The Etiquette of Buses

Three weeks ago I put my car in for it's MOT. Three weeks later, and I still haven't had it back. It failed with flying colours, needing almost everything major replacing, and being such an uncommon model of Corsa (a 1.8, apparently) finding second-hand replacement parts is proving rather difficult.

And so for the last month I've been forced to find other means of getting to work. I work about 7 miles from my rented flat in Bournemouth Town Centre. I tried cycling for a week or two, but given that this has been the wettest January since records began, that was soon out of the question. I was left with just one choice.

I had to get the bus.

Buses are very strange things, I find. They have a certain 'aura' about them which is different to other forms of transport, like trains and cars. Life seems a lot slower on a bus, and there are certain sorts of 'bus people'; people who, for some reason or another, you will only ever encounter in life whilst on a bus.

Bus People

Take, for example, the bloke with his music up too loud. He rides the bus everyday ( and occasionally the trains at weekends, when he's feeling fancy). It seems that the whole 'bus' experience is just too abominable to withstand, with it's whooshes and echoey rain splatters on the roof, and so he has to resort to letting the rest of the bus know just how much he is disliking being there by playing Skrillex loud enough for the bus driver to be tapping his fingers along.

Then there are the day shoppers. They wear and carry everything they could possibly need whilst out 'running errands', and so you'll normally find them wearing a parka jacket, bobbly hat, and pulling some sort of tartan shopping trolley. They're harmless, but occasionally smell of stale bread and/or cat wee.

And then we have the bus drivers themselves. I've personally only encountered three types in my life. The overly-happy, slightly-rounded male bus driver, who always bids you a good day even when he can clearly see you're not having a good day. The grumpy, middle-aged man who seems to have it in for school children ("I've told you three bleeding times, only ring the bell if you're actually getting off!"). And then there's the butch lesbian who looks like Miss Trunchbull from Matilda. She just hates everyone.

The Journey

I was on a bus home from work the other night. It's been horrendous weather the last few days, with gale force winds and that annoying spitty-rain that isn't really rain but still makes your eyes squint.

I got on the bus, paid my fare to Mr Overly Happy Bus Driver, and found the first empty row of seats I could. Being rush hour, the bus was particularly busy, so I think I got the last one. I put by bag on my lap, because I didn't want to be that arse who reserved the seat next to them for their bags and forced other people to stand (not today, anyway). I therefore wasn't particularly bothered when, at the next stop, a woman quickly shuffled through the bus and claimed the last empty seat next to me. I soon noticed that she appeared to be on the phone, too.

The bus moved on, gently making it's occupants lurch forwards and back with every turn, and I noticed she wasn't talking in English. In fact, she wasn't really talking at all; more a constant mumble of words which sounded quite similar to a character from the Sims, except, unfortunately for me, there was no volume button.

She seemed completely unperturbed by the range of 'whirs' and 'oomphs' coming from the engine of the bus as it struggled up and down the hills of Bournemouth. I personally would have found it a bit too hard to hear and would have asked whoever it was on the other end to call me back when I was at home, but she, oh lady in the padded Adidas coat, seemed to be an expert in public transport conversing and carried on as if she was sat in a field on a lovely Summer's day, and the only thing to break the silence around her was the quiet pitter-patter of squirrels scurrying up a nearby tree.

I was trying to read the last of my book on my Kindle, which I haven't been able to put down ("The Hundred-Year-Old-Man Who Climbed Out of The Window And Disappeared"), and, after several weeks of reading, was finally getting to the all important part of why he climbed out of the window in the first place, when all I could hear in my ear was a murmuring of words like a badly-tuned human Morse Code machine.

It was at that point I also noticed her strange arm movements. She was, at regular intervals, raising and lowering her right arm so that her hand was obscuring her mouth. Perhaps she was yawning? No, that's too long to be a yawn, I thought to myself, and the pitch of her voice isn't changing like it does mid-yawn, making you sound like you've momentarily lost your all hearing and are asking for directions to the local bank.

No, she was just sitting there, with her hand over her mouth, but talking just as loud as before. And then she'd move her hand down again. And then she'd move it up. It was most peculiar, and I couldn't fathom why she was doing it, but the frequent elbow juts in my ribs made it very hard for me to get past the sentence 'Alan Karlson in fact climbed out of his window because...'

Ths bus journey from Poole bus station to Bournemouth town square takes approximately 30 minutes on a good day, and there are various places along the way where a lot of people alight. It is general bus etiquette, I thought, that when enough people have vacated the bus for there to be plenty of other seats free, the person who has sat next to someone else generally relieves that someone else of their presence, and moves to a free seat on the other side of the bus.

I generally thought that this is what everyone does.

Apparently, this is not what everyone does.

We were about half way through the journey when, after finally learning why Alan Karlson was out of the window, I noticed the bus was a lot emptier than before. Head still down, I quickly glanced around and my thoughts were confirmed. Almost half the people had left. 'Good,' I thought, cosying into my seat, 'the mumbling lady will finally move'.

In fact, she did not move.

She continued to talk, perhaps even quicker and high pitched than before.

I tried the old English method of gently 'heh-heming', which didn't work. I knew I'd have to be a bit more obvious than that. I sat up straight, looked around me, twisting my shoulders as I did so, so that I was staring around the bus, making sure I held my gaze for slightly longer than any normal person would.

The mumbling woman noticed this, and then also looked up, joined me in twisting her shoulders and looking round the bus to see what I was looking at. She only saw empty seats, and so had no idea why I was turning around, and so got back on with her conversation. 'Strange English Lady,' she must have thought to herself.

This happened no less than four times.

It was only when we pulled into the bus station at Bournemouth Town Square and I had stood up in my seat, that she finally acknowledged it was probably time for her to move. We were, in fact, the only two people left on the entire double-decker bus, and as she got off, I noticed she brushed her coat down, as if she was annoyed my germs were still on her.

Since then, I have to admit I've always chosen to sit on the single seats near the front. The only problem I have to face then is the occasional 'bum-in-face' incident when the bus is busy. Maybe bus journeys just aren't meant for me.

Other Bus 'Things'

In between my bad experiences on buses, there are also several other things which have struck me as being particular bus-related things. Here are my top 5:

1. On buses, you can stare at people's hair for long lengths of time without feeling awkward. You haven't been able to do this since assemblies at school. How DO they get their hair so shiny?
2. Everyone on the bus is in agreement that they all, collectively, hate school children.
3. No matter how new a bus is, there is always one chair that squeaks. If it's the chair you're sat in, you genuinely want to keep apologising to the rest of the bus for your misbehaving and somewhat nervous seat.
4. Someone always has a Nokia phone from 2001 with the keypad tones left on. BEEP BOOP BOOP BEEP.
5. Whenever someone gets on the bus and asks in their most high-pitched voice for a 'child' single, you always stare at them and judge if you think they're young enough ("Hey wait a minute - you're not young, you're just really fucking short! That's not fair!")

So, in essence, I really, really hope I get my car back soon. I think I've had my fair share of bus-ness for a while now.