Saturday, 26 May 2012

Fucking bastard

On a Saturday morning I have to go to a place to see a woman. It's a thing I have to do and it costs me a lot of money. For this thing I get the bus.

The thing is situated approx 5 miles away from my house and therefore necessitates a taxi journey costing at least eleven pounds (I was forced to spell that out as, inexplicably, my phone doesn't have a pound sign, bloody anti British HTC), or a bus journey costing 3.50 return. The bus journey is, naturally, tediously slow and covered in chavs, but it is cheap and I would basically travel in an uncovered dung wagon if it was cheap. Which is lucky, judging by the state of this bus journey. It somehow takes the best part of 45 mins to cover the distance and is either 20 minutes early or 20 minutes late.

I mitigate this by waiting at the bus stop for at least 20 minutes before what is laughingly called the 'timetable' says it's due. Irritating but manageable.

This morning all was set. I'm at the bus stop, guardian in hand, best friend on phone. Sure enough 20 minutes later I see the bus. And then I watch it go right past me. I run alongside it waving and yelling and the bovine fuckknuckles just stare out at me, as if wondering what that mad woman could possibly want out of a bus that is driving past her.

It didn't stop.

I got a taxi.

I am 11 pounds down and it's not even 11am. F, as the kids say, ML.

Situation was slightly cheered by the taxi man asking me if I study at York Uni and declaring me as looking 'about 25'.

But still.

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