Back to the bus stories. Volume 42.
Well and oh, my word. Once again we alight on stories of buses and their associated associates, the associated shops and things. A most welcome association. Or perhaps not.
The happy-go-lucky citizens of this ‘ere neck of the forest had laid out their plans, with almost unmilitary precision, to head forth on a bus and saunter around one of those superstore things much favoured by the likes of Mr Tesco, Mr Asda, Mr Morrington and Mr Waitrose. Wisely, as wise people do, the smiling happy band sought a little guidance from “The Outside World” and quickly put the plans on stand-by. The very thought of such places was unthinkable, grown men fighting over the last tin of Quality Street and unbecoming young ladies hollering at their off-sprung had all the appeal of a damp and foggy Tuesday night in Bromsgrove. Or Billericay. Or Basildon. Or any time at all in Basingstoke or Bracknell.
And so we turn to buses and why not, you may ask. Wonderful things buses. Sometimes the drivers are too but they do what they do and swear a lot at taxi drivers and fight in the street and let some people on without paying and tell others to get off. Oh yes, it’s a mixed bag of stuff on buses. And at the request stops, a very mixed bag of stuff. Voices from all manner of places, sometimes talking on phones, and often chucking in a few choice Anglo-Saxon phrases just for good measure. And unbecoming young ladies chucking the same phrases around. Sometimes at their off-sprung who “will be finding thenselves under the next bus if you don’t stop fluffing abaht”. How very unbecoming. Almost as unbecoming as that chap, over there, relieving himself against the wall. There’s no wonder sales of mopeds are going through the ceiling.
Time to focus on some Tiger Prawns.