Humanity back from the brink

Route 44 (56 minutes)

It’s just one bus today, but that at least is one more than has been possible lately. Blame the rota man at work, but this is my first outing for a while and I’m now behind the run-rate if I wish to finish by May 1 2012.

My return is on the 44, a double-decker from Tooting to Victoria, where I am then to navigate the officialdom and security of the passport office to apply for a new one. It’s expired you see and while I’m not going abroad any time soon, tedious solicitors want to see it prove I am who I am ahead of any proposed house move. Christ, that might be the dullest sentence I’ve ever typed.

That is not an invitation to find better examples.

Anyway, look, it’s not summer anymore. Gone are the halcyon days of summer 09, when I was in the first flush of exuberance, the days were long and warm and the Australians were getting a beating. Now, at 2.30pm, the sun is already sliding down, casting an odd, amber light upon the city, which throws up long, ominous shadows of its own.

Still, winter should bring some new sights, with perhaps even a nice sunset or two.

The 44 would normally be full of schoolkids at this time as it wanders through Earlsfield towards Wandsworth, but this is half-term so instead I have five terribly, terribly lovely university students for company around me, discussing raves and skiing and horses, all of which are apparently insane. There is talk about a ritual involving setting fire to childrens’ backs and I’m not sure if they are talking about they’re private lives or Harry Potter.

They leave somewhere near Battersea, to be replaced by the matriarch from Hell, who lumbers up the stairs with her five petrified kids.

She instructs the youngest – I estimate about five years old – to sit next to me and he looks up at me with sad, nervous eyes. I smile back but am suitably chastened by the mother who glares at me as though I should be on the register. The kids daren’t move and look straight ahead as they sit in silence, all the fun in the world sucked from their young lives.

Two girls, who are sat slightly further back, then start ‘chattin’ shit’. They appear to be talking to someone on the other end of the phone.

‘She’s chattin’ shit mate. She loves you,’ says Whiny.

‘I ain’t chattin’ shit. It’s over,’ replies Screechy.

“She is chattin’ shit’

‘I ain’t chattin’ shit’

‘You are so chattin’ shit it ain’t true’

‘Man, that’s shit. I ain’t chattin’ shit.’

This continues for some time. To paraphrase Malcolm Tucker, ‘they are so dense that light bends around them’.

My third set of neighbours join me just before crossing Chelsea Bridge. They are three kids for whom the world remains a wonderful adventure.

‘We’re higher than that traffic light’, says one.

‘Yeah, but do you think we’re higher than that building?’ replies her sister.

‘Just shut up for a minute will you,’ interjects the mother.

It’s true, they should make it easier to give birth but harder to conceive. Either that or insist on some sort of entrance exam for parents. Still, it’s been enlightening and we are soon in Victoria.

I hop off and head straight for the passport office. In a shocking turn of events I have filled out all of the forms correctly and have the correct documents in my possession. Even more surprising, the man behind the desk is both helpful and polite and my faith in humanity, shaken after the last hour or so, is dutifully restored.

A gentle re-introduction to the buses then; three more to come on Tuesday.