Hunting the Magic

With a spear and dynamite if necessary. The night bus, with the first fizz of a cold brewing in my head. Lemsip, from Tooting Bec's best non-corner corner shop. There's no cure, but that doesn't stop us from pretending these things will work and work fast. But the bus was on time. No wait. Get home, put all your clothes on and turning the heating up full blast.

Of course, I don't know how the heating works. But my clothes are all in ready reach. It's good to look after yourself, apparently. And keeping warm falls under that. You only ever know this when the right time has passed, but you promise to learn next time. Then you get busy forgetting that.

So the night bus. Two oldish men sat at the front, slightly drunk, named Rob and George. They spoke loudly, made requests of the driver and were pretty much well loved by everyone at their end of the bus. Particularly two younger drunks, who had earlier looked worried about there being no ketchup at home.

Further down the usual lovers were standing close, holding onto the rail tightly, but each other tighter. And opposite them, a young woman sending a text to a man containing the words 'You' and 'Wonderful' and 'Night'. There should be this kind of slush on a bus home. Right minds thinking right things, that the only important thing in the world was right now.

It could all be gibberish of course, and most of it probably is. And it will all be forgotten soon enough. But we'll promise to learn next time. That things can be nice. Even if not for long. And sooner or later it will come round again.