London buses
– unsung, wide and useful service – have a most irritating habit of pause. They come along, you get on and three stops later, they stop while an unctuous electronic voice says words to the effect of “The driver of this bus has been told to keep the bus here for several minutes in order to regularize the schedule. We apologise for any inconvenience to your journey.” Growl.
The other morning I got up and got off. The sky was clear. If I only walked one stop it would be a step in the right direction and as I began this, I greeted a woman my own age, a little taller, pretty, shabby and she called after me “It’s so nice when people say good morning.” I went back – “But you’re Irish
– you’d expect it.” She smiled at me. And I went straight on (the sin of the elderly and lonely is that they talk too much – and I am guilty) to tell her how my father had described the Irish – that they are NOT the English and that the Romans never got there, followed by another story and she said “ You’ve made my morning” I said “Mine too” . And we parted in approbation.
I thanked a girl on a bike who waited because I can’t scurry. I asked where she was from in the US, Montana she said adding “This person in the White House is nothing to do with me !”
Coming back, a woman in her fifties struggled to the bus stop, in pain and overweight, who knows which came first ? – disordered hair and clothes ( I shouldn’t think she cared, understandable in that kind of pain). I moved back so she could sit down. She spoke about the weather and then she used to me a word I have not heard for 70 years. She said I had an accent. I said that was unlikely, I was born here, both parents were. She insisted adding – “Or you just talk posh.”
and mimicked what I call the “Daddy Was A Colonel” voice. I let her say it and then I replied “Parents from WW1 – and it used to be called Received Pronunciation.” The bus came.
We were driven by one of my favourite bus drivers – he is Ghanaian and if he were my son I would burst with pride – he is beautiful.
There was a man about my age buying what I call a proper newspaper to whom I said softly “It will depress you but the coverage is good” and told him about something I had read that morning. He came after me in the queue. – “And this ?” he said, holding up a journal. I said too far to the right for me but I believe the writing is often very good. He used an old phrase. “That’ll do me” he said. “I buy to read.”
The first shop assistant was Mauritian, and the second, and the third whom I thought might be French, with a timeless chic – dark blonde hair, a good figure, even nice shoes (I peeked over the counter) – turned out to be from Kazakhstan, “a long way away.” I agreed but told her I had a wonderful book on the ancient treasures of her country … “How did you find that ?” I said it was an exhibit some years ago at the Metropolitan Museum In New York ,had been featured in a newspaper and I had hunted down the published catalogue – which my son gave me for a birthday.
And I bought something I was too lazy to try on but have and it doesn’t fit but I can return it.
I thought about “posh” at school and the roughhousing it got me into until I learned to use it against myself and be amusing. The lesson took time. I thought about my voice which has brought me so much, whether my actual voice, remembered, or imagined voice in writing.
There are people I meet and never see again, people I only meet on the bus or at the shops. And I think of my mother describing enthusiasm as being worth 10 times any cream ever invented. “Stay interested” she said, “helps the face.” Wise woman, bless her.
her favourites
Annalog 