I sat on the bus most of today, touring the City and using my pensioner's pass to the full. Its not that I needed a tour – I've lived here most of my life – but I needed something to do that didn't involve walking to the park. Really silly, I know, but at my age one has to accept one's deficiencies – too set to change.
I like travelling on the bus – its warm and soporific, and good for people watching.
People are very interesting, all shapes and sizes and colours. I like guessing. The woman teetering on high heels in the corner with a beer bottle in her hand. Why is she drunk? Is she happy or sad? The old man opposite me with a laptop and email printouts. Is it his business? Who is Sarah Jenkins? A customer? His boss? And so on. Hours of fun.
Other times I just gazed through the rain spattered window at the cars and houses and people rushing by, all with somewhere to go and more purpose than an old fart loitering on the bus for a day. Now and then my tired bearded reflection would stare back at me, slightly accusingly I thought. Its strange looking at one's reflection up close. Deep wrinkles. Hair sprouting in all sorts of unwanted places. Has it come to this? I still feel 20 in many respects. Perhaps wiser, perhaps calmer, but this? Old, doddery, unshaven, tired. Where have the years gone? What do I have to show for it? Ex-wife. Dead friends. Memories noone cares about.
I thought of Jojo and Liesel, and now Harry lying on my feet.
It could be worse, a lot worse, you daft egit.
