As a rule, I don't run for the bus. When I walk down my road to the bus stop, I always see the bus going past just when I am within running distance to catch it. And I always think, shall I run? But I don't. Why should I run? I mean, I'm inevitably late anyway (perhaps a change in thinking is in order?)
Last night after Mos' surprise birthday party in Oxford (not convinced he was actually surprised, but wonderful fun nonetheless) I got the OxTube back to London and was walking down New Oxford Street at about 3am. I was about 300 yards from my bus stop when I saw the N8 zoom past me. Dang it, I thought, I'm gonna have to wait half-an-hour for the next one. Then, I don't know what happened, but my legs started moving. Really fast. Some might even call it a run. Hahaha, yes, I ran for the bus. And I caught it! It was amazing, I felt like I was flying. Admittedly I was a bit drunk (after only a few drinks, shockingly lightweight!) and I am a big fan of my new K-Swiss. But still, whizzing down that pavement was remarkably liberating. I am much better at running for a reason.
The bus was completely packed and full of chatter all the way home. It was lovely to see all these different groups of people from all over the world, sharing this delightful night-bus journey home. I felt as though we were a little community, brought together by chance. What else will we ever have in common apart from that one journey home together?
Mouche, thank you for the wonderful definitions. I like carapace the best, I think I may invest in one for myself. And yes, you need to blag your way out of work so that we can all go up on Friday night and provide the new Furies with a suitable source of hangover.
Sprouts and MePij, hope all is well.
Jade, I have learnt to play Silent Night on the piano! How exciting!
And finally Rob, if you're reading this, so lovely to see you and Francesca on Saturday, The Three Goats Head is def on my list, so thank you.
