So I was on my way home from work the other night, waiting for the 100 bus (having just missed the 435, as I usually do) with a few other people sat in the glass shelter, just minding my own business when I was interrupted from my copy of Edge magazine by the unusual sound of someone or something colliding heavily with one of the shelter walls...looking up with some alarm (in case it was a bus) I was slightly relieved to note that the source of the impact was a confused looking short guy, the spitting image of Jack Tweed (honestly, it could have been he), wearing a smart cardigan and Elvis sunglasses, clutching a can of Tennents Super...he spent some time regarding the wall of glass in front of him as if it had absolutely no right to have halted his movement, wobbled slowly around the side of it, steeled his jaw and then suddenly plunged forward, somehow managing to collapse (with very little dignity) into one of the seats to my right with a triumphant yell of victory...and then another triumphant yell of victory...and then another...and on and on this went (interruped from time to time by the occasional swear word), beer spilling all over the floor from his waving can, until virtually everyone in the shelter found some important reason or other not to be in it any longer...only me, a large African lady, and a slightly infirm looking elderly gentleman remained (and after exchanging slightly concerned/amused glances with my sober companions, I just turned up my headphones and buried my head back into my magazine)...
When I next glanced up (reacting to corner-of-the-eye movement), Jack Tweed was back on his feet, and had managed to stagger half way across the bus shelter towards the old guy - his arms open wide as if to give him a hug! I had one of those "Oh shit!" moments, not knowing quite what to do (apart from quickly mute my music), and managed to get about half way up out of my seat when all of a sudden the old guy's face formed up into an *extremely* stern (almost School Teacher level) glare - stopping Jack Tweed in his tracks - and then firmly pointed to the chair Jack had been sitting on (a quick jabbing motion) - at which (I was staggered to see) he sheepishly uttered a quiet "righto", turned around and collapsed back into his seat looking thoroughly downhearted...the last I saw of him, he was almost run over by the 461 while falling across the road towards the railway (after the driver of the 405 refused to let him get on)...
2 comments:
who ever said the commute was dull....
Oh it's normally dull, I assure you... ;)
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