Strange happenings on the bus

The other day, I caught the 94 (I think) to Picadilly. All was well, and I was like a 5-year-old on his first school outing, sitting at the top of the bus overlooking the road. It was terrific, until a Spanish pensioner decided that, of all the seats she could have chosen, sitting next to me was high up on her list.

“Please, oh, please. Open, open the window.”

I duly obliged, not sure what to make of this mad woman’s protestations. Once she’d calmed down (it was 3c outside, so I’m assuming she was having a hot flush), we got chatting. Well, she did – the 20 minute journey was spent listening to her hatred of jews and Terry Wogan; her love of Big Brother but dislike of commercial TV (yes, I know), and why she always goes to Harrods to buy her diaries. (“I REFUSE,” she shouted, “REFUSE to buy anything else there. Ridiculous prices.” When asked if the diaries she bought were expensive, she replied “But of course, it’s Harrods.”)

Quite how I get myself into these situations, I don’t know. She wished me well, and seasons greetings, and we parted ways.