After a weekend spent with my bed and the toilet I managed to prise away from limbo and get myself out this morning. With my missus spinelessly thieving my car when I was sleeping, I was left with some loose change and a troubling, sneezy trek to the bus stop. Muttering profanities under my breath, I set out and after a close encounter with some Thomas Burberry clad school-kids (I hate those chavs, kna' wha' I mean?) demanding I buy them some cigarettes, I reached my destination. And how bloody long did I have to wait for it, a vast amount of time which makes me think how on earth people do it in the winter months. Sitting there twiddling my thumbs I perked up like Beth Ditto at dinnertime as a bus approached from the horizon. Fondling for my change, relieved at being able to move on from this dank place, I noticed the sign on the front. "Sorry, not in service." How I swore, and I won't go into gory details here.
After another 10 minutes of grueling waiting, 3 of them turned up at once. Do they expect you to be like a fat kid in a sweet shop, with this amoral customer service?
Placing my pound in the machine thingy they use these days, the driver grunted and requested 20p more of me. Was he mad? Was he joking? No he was not, and I was incredulous...I only had 15p more and luckily the old codger had had enough of my ranting and let me get away with it, but is this form of daylight robbery common these days or am I just living in the good old, 50p past?
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