I like buses. They turn up occasionally. They get me where I need to go, eventually.
The payment system is simple enough. You wave your card at the little box like a confused magician until something beeps. Fine.
It’s not the person who puts their bag on the seat next to them. They treat it like a small, exhausted dog that needs its own space.
It’s not even the genius eating a full English breakfast sandwich or a bowl of curry at 8:47am. They shed flakes of pastry like emotional dandruff across the aisle.
No. The real enemy is the seats themselves.
In theory, they’re seats. In practice, they’re a cruel test for your joints. First you must contort. You fold yourself into the microscopic gap between your seat and the one in front, like a pensioner attempting the Kama Sutra.
Once you’re in, you dislocate both knees. This is non-negotiable. Your legs must occupy a space that physics insists does not exist.
And then—this is the important bit—you must remain still. They didn’t build these seats for comfort. They built them to pack passengers in and strip away your dignity. Move an inch and you’ll either nut the person in front or give the person next to you an unwanted lap dance.
If you’re not a contortionist or a yoga influencer, you have two options.
You can stand. You cling for dear life to a vertical pole that feels specially greased for the occasion. Or—and I admit this is the radical solution—you walk.
It’s quicker anyway.