It’s a rainy Tuesday … also known as Armageddon.
Huddled, shivering masses crowd the bus stop, eyeing each other in desperation, “I’m getting on that bus man, don’t get in my way”. Buses are crammed with commuters, faces in armpits, breath steaming the windows. The lucky ones. They zoom by, leaving us bereft in envy.
I hate mornings (cue Darth Vader with atomic wedgie), so I always leave the house at the last minute. I have my timing down to perfection; arriving at work on time but only by a matter of seconds. But this balancing act is thwarted by a rainy day, especially when ten buses pass by without stopping. I feel impudent and out of control.
As the crowd grows, so does the gloom. Gone are the conventions of society; all we’re left with are prison rules and a metaphorical shiv. Unabomber (complete with hoodie and sunnies) makes it onto the bus, damn. Angry teen showing crusty undies makes it on … what are you doing up this early anyway? Time for Plan B. Get a taxi and quick.
I manage to flag one down (pause for miracle) and am soon on my way. Hang on, my cabbie is wearing Dior sunglasses.
A meaty, manly Thor in Dior.
He has road rage (c’mon mate, fuck off!), body odour and glasses like the windshield of the Starship Enterprise. He takes corners like the Indy 500 and makes conversation somewhat resentfully (you started it). I’m sorry mate, but you look like a footballer’s wife.
I tend to be remembered by cabbies, which is more than a little creepy. I once got in a cab where the driver said, “You got in my cab a year ago, I remember you”. I’m sorry, baking powder? Serial killer, much?
But I make it to work without being chopped into little pieces (pause for miracle) and yes, I’m on time. But logistics turn to deflation as I realise that I’m on time, for work. Why was I so keen to get here? I revert to the letter C, my shoulders curving to meet my feet as I take the lift to purgatory with a rabidly cheerful ‘ding!’