carefully inked in felt tip pen on the same spot on her arm that a sailor would have a tattoo. The mother in me wants to tell her she should be wearing a cardie in case she catches her death of cold. Then I see she has death written across her knuckles. Except with her thumb folded into a fist, it just says 'eath'. Her hair is even less of a stranger to peroxide than mine and she's chatting animatedly in loud lithping, totally incomprehensible, Spanish to an enormously fat leather-clad Goth sitting opposite. You'd think it would be 'muerte' if she's Spanish but I suppose there aren't enough digits on the hand (this is the sort of thing I worry about on the bus - I'm under stimulated).
Sandwiched sort of between us is Posh Man in dark pin stripe suit with a face like a cartoon fish, and his son, smaller version of the same but in the red blazer of nearby Pre-Prep school once attended by the ginger Prince. So Marlin, behind a copy of the FT, and Nemo(keep up with your Disney Films now) reading Raj and Kit go to the Shop sit in silence, wincing.
I get out my neat, pretty hardback of Anatomy of Wings and commence trying to read but I just can't concentrate. I've had what seems like two hours sleep and can barely focus my eyes. My phone beeps. I dredge it out from the bottom of the handbag and see it's from Louise with 'So' in the body text followed by several question marks. I'm in a world of babble, so despite the early hour I abandon the book and call her back.
'Where are you, there's a lot of background noise.'
'Sitting on the bus.'
'It sounds like you're in a fish market in Barcelona.'
'It feels like it too.'
'So?' she asks again.
I hate chatting in public, but since all sounds are being drowned out by Signorina Alien Sex Fiend, I figure it's fine to let rip as nobody can possibly hear me with the voiceover next to me. I tell her that her show was magnificent, her photographs amazing, and apologise for leaving early. Then I raved about my Italian and American book jackets - both of which arrived that morning before bragging about my daughter getting into to Oxford to do her Ph D. Louisa can't understand why another three costly years of higher education is anything to celebrate but she doesn't live at home with her adult daughter. She unfurls her banner and waves it anyway.
Alien Sex Fiend mercifully gets off the bus at Portobello Road and a blessed hush falls over the bus. I am now a lone voice on the top deck.
'Erm, I should probably go now, let you get up and on with your day (lucky cow, still lying in bed).'
'No, no, don't go. You haven't told me what you thought of him...'
'Erm, who?' I asked feigning ignorance, suddenly realising that she might not be in bed alone. I shuddered.
'Charles.'
I consider pretending that I don't know that's she's talking about smug, bearded ecologist Smurf from last night but I can see this will not fly. I have two choices. I can tell her he's door furniture or lie and say he's wonderful and then be subjected to another month of her being upset every time he lets her down. No, really, I only have one choice.
I make it; rather succinctly.
There is a shocked silence on the other end of the phone after my short appraisal and also, I realised, with a sinking heart, on the bus. Nemo and Marlin both lowered their reading material and Nemo, temporarily distracted from his school textbook in which Raj buys sweets in four letter words of one syllable, suddenly acquires a whole new and extensive vocabulary of similarly curt and easy to pronounce nouns with one verb.
I bury my head into Anatomy of Wings as though I can do two things at once and redeem myself with an interest in literature.
Marlin shakes his newspaper as if it were my neck and resumes his perusal of stocks and shares.
Louisa is protesting more vocally. 'I like him, he's very flirtatious, so complimentary... '
'Is he there with you now?'
'No, he told me he had an early meeting in the morning and left after the exhibition. He wouldn't even come to dinner.'
'So rather than come home with you, he left to get up early for his meeting?'
'Yes, but he sent me a lovely text this morning.'
'But Louisa, how many times has he stood you up?'
'I know, but...'
Ah the old 'I know, but' logic. I know it well myself. Frankly, without it I wouldn't have had a single relationship in the last year, let alone still being 'friends' with my ex husband. So I give in, and change the subject to our mutually exciting weekend plans. She's gardening and I have a plasterer coming in. Big whoop. No wonder we rely on the 'I know buts'.
While I've been speaking there's been a steady string of automated announcements as we approach, stop and leave every bus stop. 'Number Seven, says the woman, delightedly, to Russell Square... Westbourne Grove... This bus is being held here, temporarily to improve the flow of the service... The destination of this bus has changed.' Damn it. These ruddy buses hijack me on a daily basis, deciding to detour around New Oxford Street, or stop, for no good reason at Paddington.
I cough and ask Marlin politely: 'Excuse me, but did they happen to say what the new destination was? I must have missed the announcement.'
'Quite,' he said, sniffily, unfolding himself to disembark and looking down his nose at me like a distainful giraffe as he ushered out little Nemo for a hard day's cramming at Wetherby School for Future Stockbrokers of Tomorrow. In today's economic climate, mate, I imagine his increased vocabularly would only come in useful. Really, he should be thanking me. My sons learned to curse from the Rev VW Awdry listening to Thomas the Tank Engine at bed time.
Oh, yes.
The fat controller. Say it fast, repeatedly and imagine you're five.
It took some explaining to the teacher.
