The bus is late, and it’s raining like Noah’s nightmares, and things are getting me down. Then the 236 shows up, and we get on board, and it’s crowded and damp and we all just want to go home. We’re not moving through the traffic, the lights seems to flip to red before the driver gets chance to even think about moving, and we crawl our way into Gornal.
But then I look at my watch, and whoa – I don’ t have to walk the remainder of my journey. I don’t have to get myself wetter than a drowned haddock. For the first time in, well, it’s gotta be months, I get into the bus station just in time to make a connection. That almost never happens. And as I watch the second bus splash its way down the hill, next to me a nice old lady chats to a recently arrived lady from Africa, and it’s all very civilised and chilled, which makes a change considering how many venom-laden anti-immigration rants you often find yourself eavesdropping on.
So, I guess you can look at all this, and say that yeah, it’s a nice coincidence. In an offbeat sort of way it felt like something happier than that, something bigger than random. Maybe when you’ve had a grey and hazy day, you find yourself desperately seeking meaning in intersecting bus timetables. Read something into it; read nothing into it; find something in nothing, find nothing in something, call it something cool. Do whatever you want, Matty, by tomorrow you’ll have probably rationalised it out of existance. But standing there, in the rain and in the bus shelter, it felt like a moment of grace.