There’s nothing I love more than sharing the bus stop with a group of old people who all know each other. Honestly, there’s nothing better. I don’t know what it is that makes it so wonderful.

Maybe it’s the way that each and every one of them seems to believe that they arrived at the bus stop before I did and, so, should be allowed to board the bus ahead of me. I mean if that’s not endearing, I don’t know what is.

What I love, though, is the stuff they talk about.

The first woman was, legitimately, at the bus stop before me. She was on the phone to someone discussing a dog which used to be hers but wasn’t hers anymore. This dog had eaten the tail of another dog (I think – turkeys were also mentioned) and so its future was in doubt. But it was more than likely going to be kept but just more than a muzzle’s length away from other dogs’ tails.

Then another arrived. She still had a cough. I know, right. There was disbelief between original woman and secondary woman as to the fact that the cough was still there. And then a long discussion about the healing properties of ridiculously expensive honey.

“£23 a bottle, like. I mean, I couldn’t really afford it. But I had it every day in drinks – hot Ribena or orange or something and my cough just went. I mean, I don’t know if the honey did it or whether it just went but I took that honey. I know a woman who got a jar of the stuff – better quality so more expensive, but she’s got money – and she rubbed it on a wound on her dog’s paw and it healed up….”

I mean, I like honey. But I wouldn’t pay £23 for some unless for purely medicinal purposes unless I was absolutely riddled with disease. And, for that amount I’d want the bees to come and deposit the honey on me themselves. One by one. In an orderly fashion.

And then a man turned up. He also had a cough. So the honey got brought up again.

And then weather. Because it’s going to be a nice weekend.

“It’s supposed to be a bit cloudy in the Northwest, though,” said one. “Not that I really know what bit the Northwest is…”

“Well, we’re in the Southeast…” said another.

We’re not.

Yorkshire is not in the Southeast of anything.

Well, after global warming and rising sea levels it might be, but for now it really isn’t. How could she even think this? How do you get to however old she was by thinking that West Yorkshire is in the Southeast?

No amount of expensive honey could cure that.