Diana, Princess of Wales, once said, ‘…If you find someone you love in life you must hang on to it and look after it.’
She put into words exactly how I feel about the bus.

Boreham, the little village where I live, the bus only shows up every two hours. The buses in Boreham usually are filled to the brim with old people living their best life with their shopping trolleys in toe. When I’m on a Boreham bus, I think about so much but so little. I tend to stare into the abyss and momentarily, I am the bus.

London, the big city where I live now, the bus is usually on time or every five minutes. The buses in London have varieties of different people: old people living their best life with their shopping trolleys, people who just don’t use deodorant, people who take loud phone calls, students who go to CSM (jealous), teenage boys with their bus posse, Americans, French ‘people’ and lastly don’t forget the 500 school kids that randomly spawn on the bus. My London bus history began with the 132 to Bexleyheath. I remember that day all too well. 7th July 2022. I found myself at North Greenwich bus station at 11:55am that day, like most heatwaves in England, the wind was stale with the sun blaring it’s heat. Luckily, the occasional breeze kissed my arms. I was nervous, very nervous; being on a bus in deadweight Boreham compared to being on a bus in England’s capital was terrifying to me. What if I get off the wrong stop? How do I know if I’m nearby? What if someone sits next to me and won’t get up for when I need to get off the bus? It doesn’t help that my nervous system is the same as a field mouse in a mousetrap.

I stepped onto the bus.

My hands were disgustingly clammy.
My anxiety felt like my heart’s superior vena cava was growing longer and longer and slowly wrapping itself around my neck.

I paid, I sat down, and I breathed.

Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Boreham anymore.

This changed my life forever. The bus was twisting and turning down a myriad of streets while my eyes were glued to the window. Seeing the residential side of London made me realise that Londoners are actually real people. The amount of serotonin I received of just sitting on the bus and people-watching is refreshing. I like seeing what people do when they think nobodies watching.

However, I think bus driving may just be in my blood. My dad is a bus driver, but maybe that means nothing? He was also a chef, jeweller, postman, butcher, shop owner, businessman…

Maybe bus driving is my future…

To bus drive, or not to bus drive? That is the question.

Since then, I have had my fair share of buses. I’ve been from the high hills of Bristol to the quiet roads of York. I’ve sat on buses hard and soft, I’ve sat on seats with patterns imitating 80’s arcades to the basic grey leather ones that are usually graffitied with ‘bus wanker.’ Throughout my travels, I have come to the conclusion that the most genuine, down-to-Earth bus drivers reside in Liverpool. Thank god for The Beatles spreading their flower power. On the other hand, the most heinous, malicious, devil-like bus drivers are from the ninth circle of hell named Manchester. I’m really not too sure what they had against me. Maybe it was my very southern accent or my obvious tourist motives, either way they hated me.