Thursday's Dry Run

The bus home. It seemed earlier tonight, but it wasn't. Just there are more people out on a Thursday. The strong drinkers, out for a practice run on Thursday night before a maximum effort on Friday. They finish the 'dry' run at 11pm and head home, happy to dice with public transport.

The bus coincided with a last tube. Out of Tooting Bec came a line of men in suits. A long line of men, spaced exactly ten yards apart; a long line of men in black with white shirts and ties long forgotten. Some wobbled and faded off into a kebab shop. Others crossed over to the bus stop before changing plan and double backing to the taxi rank. The rest kept walking.

The taxis were doing good business. A driver got over cautious on a u-turn and, in a manoeuvre seen every night, five point turned his way back up Tooting Bec Road. The rest of us waited for the bus. One man shaking his head to get the voices out, but talking out loud to them nonetheless. Another younger guy, with his mobile phone on speakerphone speaking to a girl. In Polish. Basically, a normal night.

And for the first time I remember the driver was no lunatic, no member of the elite 'fuck you' driver corp reserved for late shifts by London Transport, the ones who show no fear to the drunks. Instead, a speedless crawl by an elderly driver. Perhaps he had loved ones waiting for him and felt finishing his shift alive would have it's good points? I know how he feels.

Friday tomorrow, or later today. What time is it?