Homeward bound

I seem to spend an awful lot of time thinking or talking about transport, something I didn't predict about my grown-up self when I was a nipper. I spend two hours of every day sitting on it, though, or around one eighth of my waking life, so I suppose it figures that it will crop up in my thoughts every now and then.

Last night, my bus home was almost full as we left Hammersmith, so when we reached the first stop, the driver didn't pause to pull over and instead came to a halt at some traffic lights twenty yards on. One man who had been waiting at the stop was absolutely convinced that he should have been allowed on our bus, regardless of its near-capacity status. With surprising agility for a man who appeared to be in his sixties, the snubbed would-be-traveller ran to our bus and hammered on the door, shouting to be let in. The driver rejected his request to open the doors. At this point, I would have given up and slunk back to the bus stop, defeated. But our valiant friend continued the fight and moved to stand directly in front of the vehicle, refusing to move.

By now, the traffic lights had turned green and there were several cars hooting their horns. While the light had been red, my fellow passengers were fairly relaxed and even amused by the vigilante behaviour taking place outside, but the moment the green light flashed up, there was a perciptible rustle of impending fury that crackled through the group like a forest fire. Within seconds, people had thrust their newspapers and chicklit to one side and were peering over the crowds to shout their encouragement at the driver who was now leaning on his horn and adding to the cacophony. To my surprise, there was no sympathy for the angry man outside, even though there was, undeniably, plenty of room onboard not just for him but for an estimated ten further commuters. It appeared that those around me had endured long days at work and this twenty second delay was a frustration too far. Fortunately, at that moment another (emptier) bus arrived at the stop behind us and our protester scuttled off, coat flapping behind him like a frustrated superhero. And by the time our 209 reached Hammersmith Bridge, the ruffled feathers had calmed and, smoother of plumage, we continued on our journey into suburbia.