Missing The Bus

That’s it. My desk is clear, the drawers are empty, I’ve brought home all my gubbins. I am one day away from redundancy/unemployment/retirement.

Obviously not retirement.

Unless something amazing happens.

But what this last week of travelling to and from Leeds has taught me is that I really won’t miss it. I’ll miss the reading time. Or the watching time. I will miss that. But as I tend to nod off while doing either of those things I think my energies will be better spent in catching up on some sleep and then just reading or watching things anyway.

I won’t miss the bus strikes. I mean, yes, there has only been one in the whole time I’ve been catching the bus to work. And that was this on Monday, when I creatively used the extra day off we were awarded as, and I quote, a “#day for your selfie” to not go into work. I didn’t take a picture of what I did with the day, as was supposed to be the point, because that idea seemed to die on its arse after the first couple of pictures.

I won’t miss the bus either not turning up or sailing past the stop in the morning. I won’t miss the bus not turning up in the evening. I won’t miss that girl who once changed her trousers in the aisle of a crowded bus. I won’t miss the tinny music, ganster rap or other bollocks my ears have been assaulted with.

And I most definitely won’t miss walking to the bus station in Leeds because the bus stop you would normally use has been suspended due to high winds and, clearly, the bus will be taking a different route.  I won’t miss that one bit. I have lost track of how many times wind has led to me walking to the bus station. It’s definitely double figures. Because one building in Leeds has been built to be some kind of wind magnet. If this was some kind of gothic noir tale, it would turn out that the Bridgewater Place had been built by an eccentric person who wanted to harness the wind for his own nefarious purposes. As it is, it’s just a quirk of the banking crisis and subsequent bottom falling out of construction that meant only one building could be built which makes it windy as fuck.

But that’s by the by.

The point is that in the past three of so years I have been going to and from work on the bus, the bus stop has been suspended countless times. And each time I have walked to the bus station – in wind, drizzle and pounding rain – because the stop is not in use. And each time I have boarded the bus at the bus station to go the revised, wind-free, route.

And almost without fail the bus has gone the usual route and stopped at the suspended stop. Where I could have waited. The stop that I could spit at from the office. As opposed to the bus station which I couldn’t hit with a loogie even if Leonardo Di Caprio was teaching me how to hock one up. Like today, for example. Or the last time. Or the time before that.

I can’t remember how many times I’ve gone to the bus station. It’s a large number.

I can, however, remember the number of times the bus has actually gone the other route. The correct route, as it were, for windy conditions.

Once.

Just once.

I won’t miss that.