The Trusted Routine

The only adventurous part of the trip home from Tooting Bec tonight was the speed the bus driver reached on Tooting Bec Road. I had him pushing sixty. It may have been less. Either way the ease at which he handled the corners, at speed, and between parked cars, would be enough to bring a tear to any London Transport head's eye. And not just the legal department.

So yes, nothing much, and all to the soundtrack provided by Britney Spears. It's a secret shame, I like two Britney Spears songs and one just happened to pop up as the bus arrived. And i should be grateful that the bus arrived in teh first place. There's no real right to expect a bus at 1am. But maybe this is the start of another run of good luck.

Today was better than yesterday, which came with a good chunk of post-Austrian angst. It'd been a tough five days. I'm not keen on Austria. The atmosphere, the look of the place and miserable people. It brought out the temper in me. I warned my colleague about this. He took it well. The transport, the bill, the lumpy bed. The lift that didn't work, the stairs I couldnt find. The black and white women serving breakfast. The cold war clothes. I felt like they'd ask us to pay in silk stockings and American cigarettes.

But enough of that. No more Austria. And bus rides from Tooting Bec mean one thing. That life is getting back to normal. Getting home late to finding nothing on the telly. And going to bed at a stupid hour. There's only one more thing to do. To hang out of the window without safety ropes and have a cigarette.