The Bus Stop

Typical. I picked a bus stop with no shelter. And the rain started to fall. Me and an old bloke stood there like hopeful lemons. 

—This is shite, he said. 

—It is, yeah.

—They never get ‘ere on time. 

—Balls. Don’t they? 

—Nope. It’s all them roadworks on Clifford Bridge Road. 

—Ah yeah. 

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then the old guy spoke again. 

—She’s dying I reckon. 

—Er, who? 

—Me missus. I’m going to see ‘er. 

—Ah. Sorry to ‘ear that. She in a care ‘ome? 

—Yeah. 

—What have the doctors said? 

—It’s what they don’t say, innit? 

—Ah yeah. That’s true. 

—Where you going if the damn bus ever comes? 

—I’m going to a job interview. 

—You not working then? 

–Yeah, but I’m getting laid off. Restructuring is what they call it. 

—That’s bollocks. 

—It is. And I’m getting a bit old to find new work. 

—Yeah, that’s what ‘appened to me. I needed a bit of time to look after me missus. Next thing I knew? They laid me off. 

—Ah, sorry to ‘ear that. That’s rubbish. 

–Ta. Oh, ‘old up…

—Ah yeah, that’s our bus, I think. 

—‘Bout time. This rain is doing me ‘ead in.