Sammy’s parting gift. Getting to Dr. Temple’s office involved a bus journey into town and then a short walk.
My travel pass had expired, and it was symptomatic of my general feeling of Weltschmerz, of anomie, that I hadn’t even bothered to renew it last week.
Marianne. Everything else was just trivia.
I dropped two pounds into the driver’s slot, caring not one whit that it bore an ugly sticker saying No Change Given,
and that I had therefore needlessly sacrificed twenty pence.
Who gave a fig about twenty pence, when it came down to it?
All of the seats already had an occupant, which meant I was going to have to position myself next to a stranger.
In a different mood, I enjoyed this game: one had ten seconds to scan the occupants
and select the slimmest, sanest, cleanest-looking person to sit next to.
Choose wrongly, and the fifteen-minute journey into town would be a much less pleasant experience—
either squashed beside a sprawling fatty, or mouth-breathing to minimize the penetration of the reek emanating from an unwashed body.
Such was the excitement of traveling on public transport.
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