Night Bus Hell

See note to previous post as the procrastinatorial possibilities of past, but nevertheless timely, musings. This one's here cos it's frickin cold and Sally refuses to ride on a night bus and this reminds me why.

I have been reminded of a few facts of London in my short time back, namely those truths known only to those who’ve ever ridden a night bus back to gritty New Cross along the Old Kent Road. It never fails. No matter how good the intentions, if it’s cold outside, you will miss the last train home on a Saturday night. You will find yourself on the booze cruise from hell with every underage club-goer south of the Thames. Do enjoy the smell of a late night Whopper floating in vomit. Don’t expect to get a seat.

Here are a few tricks I’ve picked up along the way:

1. Always go for the top deck of a bus, and always go for the front seat if possible and remark at how close the bus pulls up to the cars. From this vantage point, everyone’s an awed tourist.

2. Never look the driver in the eyes after the pubs close. It is apparently a sign of aggression. They think you’re either trying to bunk it, considering verbal assault, or about to puke.

3. Night buses are a great place to have a really loud, tearful conversation with your ex. Not in your life plan at the moment? Don’t worry, the person next to you will be slurring into their mobile for the both of you.

And remember, an empty can of Stella always rolls downhill.

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