Sketches of (S)pain

So being a little bit of an old prejudiced ninny is difficult these days. People are set against your attempts to indicate what is wrong for fear of reprisals and the like. I, on the other hand, am relatively happy commenting. I only get upset with people criticising me. Yes, I know; don’t dish it if you can’t take it.

Truth is, I probably could, but as those who know me well will attest, my problem is less with the criticism than it is of me not criticising myself first. However, this is secondary to me regaling you with these #BusJourneyFromHell trips.

Today is relatively benign until the half way mark. At this point the bus is now as near full as it seems possible to get without contravening EU regulations on the road transportation of ducks. And the drop in speed is noticeable. However this pales in comparison with my upcoming dilemma: what to do about the woman -mountain who elects to occupy the seat next to me?

Two things are important at this point. One: at no point in my life to date would anyone ever have mistaken me for, let us say, svelte. Two: I am an unreconstructed product of private education where politesse is a de-facto requirement in one’s upbringing (and, it should be noted, sentences thus structured indicate a clear grammatical sense): put another way, I am a bit of a snob.

Thus as things stand, I do what I should in the circumstance, and smile at her. This has much the same effect as waving a candle in the neighbourhood of a glacier. However, I have found this to be typical of fellow seat occupiers. I guess they assume I am one of those people their mother told them to avoid. Clearly the lesson was lost on them.

I doubt I minded much until she withdrew from her voluminous handbag, a large, poorly executed egg mayonnaise sandwich, whose filling seemed keen to escape the confines afforded by the bread. Either that, or it was scared of her mouth. If pressed I’d go with the latter. I’d judge her eating technique when it came to this sandwich could have best been improved with the judicious use of a sink plunger.

It was midway through this unedifying spectacle that her phone rang.

Let’s just say I can now understand the argument for windscreen wipers on the inside of the window.

Most of the “conversation” probably consisted of what could charitably described as grunted acknowledgements. The rest was loudly sprayed at the front window.

I assume from the little intelligible that could be determined, she was having an argument with her significant other. The one sentence I recall in all its terrifying glory was “I’m so fucking angry at you I’ve had to eat my lunch… “

I’m sure we’ve all felt that way at some time or another.

Somehow the impression I was left with was that that wasn’t the whole truth…

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