the other cheek The guy's behaviour was so over-the-top aggresive, so out of proportion with anything that had passed, that it was funny - like something in a Harry Enfield show. The more dangerous provocations are the less outrageous but equally unfair ones, like someone yelling, "Learn how to drive, Cunt!" when THEY have just cut YOU up". On those occasions, it's harder to keep quiet.

Only one other thing worthy of note happened last night. On the last trip there were loads of police cars and an ambulance near Waddon Road. I didn't catch what the cause was, so a little later, while running light back to the garage, I modified my route so I could pass the scene again. The police cars had gone, but there was sawdust on the road by the lights and a damaged motorcycle standing unattended on the pavement. The good news is they needed the ambulance.

You have to get used to distractions if you are driving a bus in London, but my second trip yesterday tested even my battle-hardened powers of concentration. By the way, after two days off, I’m now on “lates”, so the second trip I refer to started at 1747.

I had just closed the doors and was about to pull away from the Palace when a seriously overweight woman banged on the door. There’s nothing new in this, it happens almost every time. But, when I let her on, she didn’t thank me, but just scowled and walked inside mumbling to herself. A little later I glanced in the mirror to see that she was wearing a strange outfit with tassels and flip-flops (in January?). My immediate impression that she was a bit strange was confirmed when, at discreet intervals, she started making barking noises like a small dog.

A little later some more passengers got on, including two people with very young babies in buggies. When on buses, very young babies either gurgle and squeal playfully or scream uncontrollably (there doesn’t seem to be a quiet kind, but maybe that’s because I just don’t notice them). Anyway, on this occasion I had a selection – one gurgler and one squealer. What’s more they seemed to be interacting, with each other, as well as with the strange barking woman.

So there I am trying to squeeze a medium sized bus down a narrow road clogged with traffic and behind me all I can hear is a surreal cacophony of sounds like some mad menagerie – squeal… gurgle… woof. Pause. Woof… gurgle… squeal. This went on for ages and I thought it couldn’t get any worse until both babies turned into the third kind and started screaming. At which point the barking woman became even more agitated.

The noise did eventually subside as the people with the babies got off (either because they had reached their destination or because they were fed up with the racket), but the little barking noises remained. It was at this point that I had a bit of a mini revelation. The woman wasn’t barking, she was sobbing, uncontrollably.

By this time, the woman had been on my bus for about 35 minutes and we were reaching the end of the line. Now I had a new worry – what if she didn’t get off the bus? I’m not heartless, and the thought of somebody being so miserable that they cry for a whole bus journey, doesn’t fill me with joy. But anyone that sad isn’t going to be easily consoled by a sympathetic bus driver and, for some reason, her particular brand of sobbing didn’t seem like ordinary distress. More like mental distress. I had visions of gently trying to talk her down from the precipice of her anguish while she clung white-knuckled to the hand rail and refused to budge. As it happened, she got off at the stop before last and the situation I had envisaged didn’t materialise. It hadn’t been a very pleasant journey, for me or for her. The babies will probably get over it

I’m not good at numbers. I forget birthdays and struggle with the mental arithmetic questions on the Weakest Link. So, during my training as a bus driver, it came as a bit of a shock when I discovered the preponderance of numbers in the industry – each bus alone can be identified by at least four (at the last count). While writing Saturday’s entry I was reminded of this bizarre fact and thought it might be amusing to produce a list. Here it is:

Route Number: The number passengers are most interested in. Registration Number: Obvious. The same as on a car, and irrelevant for most purposes.

Running Number: Usually displayed on a removable black-on-yellow (or yellow-on-black) plate on the side of the bus, this number denotes the part of the service the bus is being used to cover. It can be any vehicle, driven by any driver but, on any weekday, Running No. X will leave the garage at the same time, follow the same schedule and return to the garage at the same time(s). Running numbers are different on Saturdays and Sundays – because Saturday and Sunday services are different.

Bonnet Number: Also known as the fleet number, this refers to the particular vehicle. It’s usually permanently etched in white on the side of the bus. Bonnet Number X will always be the same hunk of machinery. They used to be unique across London and people still talk lovingly about “RM so-and-so” which might be some particular Routemaster of post war vintage (Take a look here for examples). There has been some confusion since privatisation, but I’m not qualified to go into details. I think there are books about bonnet numbers (and web sites on the subject).

Duty Number: This refers to the part of the service covered by a particular driver – a day’s work for one person. At the beginning of the day, a driver will pick up a duty card, which tells him/her were where he/she has to be at any particular time. Duties usually consist of a few trips on one

Running Number, followed by a break, followed by a few trips covering another Running Number. As a consequence, drivers usually get to drive two vehicles on any given day.

Trip Number: Refers to a particular trip in the day’s timetable. For example, trip Number 1 might start at 0430 and arrive at its destination at 0520. Trip Number 3 might start 10 minutes later. It would, of course, be a different bus.

Driver’s Badge Number: Every driver has one. Old timers treasure their old brass badge although modern ones are plastic. They are unique to the individual. This is the number irate passengers are thinking of when they threaten to “take a driver’s number”.

Pay Number: I’m genuinely confused about whether this is actually one number, or two numbers distinguished by a difference too subtle for me to detect. A three-digit number, it appears on the duty rota and determines which duty each driver is doing on any particular day/week. I think the same number appears on my pay slip and refers to me as an individual, but I’m honestly not sure.

Driver’s Seven-Digit Number: This number is used to “sign on” one’s module at the beginning of a duty. The module is inserted into a machine in the office, the 7-digit number tapped in and the module retrieved. On boarding the bus, the module is inserted into the ticket machine. If the module has not been signed on, the ticket machine will not work and the driver will have to use an emergency ticket pack – a real pain in the arse and to be avoided at all costs.

Module Number: Each module has its own number, printed on the back, presumably to distinguish it from other modules that might, for some purpose, be allocated to the same driver (e.g. if he’s forgotten to sign on his own module and a replacement is sent out to him).

ETM Number: Each electronic ticket machine also has an individual number which is printed out onto every ticket sold. That makes 11 different numbers drivers have to keep in mind, and that doesn’t include the unofficial, but arguably just as important, ones such as the entry codes for the toilets at West Croydon and the drivers’ mess at Crystal Palace.

Is there any other job that has such a plethora of different identification numbers?

One thing that can be said about Saturday in the bus driving world is that it is different from weekdays. The schedules are different, and most ordinary people don't go to work. So, for what seems like the first time this week, my new friend didn't do his flap-closing routine, and the silver car didn't nearly cause an accident. The Groundhog-roadhog spell was thus broken, until the next time.

Otherwise Saturday's just an ordinary working day for us bus drivers (minus schoolchildren, of course). Yesterday, for instance, went like this:

0455 Arrived at the garage to sign on. This process involves swiping a card, checking a computer screen for messages, picking up duty card (driver's timetable for the day), signing on "module" (which plugs into the ticket machine in the bus and records how much money you have taken), extracting cash tray and other assorted bits of kit from locker, exchanging cheerful/world-weary/suicidal banter with other drivers and, most essentially, purchasing two espressos and a cappuccino from the coffee machine.

0505 Warmed from the inside by the coffee, I plunge into the cold and dark of the garage forecourt to find my allotted bus. I'm looking for running number 53. This could be any bus, depending on which comes out of the washer first the night before. Today, it's fleet No. 7, which does not fill me with joy. All the buses have personalities, and No. 7 is not my favourite. For a start, the seat doesn’t adjust properly, which means I can hardly reach the pedals. When I start her up, things take a turn for the worse and she starts squealing at me with a noise like an air raid siren. She’s telling me the ramp is down (even though it isn't) and I go in search of an engineer. He sorts the problem in a few seconds but, by this time, I'm already late and haven't yet checked the bus. Never mind, I know I can make up the time running light to the Palace. So I check the bus over (lights, horn, wipers, body damage, etc) and hit the road. I'm supposed to leave the garage at 0508, but it's now nearer 0515.

0538 Arrive at Crystal Palace, after a blissfully uneventful drive, only three minutes after I should have set off towards Wallington. Three minutes at this time of day is nothing and I know I'll easily make up the time. So I quickly change the destination blinds, turn on the lights and roll to the first bus stop. There are no passengers - a happy state of affairs that is to remain the case for some time. I therefore have the freedom to philosophise, make up poetry, or perfect my cornering technique.

0615 Arrive at Wallington 2 minutes early (We're allowed to be 2 early - any more is a punishable offence) and have 20 minutes on the stand before coming back the other way. I have no record of how this time is spent, although philosophy and poetry are probably involved.

0635 Depart for Crystal Palace. It's still dark and very quiet. Hardly any passengers and I'm really enjoying myself. Honestly, this is great. I'm slaloming a big vehicle up and down hills through winding tree-lined streets with very few passengers and not a car in sight. It's like skiing on freshly pisted snow. Gliding down pristine roads, turning corners by minute shifts in weight, singing songs loudly to myself... I can think of a lot worse ways of earning a living.

0717 Arrive CP. At some stage during the trip up here the sun must have come up, but I don’t remember exactly when, so at one was I with my bus, so in tune with my inner self. Either that or I was asleep at the wheel. Anyway, I park the bus and head for the Continental style café in the Parade opposite. They do a nice cappuccino and croissant. I then visit the shop next door to buy a paper and swap notes (metaphorically speaking) with a cheerful Asian lady about irritating punters who offer £20 notes for £1.50 purchases.

0728 Back in the bus for another joyful ride to Wallington. Some people pay for this pleasure (others don’t of course, but that’s another story). Highlight of the trip is two young black girls and a white guy who get on at East Croydon. All want places in Waddon, and don’t know where they are going. I’m not pressed for time, so I reach for the road atlas I always carry, check out where their destinations are and set them down at the right place with directions We wave goodbye with smiles all around.

0809 Arrive Wallington and settle in for another 10 minutes or so stand time. This time I adopt my preferred stand-time occupation. I read a book (The Intimate Adventures Of A London Call Girl).

0822 Head off for Crystal Palace knowing that this trip is going to be different. The world has woken up and wants to go shopping. The schedules take no account of this and don’t allow enough time. Being late is not a disaster, but I don’t want to arrive at the Palace after I’m supposed to leave because, at the end of the next trip, I am due to come off for a meal break. Helpfully consulting road atlases for people is not an option on this trip. This is the real world, pals – buy a map (or persuade bus companies to bring back conductors).

0909 Arrive at the Palace late, but not very. I back the bus into the only space available, rather neatly, and am quite pleased with myself. Swap a few witty words with another driver before hitting the road again.0920 Hit the road. And this time there is to be no messing. Breakfast is beckoning. So far I’ve taken only £9.00 in cash, but things are warming up and I’m expecting to have to work for my living on this trip. It’s always the same. Ask any driver. You dawdle around all morning trying to kill time and then, when it’s time to come off, things get busy.

0920 Arrive at Beddington, only two minutes late, where a replacement driver is waiting in the ferry van. We exchange the usual pleasantries and I’m on my way back to the garage and a Number 4 with extra hash browns. In the staff canteen (See previous entry) I swap notes with a couple of other drivers, eat the above-mentioned No. 4 and own another couple of coffees.

1108 Suitably refreshed, and now fully awake, I head out in the ferry van for an unusually short second half. All I have to do is go up to the Palace, and back down again to Beddington. Not even a full rounder! The first half trip is busy but I arrive only 2 minutes late having encountered only one major delay – an Argos van delivering in a street with no room to pass. Two buses are trapped until the Argos van moves. Routine stuff.

1207 Arrive Palace, park, change blinds, and get ready for the final run of the day.

1220 And we’re off. This is my last trip so, naturally, I don’t hang about. Fortunately, the schedules have finally recognised that things have become busier and there is now ample time to make the journey, at least as far as Waddon. There is naturally a traffic jam in the Purley Way (a permanent fixture) so I’m four minutes late at Beddington, but, at this time of day, this is par for the course.

1308 Roll up to the Plough at Beddington switch on the hazards, throw open the doors, exchange a few pleasantries with the other driver and then head back to the garage to sign off.

1318 Back in the output office, I head for one of the two grey metal monsters that count the cash at the end of the day. I chuck the coins in, the machine counts it, and gives me a receipt for £24 or so. While the receipt is printing (speed is of the essence here) I plug my module into the module reader (not a technical term) and get a print out of the money I have taken. With any luck the two totals tally, I staple the bits of paper together, drop them in the correct box and prepare make a bolt for the door. Actually, I’m not in a hurry today, so end up chatting with another couple of drivers about prostitution in the UK and in Thailand, a subject prompted by the book I’m carrying around with me at the moment (See above).

Thus another day ends. Unlike “Belle de Jour” whose book, coincidentally, is based on a blog about a job, my day does not involve anal sex and fisting. But there are other similarities. Now is probably not the time to point all of them out, but one of them is that, despite most people’s expectations, we both enjoy what we do.

It happened again this morning. Twice. That is, I had that Groundhog day feeling of a sequence of events recurring almost exactly as they did yesterday.

At one point same bloke got on at the same stop as he did for the previous two days and offered to close the flap to the emergency exit button (which was open, as it had been yesterday, because I'd left it that way when I got out of the bus to buy a paper).

Later, I was driving down Cherry Orchard Road and had to brake because the door of a silver car parked on the other side of the road opened suddenly causing another car to swerve into my path, just as it did yesterday. I suppose it's hardly surprising, given the nature of early morning routines, that things recur in this way, but it's a surreal, disconcerting feeling, especially when it's amplified by the general drowsiness that results from getting up at 4am. It happens all the time, but especially in the mornings.

Did the writer of the script for Groundhog Day ever work as a bus driver in Croydon I wonder?

Incidentally, the real Groundhog Day is very soon (Feb 2). To mark the occasion, here's a crap little poem, the origins of which are shrouded in history.


If I were him I'd stay in bed. There are no mad car drivers there. Anyone who wants more of the above can get it at this charming little site

I had a bit of a shock yesterday when I discovered that John Fowles had died this week. Fowles’ books (Daniel Martin, The Magus, The Collector, The French Lieutenant’s Woman) were fond favourites of mine during my formative years. The fact that I never fully understood what the Magus was all about probably added to the mystery. And what does that line of Latin at the very end mean? The staff canteen was a gloomy place, even though news of Fowles’ demise has yet to filter through there. I thought of making an announcement but, to be honest, I don’t think it would have made much of an impact. The staff canteen is always a gloomy place, despite the cheeriness of most of the people in it. For some reason, it stops serving food at about 6pm, even though many of the “staff” it’s supposed to be serving are working till midnight and beyond. So what you are left with is a few scattered tables, bare walls (apart from a couple of wooden showcases containing social club announcements), a dirty microwave and a blaring TV churning out Casualty or some home makeover programme at full volume. I’ll resist the temptation to rant about the home makeover programme (see previous entry), but I was stunned to learn that a couple had been driven to splitting up by the pressures of renovating their old railway cottage in time to meet an arbitrary deadline. And who imposed the deadline? The TV company - which means that the bloody BBC, or whoever it was, is responsible to driving two people to the brink of matrimonial break-up for no other reason but to add drama to a TV show. I’m shocked but not surprised. I’ve seen a few staff canteens in bus garages and they are all pretty bad (actually, ours is better than most). In common with the staff toilets (which deserve a discussion all to themselves), they seem born of another time or place - relics, either from gloomy, post-war Britain and the heyday of London Transport, or echoes of developing countries (where many of the drivers come from). Conditions are usually Spartan, with high ceilings, bare floors, formica table tops and seats bolted to the floor. Echoing around these cavernous spaces can be heard the sound of enthusiastic banter, the clatter of knives and forks, fruit machines, the compulsory TV churning out Richard and Judy, and occasionally, the clack of dominoes. Similar atmospheres prevailed at a Butlins breakfast hall visited when I was VERY young, coffee houses in parts of turkey, and the TV room at psychiatric institutions. I’ve used the word gloomy to describe these places, but, in general, the people are far from it. In fact, even at the worst of times, a sort of gallows humour prevails with drivers swapping banter and exaggerated guffaws at the most unlikely of subjects. In fact, this is where I take issue with Mike Leigh and other middle class people who try to depict working class misery. I seems to me that films like All or Nothing paint a picture of working people trudging wearily through life with their chins in the gutter. Well, times may be hard but, it seems to me, that one of the defining characteristics of these people is that they are able to laugh in adversity. In fact, it is probably one of the main ways of dealing with what life throws at them. All this is not to say that I don’t like Mike Leigh (give me Secrets and Lies before EastEnders any day) but I reckon his depiction of the “working class” sometimes betrays the fact that he isn’t. One more thing about canteens in bus garages. The cooked breakfast is usually the best thing on the menu, everything comes with chips, and you aren’t asked IF you want sugar in your tea but HOW MANY. This is why so many bus drivers are spheroid. Another is that they spend all day sitting on their bums.

I don’t always drive a bus. Occasionally, I get a DVD out. I’ve recently joined one of those internet/postal DVD organizations and am really impressed. I wouldn’t say I have impossibly obscure taste in films, but I don’t like the kind of American Blockbuster pap that gets hawked around the garage (buses again!). Anyway, the point is, said company has had everything I requested, from Key Largo, to Amores Perros. I really enjoyed the latter, partly because it included an extended storyline about a polished wood floor getting ripped up. I won’t go into details for fear of giving away the plot, but it was really nice to see one of these irritatingly trendy floors being polished off in such ruthless fashion. Having just bought a flat with laminated flooring, I think it’s time for right-minded people to make a stand against the stuff. OK, laminated flooring looks nice, and it’s easy to clean, but it’s noisy as hell. It’s turned many a good pub into an unpleasant echo chamber and, in a flat like mine, which was built for carpet (and people with muffled hearing, presumably) it transmits noise up from the neighbours (and probably down from me) like a tin drum. Is it really such a fantastic invention, or is it just an example of people pursuing, lemming-like, the latest styles propagated by those wall-to-wall home improvement programs on TV. Do people really have nothing better to do with their lives than endlessly re-decorate in order to keep up with the latest trend laid down by so-called interior designers? Actually, I admit it, I hate design for the sake of design wherever it occurs. The disease seems to be linked to the economic obsession with constant growth in a consumer society that’s already flooded with all the goods that any sane person would need to survive. Hence, we are persuaded that net curtains (which performed their function perfectly for generations) must be replaced by all manner of foreign contraptions which either fail to keep out prying eyes or block out all the light (fine if you are living in Spain, but crap in murky London). Likewise, we are persuaded to replace perfectly good ovens, fridges and washing machines simply because they are not in the latest “finish”. But perhaps number one in my list of home furnishing hates is the circular sink and drainer. What genius dreamed that up? A perfect example of form over function, it looks quaint, but is useless for draining dishes. In my opinion good design follows naturally from something that does its job well and usually results in that design remaining unchanged for a long time. Unfortunately, this is in conflict with the need for us to buy, buy, buy. So I guess I’ll just have to get used to wooden floors, circular drainers and the like. How long before somebody comes up with square wheels?

Life has been hard this week. I’ve been doing “earlies”. I should translate. For normal people (in other words, those who aren’t doctors, farmers, bakers and the like) the word “early” surely means anything before about 6am. For the past three days I’ve been getting up at 4.15am, an hour which, before I was a bus driver, I only ever saw when I had to catch a cheap flight to go skiing or when I was still up chatting from the night before. Actually, 4.15 has been cutting it a bit fine. It only allows me enough time to quickly clean my teeth and pull on an un-ironed shirt before dashing for a 4.50 sign-on at the garage (the shower can wait till I get back home, and daylight). Amazingly, everyone at the garage seems full of beans, and happy to chat away as though it’s a civilized hour like, say, 9am. By way of consolation, I tell myself these are hardened professionals. Through long years of practice, they have become able to construct a personal time bubble that allows them to do weird things like eat a roast dinner during a meal break that starts at 10.30am, and think, let alone talk, at 4.30am. I’ve only been driving buses for about a year, but I can’t really detect a similar process beginning in myself. Sure enough it feels weird when you’ve been working hours, have had your main break and are looking forward to finishing your shift, when a passenger cheerfully says “good morning”. The shock is not just that a passenger is being friendly (this does happen from time to time) but that, for you, it feels like late afternoon, at least. Maybe this is progress, but I’ve still got a long way to go. I usually feel like a zombie until the sun comes up and, although I feel exhausted when I get home, I still haven’t got used to taking a nap during daylight hours to compensate for the fact that I was in the pub at 11.30pm the previous night. In a desperate attempt to catch up on lost sleep, I’ve tried setting the alarm on my mobile during stand time and trying to grab a few moments of quality unconsciousness on the back seat. Amazingly this seems to work, but is not without its dangers. On one occasion recently I set the alarm for the right amount of minutes past the wrong hour, and ended up starting the next trip eight minutes late during the morning school rush. After two stops, the bus was so full that kids’ faces were flat against the glass. By the end of the trip I was 25 minutes late and even more exhausted than I was when I started. Still, starting so early in the morning does have its compensations. One advantage is that you are finished by lunchtime, and sometimes by about 10am (some shifts don’t have a meal break and run straight through). And there aren’t many people who can boast that they have virtually finished their day’s work before they’re fully awake. You also get to see the world in ways that others rarely do. The sun rising over Mitcham pond on a winter’s morning can be truly beautiful, and the Purley Way before the traffic builds up is a sight to behold.

A friend told me last night that it was a shame that I hadn’t kept up this blog. I suspect he was just being kind, but his remark, as well as reminding me that the thing existed in the first place, managed to rekindle a dormant interest. Perhaps it was that I suddenly realised that somebody in the real world (as opposed to the virtual one) had actually bothered to read what I’ve written! Coincidentally, I’ve also just invested in a broadband connection, a new computer and a wireless router, so am looking for ways to put all the new hardware to use. Hence the following.

I had to run for bus the other night. Twice in fact. Once to get to my nearest train station and a second time, almost immediately afterwards, to return from same station having discovered that services were terminally delayed and that the only chance I had of reaching my destination before closing time was to go by car. The experience taught me a couple of related lessons, which I plan to incorporate into my professional and personal life. Firstly, public transport is crap. Secondly, people who run for buses aren’t necessarily wild-eyed sociopaths with no goal in life but preventing hard-pressed bus drivers from keeping to their schedules. Secondly, driving a bus for a living is in danger of turning me into the worst kind of curmudgeon (Incidentally, all are related because they turn on the often-overlooked issue of the importance of point of view). For no other reason than that I feel like it, I’ll expand on these in turn.

Firstly, it may seem obvious, but one of the consequences of driving a bus for a living is that you see a lot of buses. You see them parked bumper to bumper in the garage, you see them suspended in mid air in the workshop, and you see loads of them on the road. And, because you are driving your number X bus towards the other number X buses coming in the other direction, you see number X buses at twice the frequency (every five minutes, say, rather than ten) than somebody waiting at a bus stop. The end result is that you get the impression that buses are everywhere. Why run for a bus, you wonder, when the things are ten-a-penny? Why, you demand, is that wild-eyed sociopath stopping me from getting to my meal break on time when she only has to wait a few milliseconds for the next bus to come along? The answer, I was reminded sharply the other night, lies in relativity. It all depends on your standpoint. If you are standing at a lonely bus stop in the middle of nowhere, buses aren’t ten a penny – they are a precious commodity to be prized, even prayed for. Run for one? You bet!

The second issue also turns on point of view. When you’re driving a bus, you inevitably see the world from the perspective of bus driving. This is a world dominated by schedules, stand time (how long you’re allotted at the end of a trip before you have to turn around and come back the other way), meal breaks, diversions and the like. Your main goal is to get the bus to its destination on time (or at least before you are supposed to be going back the other way). Red lights, traffic, road works, passegers, and people running to catch you bus when they should be waiting for the next one, are just impediments preventing you from achieving that goal. From this point of view, anybody who runs for a bus is a nuisance. But there is a particular variety that deserves special mention. This sort of individual should be banned from running on health grounds, but also in the interests of public decency. Unstable edifices of wobbly flesh, they look like they’d break into a sweat reaching for the remote control, and would normally consider running to be a sport reserved for elite athletes. But, for some reason, upon seeing a bus disappearing into the distance, they lose all hold on reality. Like large heard animals overcome by the stampede urge, they are suddenly consumed by panic and lurch into an ungainly parody of running which they are clearly not designed for. The arms flail like they are drowning, they bellow like dying wildebeest, and they make desperate side-to-side movements which make their whole jelly-like bodies shudder, yet (like your mate’s dad dancing at a wedding disco) result in negligible horizontal movement. When they eventually reach the bus they are close to heart failure but nevertheless try to kill themselves by throwing themselves under your front wheels, just in case you should have a change of heart and try to drive away. Then they can’t find their ticket.

All of which is, of course, shamelessly cynical and heartless. The poor woman is probably late for her hospital appointment re-scheduled from the week before. And she probably missed the original appointment because she had to wait an hour for a bus. Which brings me to my final point. I am basically a kind-hearted individual who would go out of his way to help another in need, so why do I sometimes feel like the sort of person who might drive off and leaving someone standing. Is my personality being poisoned by the job? There are enough belligerent bus drivers to support the notion that bus driving turns good people into bastards.

But, for at least two drivers that isn’t the case. To return to the point where I started, I ran for two buses the other day and I caught both, because the drivers were kind enough to stop and wait for me. They both smiled, I thanked them profusely, and everybody felt good. Afterwards, I asked myself if I would have been as generous in their place, and I wasn’t sure. I would certainly have waited, but I might have grumbled about it. But I’ll try not to next time. I’ve learned my lesson. There is more than one point of view for every situation and if you can manage to retain a sense of perspective, you will be a better person for it. And you never know, the good will might spread making the world in general a slightly better place. This entry is dedicated to two anonymous Travel London drivers (a much-maligned species) who made my day, and slightly changed my world view.