Bus people are not my Tribe!

I took the bus. Easier to finish some work on the bus but generally a quieter breed of commuter than the train.

And quiet they are. The silence broke sporadically by an aul fella’s Guns ‘n’ Roses ringtone.

And then she comes to sit beside me – full force on my hip and she pushes me in further and wiggles her oversized arse until she’s comfortable in her – not our – seat. I say nothing – more focused on holding onto my folder of notes.

But she’s not happy so she arises and plonks herself in the seat in front, letting her manky hair cascade over the pages I am trying to read. No sooner have I extracted my pages from under her hood and strands of clumped hair than she gets up and off the bus.

Quickly replacing her is a young man who smells deliciously clean with his clothes fragrant with Lenor. All is well until he tosses his head back and I am encased in a shower of dandruff and dry scalp. And soon he too is gone.

I relax. Notes in place. I read on. And then they arrive. The endless gaggle of foreign students, snaking down the aisle, roaring at the top of their continental little voices. And just as I relax, intent on blocking out the din, two sit in the seat in front with such youthful force that I am almost garrotted by my folder.

My stop. I need at drink. A large one.

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