Have you ever felt that there’s a certain stigma associated with loitering by a rural bus stop whilst smoking a cigarette and not knowing whether to lean against or shuffle shiftily by the post? Well I have and whenever I’ve had the pleasure the same thought process criss-crosses in the frontal lobe, which would explain the all-too frequent stares; what is an ageing, balding, overweight geezer doing hovering around a bus stop at three-thirty in the afternoon, a primary school within spitting distance and dressed inappropriately for his age? Well if anyone were to ask, the answer would always be the same; the humiliation of the wait and the discomfort of the journey far outweighs the exorbitant unlicensed taxi ride to the airport. Several weeks ago, I found myself staring at a mass of confusing headings masquerading as a timetable, really what is the point.
That’s when the new jacket had its first outing; not sure about it really, in fact it did look incredibly fabulous on that twenty-two-year-old model featured in a trendy gothic steampunk online shop, but he had hair, lots of, and it was fashioned into a ponytail. oh, and he had a waist, slim fit, which probably helped him to snuggle into a size M, and the whole frontal lobe thing, you know, where all the cognitive skills thrash around making sense of our existence, well they conned me into thinking ‘you would look so amazingly cool in that, you just have to shell out £75, free postage, for that number, and don’t even be phased by that embarrassing size/conversion chart, just tick the XXL box and you will be transformed into Adam Ant in his heyday’. And it arrived like shit off a shovel the following morning, along with several design alterations, specific to the XXL, yeah I know there was the small print but I’m visually impaired, nevertheless the coolness lost its potency when I spotted the front zip instead of the flashy buttons, reminded me a little of something my grandad used to wear when working as a cook at the local Wimpy bar but the ‘cut’ was all wrong, creating an ungainly flappy section at the back, the real point is that the dude modelling the jacket was not wearing the same jacket that was shoved through the letterbox!
But there is another point, the bus, the driver to be precise. My transportation to the airport arrived on time which would explain the slapped arse expression on the driver’s face; surely job satisfaction is only derived when you leave the depot in the morning knowing that you will go out of your way to balls up the timetable fixed to the post. But there was no ‘good afternoon sir, and where are you off to this fine, sunny afternoon, into London I suspect, to meet a lucky young bird, and the jacket, what a perfect fit, suits your blue eyes sir, and is that Calvin Klein wafting over to my compartment?’ Nope, there was eye contact, for several seconds, but no other contact, with full jowls like grilled pork medallions willing me to prolong the contact: ‘airport?’ i gasped, nothing from the bus driver, he simply dropped his eyes to the ticket machine, I guessed at £2 so lobbed a fiver into his tray, the machine spewed a quid back and it was left to me to rip the ticket out its side. Barely had a chance to get to the nearest disabled seat when the bus launched into the nearest pothole, dislocating an already dodgy hip, Stan, Jack and the clippies would have generated a little more fun me thinks!
Left the bus then marched to the trains, pulling down desperately at the back of the jacket, irrationally I blamed the bus driver for the jacket, when the finger should be pointed at the bloody frontal lobe!