Common or garden venting RANT

I live at point X in London. I work at point Y. I am, you might think, fortunate indeed to have bus number 000 running between precisely point X and point Y, which form the termini of its route, from around 0600 in the morning until 2300 at night. At a frequency of one every 5 to 12 minutes. An average off-peak journey between points X and Y taking 44 minutes.

You might think I am fortunate, but if you've ever been anywhere near London and its buses you will already know that I am not. I have taken the above timetable information from the bus stop at point Y which I had the opportunity to read, in full, repeatedly, for 48 minutes this evening. I also had the opportunity to watch herds of every other variety of the nine different buses which use the stop go past through the entirely empty streets.

Now, let me be fair here. It is not the case that there were no number 000 buses at all during this period when the timetable predicted there should have been between four and nine of them. There was one. Which I saw approaching the stop after I had been waiting for ten minutes. Already aware of the skittish and retiring nature of the 000 and its tendency to be unable to see bus stops if there is already a bus of a different number halted at them, I stepped smartly off the pavement into the middle of the road, arm fully extended, despite the stop not being a request stop. The lights inside glowed cheerfully on the empty seats. The destination proclaimed itself unambiguously to be point X.

The bus driver did not even pretend not to have seen me. He waved playfully as he thundered past, accelerating at such a pace that I had to leap backwards out of his path. Perhaps that was also part of his fun.

I so wish that I could acquire a special device for such occasions, because they occur so frequently. What I need is a supply of large 000 bus-seeking bricks which are collapsible and weightless when not required but expand instantly on demand so the aggrieved would-be passenger can hurl them at the offending vehicle with vim and venom and they would shatter the windows with ear-splitting crashes.

Last time this happened to me I swore extremely loudly as the bus rushed past. Shouted, in fact. But the bus got held up at a pedestrian crossing and I sprinted along the road and leapt on. "Why didn't you stop?" I asked the conductor in what I thought was a mild, though slightly breathless, and certainly reasonable manner. "You called me a f*cking bastard" he spat back. "Yes, I called you a f*cking bastard, but that was because you didn't stop. You can't say it's the reason you didn't stop. It happened after you didn't stop." "You ought to wash your mouth out using language like that. I got the right to do my job an not be swore at." "Maybe if you did your job properly I wouldn't feel it necessary to swear. What about all the other people back at that stop who can't run as fast as I can?" "You got no right to swear at me." And so on, and so on, for some considerable time. I like to think I outrighteoused his indignation but what good was that? I wanted to hit him and hit him hard. And the driver.

And so too this evening. If there'd been another bus even 15 minutes later I would have simmered down. But to wait amongst the scaffing litter as the chill wind blew a particularly unpleasant mix of grit and large drops of rain into my face for a further 38 minutes was as dripping acid into my bile.

Posted by qB at October 29, 2003 10:32 PM