I do this thing called 'driving'. One might think this involves wafting along in my car, marvelling at the serene modern efficiency of 21st century transport technology.
But mainly it's sitting in a traffic jam ****** and blinding at the **** head who just sits there when the lights go green.
Sometimes I use the bus. Or as I like to call it 'the coffin' catcher'. It's a thing where everyone seems to have sars or some kind of evil bronchial disease, but no-one has heard about putting their hand over their mouth and nose when they violently expel whatever disgusting sputum they're currently incubating.
Also it stops at every single house on the route.
Story time:
At such an ungodly hour as I need to get on the bus to get to work, I am at best only half awake and perceive only vague details regarding interactions such as exchanging money for a bus ticket.
So it was that I reiterated the standard request 'Return to ********, please' Handed over money, received change and ticket, mumbled 'Cheers, mate' and shuffled off to my seat.
It was only after parking myself on the sticky '70's cloth seat that my brain started to register certain details of my exchange with the bus driver.
The words 'Cheers,
mate MATE MATE' took on an uncomfortable new meaning.
I can recall the driver had what we used to call a 'mister firm chin' jaw and a prominent adams apple and somewhat larger hands than my own; 'paws' would not be altogether a lie, though 'shovels' would be taking it too far.
Now all this would be utterly commonplace and unremarkable if it were not for the long styled blond hair, lipstick and matching nail polish; details that my tired brain was struggling to assemble into some kind of order, and taking rather too much time about it.
I reached the conclusion that I'd probably registered the most obvious masculine features of the bus driver and auto-pilot had taken control of the response. The rest of my journey was spent wondering if I had just insulted the driver.
On reflection if you can face the public with a little of the 'taxi driver from the league of gentlemen' about you, then one half asleep commuter is hardly cause for a breakdown.
I still feel kind of uncomfortable about my faux pas though.
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