Busload of Nutters

Scarier than a bus full of nutters. How these people find me on the bus home I'm not sure. Perhaps it's me? Perhaps I see more of the nutter in people than others do? Perhaps I, and I alone, am the real nutter?

Enough of that. Head down on Upper Tooting Road, as a fuck face ape in a tracksuit began yelling. Something like 'Fat fucking cunt!' at a girl who was somewhere, although on the street I saw just me and a few people taking advantage of Cottage Chicken not knowing when to quit.

But yes, head down. Keep walking. Don't say anything. Or, take out your sword, challenge the fucker and finish him with a swift chop to the shoulder blade. That's how Hemingway would have done it. No, Hemingway would have shot him, posed for photos and had the head prepared for mounting. Then home for drinks.

But not me, at least not yet. I kept walking. I'd decided on a taxi. £7 well spent I thought. But a ten minute wait persuaded me that the good old bus was still an option. It arrived unpromted. Rejoice.

Only it seemed full of nutters. Did I mention that? One man towards the back, opposite me, decided to spend two stops laughing to himself. Only another guy with grey hair and a pale blue shirt took exception to this and thought the laughing was aimed at him. Hell, I thought he was laughing at me. Imagine my relief. "No, no" he said.

Then, a girl who had got on at my stop, couldn't find her ticket, even after half the route to Streatham. So, the bus driver kicked her off. I think she said 'I love you' as she got off, still looking for that ticket.

But back to Streatham. Passed the empty mainroad with sparkling snowflake christmas lights. Passed the the house, lights still on, with a mock tudor interior. Another night. The magic of Tooting doesn't reach this far. So I pretend.