In a surprise development I forget about pretending to be an Italian professional racing cyclist for the day, and try to get to work and back using the bus. Getting there proves very easy, as it should do, given that l I live on the A6 between Manchester and Stockport, which (according to some figures I have just made up) is Europe's busiest bus route. However coming home at 5 o'clock proves to be a much more stressful business altogether, owing to several factors conspiring against me at once. Namely:

1. The Manchester weather
I mean, changeability is one thing. But when you are strolling along the street quite happily in your shirt sleeves and the next minute the sky has turned a vengeful shade of black and raindrops the size and velocity of bullets are hurtling sideways against your defenceless person while a force 10 gale sends you buffeting against the sides of passing town-centre lorries, it does tend to be ever so slightly off-putting. However, salvation is at hand. There is a 197 bus coming, and, pausing only to shatter the British and Commonwealth 100 metre sprint record with a time of 10.12 seconds (wind-assisted), you climb aboard, just ever so slightly out-of-breath, and demand to be transported to Levenshulme, and not to spare the horses, my man. Now, what can possibly go wrong? Well, nothing, apart from....

2. The profit motive of evil privatised bus companies
I mean, it is not as if I was trying to dodge the fare, I had just got on the bus without actually checking I had any funds to hand. It is a mere oversight, I insist! However, my protests are to no avail, and after a frantic search of my pockets turns up only a paperclip and a loyalty card for Caffe Nero, I am forced to throw myself on the mercy of the driver. 'I'm sorry mate, I've got no change on me, can you take me to the next stop?'. The Stagecoach employee is in no mood for clemency, and I am shown the door, the street, and presently, the pavement. In addition to my sprint record, I am now the proud holder of the Manchester all-comers record for shortest bus journey, at 5 yards. two feet and 3 inches. And it is still raining, and I am penniless and stranded in the town centre. Still, help is at hand in the form of an ATM machine. What can possibly go wrong now? Well, again nothing, apart from....

3. The floundering attempts of evil supermarket chains to run banking services, when they are clearly suited only to the retail of baked beans and the like.
Listen, Jamie Oliver, you thick-tongued little geezer, you. Don't talk to me about f**king Sainsburys, OK? 'Cos they may be able to keep their shelves stocked all year round with organic avocados, baby pears from the Caribbean, and Ainsley Marriot's mediterranean fu**ing cous-cous, but can they keep their cash machines stocked with standard issue British fivers? Can they heckers-like, as Vera Duckworth would have it. So there is nothing for it but to walk half a mile to the HSBC, who may not have branched out into pasta sauces, as yet, but whose cash machines do a nice line in sterling of all denominations. Presently, I am twenty pounds to the better, and another 197 bus is hoving into view (did I tell you it is the busiest bus route in Europe according to a credible source speaking from inside of my head?). Now, what could possibly, possibly go wrong? Well, we have still got to deal with

4. The absolute refusal of British bus drivers to deal in anything larger than twenty p pieces, at least without resorting to their full range of extravagant intakes of breath, under-the-breath-muttered curses, rolling of the eyes all the way round their impressively surly heads, and other choice items from the Stagecoach Customer Care Handbook.
which says it all, really. Still, after resorting to all of the above the 197 driver deigns to recognise a £20 note as legal tender, and thoughtfully provides £18.50 in change entirely made up of bronze and silver coinage. which will come in very handy next time I visit the penny falls machines in Whitley Bay. So, I am on the bus and on my way home. Could anything else possibly, possibly, possibly go wrong? Well.....

5. No, it could not.
So, not at all long later I am at the threshold of my pleasant town house in the suburbs, where I am greeted by my wife and infant son, quite the picture of the returning English commuter, if we disregard the absence of a bowler hat, pinstripe suit, or briefcase. And I have something to show for my stressful commute- in an impromptu visit to a local amusement arcade, and for the mere outlay of £18.50 in one p pieces, I have obtained a very large fluffy dog and a not-very healthy looking goldfish in a jar. Will this be enough to persuade my back onto the buses, or will it be back to the sporty life of the European-style urbanite cyclist? I will let you guess......

Comments

[zed]

very funny ... thank you for reminding me how pleased i am NOT to be living in the UK ...