"Mummy, do you have some paper” "Mummy can you draw me a butterfly” "Mummy where are we” "Mummy so you have any paper” "Mummy” "Mummy why is the bus not moving”
Dear god shut the blazes up, can’t you see I‘m trying to read here urchin, what ever happened to the wonderful Victorian ethos of children being seen but not heard? Of course I would rather than are nether seen nor heard but I realise this wish is going to be quite hard to make reality. It might not have been quite so bad had, the trout faced, so called, mother she was with, tried to respond to the child to keep it entertained and thus quieter. Alas clearly the mother hated the child as much as the rest of the bus did for, rather than respond to a single question, she just sat there staring into space with a look on her face that said:
"I wonder if I could just hop off the bus and leave her here. No one would even know, I could run away, maybe to Kathmandu to live as a monk perhaps, just think, no more infuriating questions, there’s a thought…”
It was a very wistful look I assure you, unlike the look of pure rage that was visible on my face.
Sadly things were only going to get worse, for when child and mother waddled off the bus they were replaced by a much more malevolent force – yammering youth with phone. Doing the classic thing of speaking very loudly in a mixture of foreign and English. This is infuriating as not only can they speak more languages than me they also draw you into listing to how so and so’s a bitch because she… We’ve no idea cause you suddenly swap to foreign mid sentence. This is immeasurably selfish if you ask me.
"Yeah I’m gonna kill the bitch right yeah cause they garble garble garble. Yeah everyone knows me as garble garble yeah, like in Southall, Ealing, all of west London yeah, they all call me that yeah…”
Do they, do they really? I live in west London and I don’t recall calling you anything, other than annoying loud mouthed yute hag, but I’m pretty sure that’s not a name you would be proud of. I’m fairly sure the other people on the bus glaring at your massively annoying face also don’t know you by this gangsta street nom de plume you lay claim to. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that no one calls you anything cool at all. I’d go as far as saying that I’m quietly confident that it’s all in you head, I would say in you mind, but I’m not sure you have a brain in which to store a mind frankly.
The whole sorry affair was bad enough, but having got to Ealing town I realised that I forgot my wallet and thus my oyster card, so I had to take two more bus trips, risking thrice the amound of annoyance than normal which could have been a disaster, luckily a crisis was averted by the busses being devoid of plebs for the return trips… Rapture!