Commute of Dissolution

It was cold this morning. A bus on the roundabout and one just pulling away from the stop would mean an inevitable wait. Usually, I will take a couple of snaps or find a podcast on my phone. No gloves mean’s hand in pockets. The fact is I did not listen to Lizzy and left my gloves at home. The sun is bright, and frosty leaves have become a picture drawn by nature’s Picasso.

There is a need to be diligent as I am the only passenger waiting at the stop. A moment of distraction and I will not flag the driver early enough for him to pull over. They will take any opportunity to drive on by. That is, if you are like me, an overweight over age male. I have noticed that young and attractive females have a magical power over the drivers. Rarely are they left standing as the bus drives away. It must have something to do with watching Buffy, Sabrina and Vampire Diaries television programmes teaching certain occult spells and techniques. I have long suspected these shows have hidden agenda’s, namely the overthrow of men and our power.

The board indicates a 36 is due. Ten minutes later the 36 is still due and the Y36 which is due to arrive in 11 minutes comes before time. Out goes my arm and in front of me is the long haired and very attractive blond who also flags the driver. Two pounds paid (no ticket) I sit at the back in the opposite facing seats. They are over the rear wheels and have a high viewpoint. The traffic is heavy; the journey will be slow. I look at the blond, why did she also flag the bus? Was it because she did not see me? Or did she see me and wished to show her contempt for me, was she thinking ‘I’ll show this prat who’s in charge today’ she certainly looks to be on a mission. I decide she does not like me, and that is the truth. I reflect today could be one of paranoia, so my mind is warned not to jump to conclusions during conversations.

Commuters get to know their fellow travellers. Blondie usually leaves at John Lewis’s; she gets off at The Savoy Cinema (Allied, Arrival, A United Kingdom and Doctor Strange if anyone’s interested). Fortunately, there is an old lady on a mobility scooter waiting to get on, so I have time to watch the man-hater cross the road. For a moment it is a certainty she’ll be going into Sainsbury’s, but no! A bright red Audi TT flashes its lights; she smiles at the driver. So blondie does like men. It’s now clear she did not want to miss the rendezvous at the supermarket.

The driver puts down the ramp; the lovely old lady drives her scooter onto the bus. I watch her manoeuvre the chariot into its space. She’s very well dressed, smart, yes, smart is the word. You’ll know the type of lady. A church goer for sure, bet a tenner she knows most of the hymns by heart. I warm to her. It is a dead cert the old duchess has ten adoring grandchildren who love her to pieces. Chestnuts, hot toddy’s, brandy-laced Christmas pudding with thick double cream, hot water bottles and lavender perfume; that’s my girl.

At John Lewis’s the bus stops. Passengers alight and the driver puts down the ramp. Everyone leaves the bus. I walk down the aisle and the next thing I know the witch swings out in front of me, nearly crushing my foot with the front wheels with her electric chair. She scowls at me, no thanks to the driver the old crow scoots down Parliament Street like an armed robber, the bastard.

Today I have been reminded of three facts. Men do not listen to, understand, or are able to work out the character of women.