Pig In A Poke

Pig In A Poke

Ever had one of those days when nothing seems to go right? Well, I had a morning bus ride like that and nothing went right.

It all began as I left home at ten past eight one winter's morning. I was late due to that Monday morning feeling that one so often experiences around about Friday. I hurried up to the bus stop feeling cold and miserable, just in time to catch that one vital bus that would get me in to work on time. I praised whoever one praises under the circumstances and climbed aboard. But as I put my foot onto the central gangway the bus bounced forward and I, my briefcase and my black furled umbrella nearly got off again....backwards. I managed to regain my balance without making a total ass of myself and lowered my shaken body into a window seat near the front, on the left.

In front of me was a woman, about forty, peroxide hair, powdered visage and on my right the conductor appeared noisily demanding 'all fez please' so I took off my gloves and proffered the exact fare - for once I had a mountain of change weighing down my pockets. As I was putting my gloves back on I noticed an odd smell, sweet and sickly. Not the perfume one usually smells on a bus early in the morning, but instead a fragrance that made me feel like surrendering my breakfast, cereal and yoghurt, colourful but messy. Instead I used the plastic on the fingers of my gloves as a kind of filter, a last resort; the smell of PVC might be revolting, but in this case it was the lesser of two evils.

At Liverpool Street the nearly empty bus filled to capacity. The aggrevation of the travelling gas works was enhanced by a great bulk of a man who collapsed onto the seat beside me and squashed me into the side of the panelling by the window. As he took out his money the gyrations of his arms made things even worse, and the sharp right hand turn that followed didn;t help matters. That bus ride was one of the most uncomfortable I have ever experienced. Every bump, every jolt, every deviation in the road was agony! I heard creaking and groaning as the bus bounced its way through the city, it was difficult to decide where the noise was coming from - my ribs or the rapidly failing seat springs.

My destination was just the other side of Ludgate Circus, about fifty metres or so into Fleet Street. The hill leading from St. Paul's to Ludgate Circus is rather steep and so every time the bus slows down, whoever is standing or getting off automatically tends towards the front of the bus. Not too bad if both hands are free, but when one hand is holding a case and the other an umbrella life can get somewhat precarious. Toes were trodden on, people pushed, expletives undeleted, and bus queues battled through until at last it was all over! I stepped out into the fresh air, relieved, exhausted, bruised, battered and nauseated, but happy that at last I was free to breath again. My breakfast returned to my stomach, my breath returned to my lungs, and I was content, pitying those still left on that mechanised sweat box. Unfortunately my joy was shattered as I remembered that I would have to do the same journey tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that....



	Ever had one of those days when nothing seems to go right? Well, I had a morning bus ride like that and nothing went right. It all began as I left home at ten past eight one winter's morning. I was late due to that Monday morning feeling that one so often experiences around about Friday. I hurried up to the bus stop feeling cold and miserable, just in time to catch that one vital bus that would get me in to work on time. I praised whoever one praises under the circumstances and climbed aboard. But as I put my foot onto the central gangway the bus bounced forward and I, my briefcase and my black furled umbrella nearly got off again....backwards. I managed to regain my balance without making a total ass of myself and lowered my shaken body into a window seat near the front, on the left. In front of me was a woman, about forty, peroxide hair, powdered visage and on my right the conductor appeared noisily demanding 'all fez please' so I took off my gloves and proffered the exact fare - for once I had a mountain of change weighing down my pockets. As I was putting my gloves back on I noticed an odd smell, sweet and sickly. Not the perfume one usually smells on a bus early in the morning, but instead a fragrance that made me feel like surrendering my breakfast, cereal and yoghurt, colourful but messy. Instead I used the plastic on the fingers of my gloves as a kind of filter, a last resort; the smell of PVC might be revolting, but in this case it was the lesser of two evils. At Liverpool Street the nearly empty bus filled to capacity. The aggrevation of the travelling gas works was enhanced by a great bulk of a man who collapsed onto the seat beside me and squashed me into the side of the panelling by the window. As he took out his money the gyrations of his arms made things even worse, and the sharp right hand turn that followed didn;t help matters. That bus ride was one of the most uncomfortable I have ever experienced. Every bump, every jolt, every deviation in the road was agony! I heard creaking and groaning as the bus bounced its way through the city, it was difficult to decide where the noise was coming from - my ribs or the rapidly failing seat springs. My destination was just the other side of Ludgate Circus, about fifty metres or so into Fleet Street. The hill leading from St. Paul's to Ludgate Circus is rather steep and so every time the bus slows down, whoever is standing or getting off automatically tends towards the front of the bus. Not too bad if both hands are free, but when one hand is holding a case and the other an umbrella life can get somewhat precarious. Toes were trodden on, people pushed, expletives undeleted, and bus queues battled through until at last it was all over! I stepped out into the fresh air, relieved, exhausted, bruised, battered and nauseated, but happy that at last I was free to breath again. My breakfast returned to my stomach, my breath returned to my lungs, and I was content, pitying those still left on that mechanised sweat box. Unfortunately my joy was shattered as I remembered that I would have to do the same journey tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that....