There’s something special about the last bus home at night. It’s like the Knight Bus from Harry Potter but shitter.
For starters, I’m the only person on the bus or at the bus stop not discussing the enjoyment of joints. I can add that to the list, just underneath never having a conversation which contains the phrase, “They’re in prison now.”
When I was at the bus stop, waiting for the will-it-won’t-it-oh-it’s-disappeared-from-the-board bus, a man thought his own reflection was going to snap his roll-up. And then he shared his working arrangements with everyone he could. So I now know that he’s quite often high at work, and where he works. And how much he dislikes the Polish workers for “always getting him in trouble.”
Not to mention the sleeping habits of his dealer, and how if he’s asleep now he’ll have to wait for morning time. So he can be more mellowed to deal with those pesky Poles, I assume.
My favourite bit, though, was as he listed a load of names of the “great and good” of the rough area he lives in. They had amazing names. Good rough element names.
You know; Stabber, Mick the Pick. That sort of thing.
I love the late bus.