Love trains. But only on my own terms.
A four-seater, table in the middle, occupied only by me and/or my pals. A fully laden catering trolley constantly zoomin’ up and doon. Rare as hens’ teeth these days. Dinna need clean lavvies coz I canna use ‘em. Gads. Just hud it in.
I’m deffo a trainie wifie for getting oot ’n’ aboot. Ah, but, there’s the rub. For mony months, oor rail system has been even more mince than usual, thanks to strikes, staff shortages and coorse weather. So, when I was set for a far-flung lunch date with mates, afeart my train might be cancelled at the last mintie, I decided to play it safe (in hindsight, that’s a laugh) and bus it.
Outward bound, as soon as the coach set off, I realised I’d made a big mistake. Spik aboot shooglie, bumpy, just affa. My poor Bad Back (BB) almost went into spasm.
Knocking back the ibuprofen, it suddenly sprang into my napper that, after a hugely indulgent lunch at my destination, would I ging a’ Spewy Lewy on the wye hame? Meanwhile, the sun blazed through the windaes. No blinds, so couldn’t read book nor phone. Jist sat and plotted. And ached.
Homeward bound, a mate suggested I try to get a different coach, which might be more comfortable. Into the bus station, spied the driver from another company, who let me on freebie after showing my bus pass. This coach was newer, smoother, emptier, curtains at the windaes. Back o’ the net!
Sadly, a pucklie miles on, a changeower and I gradually got the impression oor new gadgie behind the wheel wisnae exactly my dream driver. Caught in traffic several times, he let fly with loud expletives directed at the cars ahead of him, like: “Get oot o’ the f***ing wye, pal!” Me, sittin’ a coupla rows back, was nae impressed, pal.
Trapped on board with the driver from hell
Thanks to a rush-hour traffic jam, oor ETA was 20 minutes late. As we approached now dark Aberdeen, oor knight of the road shouted back to us: “Anybody know the quickest route into the city centre?” Silence on board.
Finally into the bus station, where oor laddo stopped a bittie behind two coaches already in the only stances. Sez he: “We canna move until they move.” After five stationary minties, my BB now geein’ me bother, I up and asked how long until one of the coaches moved. Sez he, helpfully: “I havna got a f***in’ clue.”
I then actually pleaded with the sod to let us off, saying I’d to meet my grandchildren. His response? ‘Fit aboot me missin’ my f***in’ break?’
Here’s me: “There’s no need for that language. We’re already late. Could you just let us off here?” Here’s him: “And ye a’ get knocked doon? No f***in’ way, pal.” A gent behind me pointed out nothing could get past him, so there was no danger. Nope.
By now, it was 15 minutes after we’d arrived. I then actually pleaded with the sod to let us off, saying I’d to meet my grandchildren. His response? “Fit aboot me missin’ my f***in’ break?” Space in this column forces me to edit many of his other oath-laden observations.
When a bus finally exited a stance, we pulled in. But, as I climbed off, I was actually caught between laughing and crying about the driver from hell. Remembering back here now, I’m just so angry about my confrontation with such an oaf.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press and Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
Conversation