On the bus, Peckham

I was on the bus going to work in the last of my child protection days. The bus was chugging along the high street. It may have been raining. It may have been dry. The skies were grey. Or possibly blue. There was definitely weather outside even if I now am unable to recall it's exact flavour. The bus was full of women ignoring their bored children, then wondering why they were so badly behaved; art-students expressing their individuality by dyeing their hair the same shade of blue, wearing black nail varnish and something stonewashed and people trying to get to court hearings for various reasons.

The obligatory Jesus-lover hummed loudly to herself in righteous oblivion, presumably intending to covert us through her heavenly voice. When I pointed out to her that she was in fact, humming extremely loudly and did she realise that she was actually singing to herself? She said angrily, “I’m singing for Jesus.” Yes, but it’s quite inconsiderate I said. What would Jesus do on a crowded bus, hmm? Do you think he would sing whatever he wanted to sing as loudly as he wanted to sing it just because he was Jesus? Predictably, she retaliated by singing even louder. A few chuckles ruffled around the bus.

It was definitely going to be one of those days. In Peckham, sometimes several of those days hit you all at once.

The bus slowed to a stop. Doors whinged open. People blipped their oyster cards and made their way down the bus, closing their umbrellas (it must have started to rain by then), dripping onto other passengers and squishing into any space they could find.

There was a commotion at the front of the bus. The bus-driver was saying to someone, “Yes, this is the right bus for...” but the someone he was talking to was highly agitated and was making shouty, barking noises at the bus-driver who gave up trying to communicate. The bus slowly moved off, limited by the heavy traffic. The man made his way down the bus shouting and barking at his surroundings, asking if he was on the right bus for the DSS. He was a tall, black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks which swung around his head in a syncopated rhythm as he manoeuvered his way towards the middle of the bus. People moved to let him pass and watched him – some warily, many with sympathy.

He was still seeking confirmation that he was on the right bus and although several had tried to give it, without success, I thought it might be fun to have a go as well.

I started to say, "excuse me. Yes, you are on the right bus for..” but he had pressed the emergency stop button and the doors screeched open. As he descended into the road he stopped shouting and barking for a few lucid seconds to proclaim pointedly to me, "you’re a whore,” after which he disappeared into the traffic.

The doors squealed shut behind him. The entire ground floor of the bus turned towards me, taking in my whorish apparel of long, black skirt, shirt, slight heels, jacket and gloves. I was going to court that day. I smiled and shrugged, spreading my hands, “evidently this man is unwell” – the bus passengers murmured their agreement (hopefully to the man being unwell, not to my being a whore) – and we continued along the road without further incident.

Later I recounted the story to friends. When I reached the part where I said, “evidently this man is unwell,” one chipped in with, “but I am in fact, a whore” which would have been a much funnier ending to this story had I had the wit at the time to heckle, but as it turns out, it can be quite challenging to come up with comedy when being accused of whoring oneself before 9am.

I spent the rest of my time in Peckham hoping that another crazy, black man would get onto my bus and accuse me of being an evening entrepreneur just so that I could say to the passengers on the bus, “evidently this man is unwell. But I am in fact a whore" and enjoy the reaction.

Sadly there's never a crazy-black man around when you want one.