It’s 9:03 and I’m standing at a bus stop trying to decipher the timetable. I hardly ever get the bus but today I’m feeling like I am making a difference to the environment. I’m proud.
Whilst thinking about my carbon footprint I’ve ignored the fact I own two vehicles, one a VW Camper which I’ve just brought to the garage, hence my need for a lift home. Still, I could have got a taxi, so I remain excited about my new found love of public transport.
I’m alone. It seems my fellow travellers have already made it to their destinations today. Will the bus man see me? Should I stand outside or inside the bus shelter? So much to think about, these bus folk must know the secret signal. I’m a newbie, maybe I’ll just give the driver a jaunty wave.
According to the timetable I have two options. The first a 9:18 bus that seems to take me all around Norfolk, or wait for a 9:46 bus that is more direct and will take me closer for home. 9:46 I think. I’m in no rush, plus its sunny and I look like a man of mystery. A stranger. I could be from MI5. I’m not sure secret agents take the bus.
9:18 and a bus appears from around the corner. ‘See’ I think to myself, ‘buses come in ones and on time, silly non-bus moaners.’ I stand outside admiring the 9:18 bus and its glorious promptness. It pulls up. I didn’t give a jaunty wave! I didn’t give the secret signal, or at least I don’t think I did?
I’m too English to tell the bus driver man that I do not require his services this fine, sunny morning. Instead I board the 9:18 and request a single to Norwich. We exchange £3.50 and ticket and I look at my fellow passengers and make my way to a seat with the confidence of a man who rides a bus every day.
My ‘good morning’ followed by a knowledgeable look and tilt of my head as I take my seat is met with considerable indifference. People just shift uncomfortably in their seats and breath as I take a window seat with no-one beside me.
On the bus this morning is a young girl who is staring at her phone in a disinterested manner whilst listening to music on her headphones. There are a couple of older folk, sitting in pairs and discussing what I imagine to be crocheting techniques and the increasing price of Werther’s Originals.
Suddenly the doors of the bus swish open again. A middle aged lady is red in her face and out of breath. She nearly missed the bus. ‘Amateur’ I mumble to myself as I wait for my journey to begin. She wanders past me and I roll my eyes in a ‘why are they always on time when you’re running late’ kind of way.
As we make our way round winding roads and little villages more and more elderly folk make their way onto the bus by flashing their special little passes. I notice there seems to be no end of wallets and purses for these things and I imagine what it would be like to own one. It’s almost like an i-phone. A status symbol of sorts.
The bus in getting increasingly noisy and full. Lot’s of chatter is going on yet it seems there is only one seat left, and that’s next to me. Maybe I haven’t smiled enough, or worse maybe I’ve been smiling too much! One man dithered so much I thought he was going to drop his Waitress bag-for-life. I’m guessing a bag-for-life doesn't need to last long if your 92.
At the next stop two people get on, both elderly and one who seems a little confused. Apart from the headphone girl, I’m the youngest on here. Do I give up my seat? It says on a little notice that I must. But I’m a transplant patients. Where is my sign? ‘On your second organ, please take a seat ahead of pregnant ladies’.
The confused lady sits next to me. I smile. She shifts a little over to her right. The other passenger stands and looks around for signs of sympathy. I turn my gaze away and look busy on my phone. I tap out a message to a friend ‘I’m on a pensioners magical mystery tour’. I consider a smiley emoji but decide this could be disrespectful to my standing passenger friend.
As I hear the swoosh of the text being sent I’m overcome with the shock of a thought that has only now entered my mind. I am a pensioner! These are my people! This is my life to be ever more trapped on a bus travelling with a variety of hats and tote bags. I sink into my seat.
Finally at our destination and the bus has barely pulled up when all the pensioners leap to their feet and fight to the front of the queue. Nimble and full of elbows and prods, the elderly can certainly move when they want to. I wait and try not to think of my pensioner status.
Once home I reflect and look out of my window. Every day at about 10:30 two very old gentleman turn up in their car, get out with walking sticks in their hands and feed the cats. This seemed unusual at first, feeding the ducks is normal, but the cats? The cats seem to recognise their car and about half a dozen of them run after it as it pulls in.
As I thought about my fear of being a pensioner I began to wonder if it was sadder to be an old man spending his morning feeding cats or if it was more sad to be a middle-aged man watching them every day from his window.
Have asked the old men for an apprenticeship and I’m going to buy a wallet for my bus pass.
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