The Wheels on The Bus
I had a bus to myself this morning. An entire bus. Apart from the driver of course. I was just thinking, by pointing out to myself that I was not alone, that I had ruined the driver’s moment of being all alone on a bus but they get that all the time don’t they? Lucky, lucky bastards. An entire bus to oneself – KINGS do no live in such a lap of luxury. AS IF! Bus drivers alone on a bus have to drive the daft thing with that ridiculously big wheel.
No, it was I who was in the luxurious lap of piloted bus solitude. Just because it was quite nice people were walking instead of getting the bus from very near the town centre to the town centre. Apparently I am the only person that morbidly obese to desire an unperspirated back so much that I couldn’t walk more than six feet without quelling this dry back.
It’s not really that good is it? I am almost certain I have been on buses alone before; I lived in a small village in Stalybridge for most of my teenage years – there were not many people staying on the bus to the last (pathetic) stops that I was, sometimes vomiting on to my own unsatisfied crotch. Being on a bus alone is just better than being on a bus with people – like most things. It is not even as good as being in a taxi. It certainly doesn’t smell as good.
Nope, being on a bus alone was not that good at all.
I looked at a couple of flats today with my friend who wanted a second opinion. He wasn’t quite specific that he wanted a second opinion on the flats, though, so kept offering a second opinion on Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books which didn’t go down well (they were very anti Blyton’s most famous crime solving fivesome and my friend believes they are the greatest crime solvers fiction has offered us so he was bound to be put out). Ha. I didn’t even do that, I just offered my opinion on the two flats he looked at.
Today’s is a brilliant blog isn’t it? None of this even happened today. It all happened yesterday.
The letting agent guy was this brilliant Asian guy who stereotypically (of estate/letting agents – I’m not going there) was full of shit. He was not so much selling a dream as hinting at one that he could have had but didn’t. He hadn’t been on holiday since 2006 (“I show people flats all week and then more at the weekend”) and could get tickets/entry to any exclusive restaurant/bar/nightclub in Manchester but didn’t go (“I don’t have time – I just end up going home”). He seemed quite content with his abject lack of joy though. Like most people.
I couldn’t wait for Sky to drag its feet and broadcast the final episode of House. Thursday? I am expected to wait until Thursday when it is on the internet on Tuesday? Fuck you Sky. When I said I couldn’t wait it wasn’t in the usual way people can’t wait for stuff – you know excited (“I can’t wait for the new Allied Carpet ranges to be released because I love their range of carpets more than Jesus loved people – and he died on the cross for all our sins so I think that shows that I pretty fucking love Allied Carpets’ carpets”). No, I couldn’t wait for the finale of House in the way people can’t wait for an animal to bleed to death after they run it over and so shoot it in the brain – or snap its head off with a shovel.