Loon on the bus

Crazy bus lady, you must know her. Asian, in her fifties (or maybe younger, she has had a hard life), lots of bags. Big photocopying bill. May or may not be a fan of Dan Brown. Definitely not a fan of the Freemasons. You've seen her, I'm sure. Magic Bus. Stagecoach. Finglands. Telling the tale of her stolen children, of the government's collusion, of the evil of her husband. She has handouts. It's desperately sad.



I was on the top deck of the 86. She came upstairs and started to do her thing. I took out my notebook and started to scribble. I showed what I was writing to my neighbour, who nodded occasionally.

- I feel sorry for this woman
(nod, nod)
- She's so passionate!
(sad nod)
- But nobody listens when you shout. Poor thing. :-(
(nod, knowing smile)

Bus lady stopped, and alighted. My neighbour got off a few stops later. I imagine that, when she got home, she must have said to her flatmates...

"There was a right weirdo on the bus... with a notebook."

Getting some more miles on the legs

Down in the tube station at midnight

I avoided a noisy drunk as I wandered through the bus station after college. He had a bunch of flowers and a bad attitude, slumped at a bus stop and swearing. I wriggled inside my duffel coat, kept my head down, and walked on to my stop.

Buses on the hour and half hour meant I was in for a wait. The drunk showed up, and started hassling two young girls waiting for my bus. He eased his way in. To start with, resting his flowers on the empty bench near them, then trying to engage them in conversation, and then increasing his volume until he was almost shouting at them. I caught the eye of one of the girls. "Come here," I mouthed to her silently, "come on."

They stood, came to me. I put my hand on one girls shoulder, and moved them on to one side of me, with the drunk on the other. And he came over, growling at them. I put my body between the girls and the drunk. He growled at me too. I didn't say anything, but I didn't move either. He shouted. I didn't move. He shouted some more. I still didn't move.

Then he went.

"Thank you."

I wondered how Batman would reply, but realised I could never be that cool, so I just smiled.

Sexy Al says...

DTRMCR: "What's with that weird name he uses on Facebook?"
Al: "It's a bit embarrassing, like one of those names a fifteen year old would have on Myspace, like Sexy Al, something like that."
Dunk: "Sexy Al? That's one of those ironic nicknames."
Al: "Like Little Kevin from The Wire, who's actually massive?"
Christian: "Wait, is that why you call me Champ?"

Exploring new running routes

Joining the dots

Had I not gone to Didsbury last night, I'd have got to work before 9.20, but I would have missed Miriam Brown in the street outside the C_____, and I wouldn't have been invited to the pub with her after work. "It's someone's fortieth, you should come along."

The Peveril was rammed. "Hello Miriam!" I was introduced to people left right and centre, typically in the form, "This is _____," he works for the C_____," or "This is _____," he also works for the C_____." A trickle of fear snaked down my spine, as the wheels of my tiny mind turned.

"Miriam," I asked in a rare quiet moment, "does everybody here work for the C____?"
"Yes, yes it's a work function, so yes, they all do."
My heart stopped, and my mouth went dry.
"Is Liz going to be here?"

Liz, you see, works for the C____ too. Liz and Miriam used to work on the same desk island. I know Liz partly because of Miriam. Liz and I haven't spoken for months. It's like that with some break-ups - most, in my experience. Whilst it might be quite nice to be friends, things haven't taken that route. So it goes. And there I was, in the middle of a work function that she might be at. Yikes.

"No, she's away at her sister's wedding."

Phew! I have no beef with Liz, but it would have been awkward for both of us if we met by surprise, especially on "her turf."

The evening developed into one of the best nights I've had in ages. The company was wonderful. Like musical chairs, I found myself sitting next to a new face every ten or fifteen minutes. Stories of volunteering, of Lagos, of poo flying twelve feet, or dogs being put down as a smokescreen. A riot of conversation. As various names were attached to faces around the table, I started to remember some of the stories Liz had told me about her colleagues. In incompetent temp here, a married man having an affair there. Pulling up their file from my mind once I'd identified them made me feel like I was Robocop, or The Terminator.

A rolling stone gathers...

"If I could just have five minutes with everybody at three o'clock," said my boss, "there's something I'd like to talk about with you all."

Moss Side has fallen though. We're not moving to Moss Side at all. We're not moving anywhere until after Christmas. We don't have to leave the building we're in until September. Next September.

I looked around the room as the announcement was made. Smiles broke out amongst the call centre guys. I'm not sure why. We could end up somewhere much further away. Bolton. Oldham. Bury. Small victories though, should be seized upon and cherished. Maybe this hideous dry run of an office move will inspire my bosses to handle any real move more tactfully. Then again, maybe it won't.

Be a better friend.

Woody's lectures are going to be just round the corner from work. Well, until we move to Moss Side, that is. If we move to Moss Side. He gave me a call as he was walking past my building, and I went to the window to wave at him as we talked. Do I want to go for a pint, he asked? Yes please.

We caught up. His course. My ill-fated cycling excursion. My course. His bar job. Films we'd seen. Music we'd listened to.

Clare joined us, and Ollie, in the BP, and we headed to Didsbury. Clare and I had pasta and pesto. She wept as she told me about work. I felt useless as I watched, offering advice that wasn't very insightful. My work doesn't make me cry, I thought, at least there's strength there. She apologised, poor love. Is there anything I can do to help, I wondered. Yes. Be a better friend.

Kumbi was in O'Neill's with Steve, Craig and the other Fordbankers. She's not working because of problems with her permit. Will they throw her out, and back to Zimbabwe? Poor love.

Come wiz me if you vant to... draw

My "How to draw comics" handbook just got a million times cooler.

Furious Five and Kurtis Blow, in conversation

Dunk gave me a heads up that the Furious Five and Kurtis Blow were doing an In Conversation at Contact Theatre last week, and I snapped up a couple of tickets for me and Lucian, and let Bronco and Steve know it was on too.

Steve and Bronco with Kurtis Blow

The show started with the Furious Five rapping, dancing, getting the crowd to wave their hands. It felt like a party. Lu was straight up on his feet, waving his hands around and dancing. He's been off booze for nearly seven weeks, but his party shoes still fit, it seems, and he was wearing them. Kurtis Blow came out, and the party kept on coming. The In Conversation section saw Kid Creole and Melle Mel talking about the early days of hip hop, about life in the Bronx in the 70s, about Afrika Bambatta's breaks. Then they finished off with The Breaks. Ninety minutes of fun and fascination.

Afterwards Lucian said two things. I agreed with one, and partly with the other.

"I thought that the host was a bit of a wiener."

Partly true, he was dorky. But in that earnest, American way where he'd underline the obvious to make sure that everybody got it, where a Brit would assume that to be the case. Highlighting the double meaning of The Breaks in The Breaks is unnecessary, sure, but harmless with it. Case thrown out for extenuating circumstances, I'd say.

"That was a perfect gig. They played all three of their songs that I knew, with no filler, and I didn't have to pay fifteen quid to get in, or queue at a bar, or stay out all night. Exactly how I'd want to see those artists."

For real Lu. Word.