The bus driver taking me home after my hospital appointment is not in a good mood. No, nothing to do with me; I am, as always the Perfect Passenger. I always have my bus pass ready in my hot little hand, so that I don’t
have to delve into the depths of my capacious handbag to find it, thus holding up a queue of impatient would-be passengers waiting to board the bus behind me. I always look to make sure nobody is getting off the bus before I try to get on; this is basic Bus
Etiquette and I am well versed in it. I never sit in the seat designated for the elderly and infirm - though this is, in part, because I don’t want to be considered either elderly or infirm, despite having reached A Great Age. My ever present fear is
that, should I sit in the seat thus designated, nobody will challenge me...
Anyway, the reason the bus driver is grumpy is because right behind our bus is another
bus, following exactly the same route. This is not unusual, you will be saying, given that age-old saying about waiting ages for a bus and then two come along together - however, our bus driver wants us all to know that he is actually on time, while the driver
of the bus behind us is really, really late. He feels it is important to make this point because (i) everyone boarding the bus is querying why they have had to wait so long; and (ii) he now has a full bus while the Tardy One behind is driving an all but empty
bus. We all express our sympathy - it seems best to do so, because nobody wants a grumpy bus driver, now do they?
To be honest, I only had to wait five minutes
for the bus so I have no reason to complain. I had arrived early for my physio appointment so availed myself of coffee and a naughty doughnut at the Friends Café first. This meant that, at the end of my half hour with Sweet Sophia (who has take over
the task of administering to my Recovering Shoulder from the Delightful Declan) I didn’t stop for more refreshments but headed straight out to the bus stop across the road from the hospital.
It also meant that I shared a table with a poor woman who had just received a bit of a shock and was now waiting for a brain scan. I think she just needed somebody to talk to, so I was glad that all the other tables were full,
leading me to ask if I could perch myself at hers. Sometimes it’s good to find yourself in the right place at the right time. We had a good chat about moving house and the delight of setting up a new home with all new furniture. This has only happened
to me once in my life when Mr B and I were first married, moving into a firm’s rented flat, without a stick of furniture to our name until we visited a local furniture store and bought everything we needed on hire purchase. It might have been cheap as
chips but it was a fine start to married life.
Sophia tells me that I have been working too hard on my physio exercises. This is a Turn Up For The Book as I thought
I had been slacking. She has given me five new / modified exercises to do, once a day. What is more, I am also to take two days off a week to give my muscles (such as they are) a rest. This has set me thinking - which two days should be my days off? Should
one of them be Sunday, the official “Day of Rest”? How about giving myself a free day on Wednesday which is always, as regular readers know, my Piccadilly Circus Day? Should I rather take each week as it comes, basing my Rest Days on whatever else
I have in my diary? The Youngest of the Darling Daughters has made me a star chart, of the type much beloved by the Trio of Rampaging Rascals who earn exciting new toys (mostly Dinosaur Related as far as Young Faris is concerned) for each chart completed.
I haven’t yet been advised what I might receive as a reward, I think my daughter imagines I am too old to need such encouragement, the successful completion of each week being sufficient reward in itself.
We round off our afternoon talking on the phone to granddaughter Katie, who is 22 today. Two Little Ducks, as they say in the bingo halls. Come Saturday, we will be helping her celebrate in style at ours.
And now it’s a footie evening. Spurs versus Ajax, in case you need to know. Our Boy is watching on a big screen in a public house local to his home; we exchange photos
in a gesture of solidarity.
I’m hoping the bus driver recovered his equanimity and beat his colleague back to the garage. I’m hoping the lovely
lady in the café has received good news not bad. I’m hoping Sweet Sophia will be pleased with me when I return to see her in six weeks time. I’m hoping our darling Katie enjoys the rest of her birthday.
Oh, and the right result in the footie, for Mr B’s sake - and my sanity - would be good, too...