Bus Mongs

In case any of you people care, I am one of the hardy souls of this world who commute to work. Yes, I get the bus. And I like it. In fact, a 30-45 minute journey in the morning is an unbelievably relaxing way to get to work. In a carefully temperature controlled cocoon, you can pop a bit of music on and watch the scenery, leaving all the actual "doing" to someone else. Namely the driver. It's difficult to convey the benefits of merely sitting, doing nothing, on an adequately comfortable seat, and not having to worry about anything for half an hour.

This is, in theory, superb.

However, my idyll in this metal tube with wheels is frequently tested by putrid invaders. Invaders of the worst kind. Space invaders, if you like. I have attempted to categorise them in a new series, starting below. All users of public transport will identify them. And though they have many names, their presence is unmistakable.

1. The feckless youngster.
Yesterday a regular user of my bus service, a feckless young girl, brought into sharp focus why I hate other bus people so much. Perhaps I should avoid the term "bus people", as this either suggests a gypsy-like existence in an abandoned bus, or people who actually resemble buses. Either way, it's not what I am trying to say. Basically, I shall now define "bus people" as people who get the bus, in order to avoid confusion.

Anyway, her crimes against me are myriad and serious. In an international court of bus law (ICBL) she would probably be tried and sentenced to death.
We have a distinct history. It all started when, about 18 months ago, this individual started to wait at my stop. Looking little different from the usual slack-jawed windowlickers of my home town, I paid little heed, instead assuming my favourite bus-waiting position of roughly perpendicular to the shelter in order to look up the hill, legs heroically akimbo like the Collossus of Rhodes. I was somewhat surprised when she boarded the private vehicle which takes me to work. Perhaps I had misjudged her, despite her appearance and demeanour.
A few weeks passed with respectful silence between us. All was well, and I felt we had formed an invisible bond of ignoring eachother. But then, a terrible thing happened.
One day, she approached the bus stop, and I was unfortunate enough to momentarily lock eyes with her. This, as most people would doubtless know, is a pre-cursor to some kind of conversation. To my alarm, I had discovered that my mouth was open as well. Snapping it shut, I did my best to rescue the situation. I noticed that something was different about her... something was amiss. My mind raced to pin it down. Of course! Her hair. She had dyed her hair.

"I like your hair" I said, before the full disastrous impact of what I had done hit me.

I had sparked up a conversation with a bus person! No more louche days reading in the window seat, listening to the latest grooves. No more beautiful days watching the speeding countryside. I would be sucked in, engulfed in this desperate harlot's whirlygig of hair chat. Maybe the whole situation would escalate to shopping, or worse, work. Oh cruelest of all fates!!! Why? Why did my tongue forsake me, when I most needed it to stop it's diabolical dance!

"Oh, thanks, I only di...."

By this time I had run onto the bus. I couldn't risk more contact or possible friendship with this woman. She would doubtless destroy what little peace I could wrestle from my day. More would come of this, I was sure, and indeed it did.

An insidious campaign of irritation followed. Once, the bus arrived ridiculously early, and we both missed it. An uncomfortably long period of waiting ensued, before it was clear that no bus would be coming. I was forced by the situation to offer a non-commital "I think we've missed it". She rudely turned her back and stormed off, frantically jabbing at her mobile phone. As we were both bound for the same destination, and we had both missed the same bus, a nice gesture would have been to offer a place in the lift she was undoubtedly arranging (although I would have turned her down on principle). Instead she glared at me as if I had somehow Karmically arranged the absence of the bus in order to ruin her day.

This week alone, of the 5 days which are busable, she has neglected to have a ticket on 3 days. This is not only gyppo behaviour, but is also an embarrassing social situation, which I seek to avoid at all times. All 3 times, she has been "let off" the fare, which has only exponentially increased my contempt for her.

Then there's the running. I get on the bus first, due to clever kerbside positioning. She gets on immediately afterwards, and I swear she runs directly behind me, hurrying me along. I feel obliged to hurl everything into the seat and dive out of her way. Why she feels the need to hurtle up the bus is a mystery to all except me. To me, it is but more evidence of her idiocy.

It's clear she thinks she is the J-Lo of the bus community. Well she got her commupance today alright. As the bus drew near, some schoolchildren passed us. Their cries of "She's got a £2 handbag!" were delight to my ears as they systematically humiliated my self-important co-busee, who dresses like someone doing an impression of a character from Sex in the City down on their luck. Other times the bus has pulled away, as she frantically runs behind it, and I have merely sat, smiling smugly. Oh, good will have it's days. But such are the cosmic forces of yin and yan that my victories are only part of a timeless struggle. One which must be won at all costs.