At the stop before I get off, the bus driver swerved erratically. “Did you see that bloody cyclist?” he asked a passenger, “What kind of an idiot wears black on a bike?” The passenger didn’t really respond, and got off at the next stop. I pressed the bell, and moved to the front. I’d rather stand there and get off first than be in the scrum as everybody gets up. I stood level with the driver. As we passed Subway in Withington, he stamped on the brake, hard. Everything jerked forward – the body of the bus, the bags in the aisle, the litter on the floor, and me. I’d been holding onto the railings, so I didn’t go flying.
“That board were lucky,” says the driver, “cor, I braked a bit there, huh? Nearly went flying, huh? EVERYBODY ALRIGHT IN THE BACK? You see, it’s a different bus every day they give us, you see? Pedals all over. You can’t never tell what’s next…”
Thankfully, my stop is next, I thought.
“…do you drive, I mean – buses are something, and then they’re something else…”
We rolled to the stop. I thanked the driver, and got off. I found myself wondering whether he was driving deliberately badly to break the ice so that he could chat to his passengers.
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