I had to catch a bus the other day. I haven't had to catch the peasant wagon for years and it's not something I would recommend but my Dearly Beloved needed the car. I could have cycled to work but I was too lazy and I could have caught a cab but I was too tight to pay for it. The bus stop in the city centre is a short walk from where I work and it's a direct route almost to my front door so it seemed straight forward. My naivety of public transport had lulled me into a false sense of security and I'm sure you can tell where this is going.
I left work and wandered up to the bus stop via W H Smiths to discover I had missed my first bus by five minutes. They run every half an hour so I mooched round the shops for another twenty minutes before returning to the bus stop.
There is nowhere quite as bleak as a bus-stop on a cold, wet day and my fellow passengers looked dejected and miserable. We waited and then we waited some more. Buses to other destinations came and went with annoying frequency but our transport failed to show up. It finally arrived half an hour late.
The disgruntled passengers and I boarded without a word of explanation or apology from the driver or the two employees in company jackets standing on the bus. I presume they were there to eject anyone who complained or cut up rough. Due to the delay the bus was packed and consequently had to stop at every request stop on route. I can drive home from work in under ten minutes, I can cycle it in twenty minutes and I can walk it in an hour. My bus journey took an hour and a half. That will teach me for being tight and lazy.
There are some strange people who take public transport. I once knew a girl who recounted a story about travelling home on a bus one day with a fellow sat behind her who made her uneasy. All the way home she felt an slight tugging the back of her cardigan. She finally got off the bus much to her relief and hurried home to find the back of her cardigan had been slit open with a knife.
Dearly Beloved and I often catch buses when we go on holiday as a way of visiting the larger towns and travelling the country side. The buses abroad are much like the buses here except the weather and the view from the windows are much nicer. We once visited a bus garage in a busy town in Crete where they could have taught our local bus company a thing or two. None of the buses seemed to be marked with numbers or destination so we had to play ' guess the bus'. If you got it wrong the staff shouted at you and wildly gesticulated in no particular direction. I am pleased to say they seemed to treat the locals with the same level of contempt.
My middle son who catches buses regularly says no-shows and late arrivals are a daily occurrence. I'm surprised the company can treat people with such contempt and get away with it but that's what happens when you have a monopoly. At least I don't have to rely on public transport unlike many people. It's no wonder people at bus stops look so dismal.
I am a wood elf. I travel the world scavenging for things that might be useful or that I can sell. I have to kill various animals, people and undead creatures in my line of work and I'm especially skilful at killing dragons. It's not my day job though.
I have recently had a birthday and received many interesting and useful presents. One of which was a new game for my Xbox and I don't know whether to curse or cheer about it. The problem is that I get carried away playing it at the expense of more worthy pursuits, like painting the kitchen ceiling.
There are two camps of people, those who play computer games and those who don't understand the attraction. I have always had a vivid imagination with a particular slant towards fantasy and adventure and if these games had been around when I was young, I would have been one of those reclusive teenagers who seldom leave the bedroom.
I've played several games over the years and every time I finish one I promise to get myself a life. I have been known to switch it on early evening and still be beavering away killing zombies when the sun comes up. It's all so pointless.
Most women are in the 'don't get it' camp including my dearly beloved. She was seriously tickled when she discovered I was a wood elf, the ribbing has been merciless. Even I have to admit it's ridiculous. I don't find it relaxing because it's so intense and frustrating and I feel guilty about the wasted time. Then there's the lethal combination of game and alcohol. I wake up with a hangover and can't even remember what happened in my alternative world.
I shall try and resist the pull of the thing but it's hard, I think I'm addicted. Perhaps there's a self-help group I can join. I've tried to ration myself to an hour a day but there's always just another little bit you need to finish, then another, then another. Devious bastards those game designers.
You're only as old as you feel, they say. Age is just a number, they say. I know people in their seventies who haven't grown up and I know people in their twenties who seem to have been born straight into middle age with all the cares of the world on their shoulders'. Personally, I think I'm about 26.
Last week, I went out with some good friends of mine. By pure fluke we started off in the pub where I used to hang out with my punk rocker buddies back in the 70s and were I had my first pint. The pub had hardly changed in the thirty years since I last darkened its doorstep and the memories came flooding back. After a while I went to the bar for another round and was just about to launch into my reminisces with the pretty, young barmaid when I managed to stop myself. It's the classic old man's mistake. On no planet in the known universe is a young girl interested in the ramblings of an old drunk talking about a time before she was born. I still think I'm 26 but clearly, if you can remember a time when you could get three pints for a quid this can't be the case.
I've had a go at growing old gracefully and acting my age but, when push comes to shove, I would rather be in the pub than the garden (unless it's a pub garden). I have tried to take finances and wearing beige more seriously but I find it all a bit dull. I'm in robust health so have no hospital stories to swap or ailments to complain about. I still use the term granddad in a derogatory fashion when roundly cursing other car drivers whilst conveniently forgetting I am a granddad myself.
The only thing that reminds me of my age is the mirror. Just like Dorian Gray I remain young while the face looking back at me gets older. Therefore, the point is, I might think I am 26 years old but the rest of the world knows I'm a delusional old git.
One of the definitions of a religion is; a particular system of belief or worship. There's a group of people who fall under this definition but who are not a recognised religion. There are certainly more of them than there are people claiming to be Jedi. No-one has done a head count but there are probably more adherents to this sect worldwide than regular Church of England worshipers. This sect is known to the wider world as Elvis fans.
They have many similarities with other organised religions. There is a central figure who they believe to be the one and only true deity. He inspires a devotion that bears no truck with any suggestion that Elvis is not the king of rock and roll. They gather together to worship in dusty, backwater pubs by listening to Elvis' music on the juke box. They are easily identifiable by the dodgy hairdos that resemble quiffs and strangely dated outfits and, like most religions, is more popular with the older generation than the younger.
All religions have a place of pilgrimage and Graceland stands as a gathering spot for people the world over. Like most religions they have worldwide gatherings to meet up and celebrate his life where they choose the best impersonator. The big event in Europe is at the Birmingham Metropole in January 2014 if you're interested.
Of course, no one has claimed that Elvis created the universe but the Buddhists and Jedi don't have anything to say about it either. Elvis isn't going to answer any prayers but perhaps his music has helped people in that indefinable way that having a strong faith does. The Question is what the followers would call themselves, Presleyites. Elvishists? Answers on a postcard please.
Dearly Beloved and I often catch buses when we go on holiday as a way of visiting the larger towns and travelling the country side. The buses abroad are much like the buses here except the weather and the view from the windows are much nicer. We once visited a bus garage in a busy town in Crete where they could have taught our local bus company a thing or two. None of the buses seemed to be marked with numbers or destination so we had to play ' guess the bus'. If you got it wrong the staff shouted at you and wildly gesticulated in no particular direction. I am pleased to say they seemed to treat the locals with the same level of contempt. 
