At the bus stop I meet Mrs Chatty. No, that isn’t her actual name, not as far as I know, in fact she might well be Mrs Garrulous - but that sounds a little unkind, and the Daily Blog makes a point of being kind at
Were Mr B at the bus stop with me, instead of back at home watching Saturday Kitchen Live to see whether the viewers will vote for the guest personality
to be cooked Food Heaven or Food Hell, then he would doubtless comment that Mrs Chatty’s jaws won’t rust. In fact, even I can’t get a word edgeways. Which is, as you know, very unlike me.
I pride myself on being a good listener but it really was extremely difficult to piece together the story Mrs Chatty had to tell, especially as I needed to keep a weather eye open for the Pulse bus bearing down on us in order
to hail it with outstretched arm and sunny smile. The smile probably doesn’t make much difference but if I were a bus driver (Mr B would groan at the very thought) I would like to be hailed with a sunny smile.
Fortunately I was in a good mood, so I was receptive to my fellow passenger’s saga. Only a few minutes before I had not been a Happy Bunny, having discovered that my Visa Debit Card appeared
to have gone missing from my purse. Has something similar ever happened to you? It is the kind of discovery that strikes fear into one’s heart and sends it plunging into one’s boots (feel free to insert other appropriate cliches.) There was no
point in alarming Mr B until absolutely necessary, I told myself, trying to remember when I had last used my card. Might I have left it behind at the newsagents when I paid the paper bill yesterday?
So there I was in a long queue at the newsagents, waiting to ask the all-important question. If my card was not in their safe keeping, I told myself, I would head straight down to the bank to cancel it, after which, being
cash-less, I would have to use the reward money I have been accumulating while shopping at the Coop and at Boots to buy everything I needed for today.
you ever have conversations with yourself? I find myself a very satisfactory conversationalist, being as I always agree with myself. I invariably feel a great deal better when the three of us (Me, Myself and I) have sorted out exactly what we are going to
do in Potentially Disastrous Circumstances.
As it turned out, my card had been kept safely for me and was returned forthwith by a sweet shop assistant who
sympathised with my plight and said the same thing had happened to her only the other day. I’m not sure if she said this just to make me feel better, if so, it was kind of her.
Which is a long-winded way of explaining why I am feeling both relieved and contented waiting at the bus stop and listening to Mrs Chatty holding forth. I will tell you her story as far as I can make sense of it...
Mrs Chatty had lots and lots of stuff, much of it brand new, which needed to be taken somewhere. No, I never gather what kind of “stuff” it was (although I am reminded several times that
most of it was brand new) and where it needed to be taken but there was enough of it to fill a minibus. A friend had been going to provide transport but couldn’t - “That’s a long story so I won’t bore you with it,” says Mrs C.
A minibus was hired and Mrs C had to sit in the front seat with the driver because the “stuff” (most of it brand new, remember) took up all the space in the back.
Mrs C and the driver had a great laugh and a chat, apparently. I wonder if he managed to get a word in edgeways? When they arrived at their destination (where? where?) the driver kindly helped unload everything, placing each item exactly where Mrs C wanted
it and earning himself a good tip. Then, on the way home...
At which point the Pulse bus arrives and we both clamber aboard. Mrs C is only going a couple of stops
along so she alights from the bus before I do.
“Really good to talk to you!” she says.
I open my mouth to respond in kind - but too late, she is gone already. Sad to say, I will never know the end of the story...