We had a guest last night, who we work with. She joined me on the daily commute from Bethnal Green to the City this morning, on the packed red bus.
It was a typically sweaty journey in the muggy heat, punctuated by an "URGH!" when she got emerged off the claustrophobic bus, into the fresh (ish) air, gasping a lungful of smog.
Me: "What's up?"
N: "You know the skinny weird guy with long hair who got on, and I moved down to get away from him?"
Me: "Yeah..."
N: "He came and stood next to me, my hand was on the post holding myself up and... and... his hair was touching my hand the whole way!" *shudder*
This, in my opinion, is typical of one side of the London bus experience. In the few months I've lived here, I've realised there's a dichotomy of journeys to work.
It's either: rammed with sleepy commuters, unbearably sticky, someone's armpit/groin/hair/breath is in contact with you; and you spend the entire time willing the minutes to somehow go faster so you can get a lung full of air that's not been breathed by everyone else on the bus.
Or, it can be a wonderful sightseeing tour through an interesting part of the city where you get a seat and you can inwardly critique the other passengers' shoes. I stick my iPod in, blast out my current musical obsession (recently Please Venus by the Golden Silvers and Into the Chaos by Howling Bells) and lose myself in the scenery. My bus route does seem to be filled with details I discover anew every morning, a palimpsest of shabby buildings with decades of fly posters, graffiti and signs; and East Londoners going about their daily business.
One thing I relish on these journeys is being part of the rat race. I never thought I'd say that, but it feels like you're part of this big commercial effort, hordes of suited people wearing trainers and striding purposefully to their desks, the hardcore among them running into work. Every other person clutches a coffee and had the distinctive white Apple earphones in, streaming their way towards the City. I am strangely impressed by the ability of City workers to read. Whilst walking. I'd be under a bus in seconds if I did that, not to mention at the very least stacking it ungracefully (my default physical setting) and dropping my laptop/ contents of my handbag haphazardly.
Another is the people. I'm starting to recognise the people on my bus in the mornings and share that tiny "I know you" glance. There's the girl who gets on round Old St who always has ace hair and wears covetable pretty vintage floral dresses, who breezes onto the bus like she's walked out of a high end soft focus perfume ad. And the beautiful androgynous boy who totally pulls off the skinny designer suit with a hint of lipgloss and perfectly arched brows and bronzed cheeks. He stood next to me today and he's also very fragrant. Possibly Prada.
Not to mention my hot fellow commuter neighbour from my block, who my housemate (who will now be known as Nor'n Ir'on since when she's asked where she's from, instead of saying Belfast, this is the noise emitted), keeps missing when I bump into him and thinks I am making him up. I'm not.
Today, after a hard day, we decided to walk the journey back home since it was a glorious evening and we ought to have done something to counteract the volume of Chenin consumed last night. Chatting casually, we eyed up the other people frantically walking to and from their respective jobs. One tall, pretty normal looking (for East London) man walked towards us, and Nor'n Ir'on and I parted so that he could walk the opposite way between us. Then there was that moment where you know the person you're with is about to comment on what just happened.
We looked at each other wryly.
Me: "That was weird..."
No'rn Ir'on: "....he just looked directly at my crotch."
Just your average walk home from the office then.
