Another day. Another milestone. Its pouring with rain. Rush hour. Waiting for the No. 26. bus . Last person to squeeze on. Downstairs, the bus is full. Deep breath. Decide to climb the stairs. Deep breath. Hope the bus doesn't take off while I'm half way up. Make it safely. Another deep breath. Wonder how I'm going to get down again. Daren't attempt it if the bus is still moving.
Three seats from the front I have a perfect view of the coupe that appears from nowhere on our right and attempts to cut us up. The bus driver hauls on the brakes. Holds down the horn. Emergency stop. Downstairs there are shouts and crashes. More shouting. The bus pulls over. We are four stops from home.
I can hear the driver talking to a man, asking him what's wrong. Then he is calling an ambulance. By now, the entire bus knows that a 52 year old man called Colin has been thrown three feet down the bus, hurt his arm and cracked his head. Upstairs we remain quiet. There are absolutely no complaints. A woman suggests she needs a drink. Someone else agrees. Colin is conscious but quiet. The driver fears that he will be blamed, his knuckles rapped. But it absolutely wasn't his fault. And he is meticulous in his response.
Ten minutes later the ambulance arrives. So does another 26 bus We offload obediently leaving Colin with the ambulance man, and get onto the other bus. Four stops later, I disembark. I have safely navigated the upstairs of a bus. Colin, less fortunate on the lower deck, is on his way to hospital. And the driver of the coupe, unidentified, is presumably relaxing with a drink at home. His ignorance is his bliss. There is, absolutely, no justice.
Three seats from the front I have a perfect view of the coupe that appears from nowhere on our right and attempts to cut us up. The bus driver hauls on the brakes. Holds down the horn. Emergency stop. Downstairs there are shouts and crashes. More shouting. The bus pulls over. We are four stops from home.
I can hear the driver talking to a man, asking him what's wrong. Then he is calling an ambulance. By now, the entire bus knows that a 52 year old man called Colin has been thrown three feet down the bus, hurt his arm and cracked his head. Upstairs we remain quiet. There are absolutely no complaints. A woman suggests she needs a drink. Someone else agrees. Colin is conscious but quiet. The driver fears that he will be blamed, his knuckles rapped. But it absolutely wasn't his fault. And he is meticulous in his response.
Ten minutes later the ambulance arrives. So does another 26 bus We offload obediently leaving Colin with the ambulance man, and get onto the other bus. Four stops later, I disembark. I have safely navigated the upstairs of a bus. Colin, less fortunate on the lower deck, is on his way to hospital. And the driver of the coupe, unidentified, is presumably relaxing with a drink at home. His ignorance is his bliss. There is, absolutely, no justice.
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