Halcyon Days

This is a trip down memory lane (the lane has subsequently been torn up and turned into a lovely water feature). For all the commuters who have it all to do again tomorrow.

Hell is the Number 22

There is a reason why Hell is the number 22. What it is not is the number of chromosomes a parent contributes to the start of human life. It is not the number of times Julius Caesar was stabbed or the number of Grand Masters of the Knights Templar. It is not the most commonly quoted prime number. It has nothing to do with Darwin’s 'Origin of the Species' or the Number of the Beast. It has nothing to do with the Birthday Paradox, William Burroughs or racial supremacy. It is not the average human physical biorhythm. It has nothing in common with Discordianism or September 11th. It has no other meaning to me apart from one. It is the number of the bus that I take to work each day and it is hell.

Bus stop politics is a cut-throat world. I never wanted to be a politician but I have little choice in the matter. Without being able to debate with my body, to push and to shove and cajole myself into the front of the queue, I would never get to work. In comparison to some I am a chivalrous gent. At least I queue in the first place; I take a place in line, I believe in this social order, common courtesy you may call it or self-sacrificing defeatism.

Not all are like me. Some, which is increasingly becoming most, don’t bother queuing at all. Instead they loiter, hovering around the front of the queue until the bus arrives and then dive on before everyone else. Once in a while someone pulls them up, heckles at them, even grabs them by the scruff of the neck and gives them a quick yank backwards. But most people are too polite or too scared or too busy playing commuter politics.

The number 22 is the commuter bus. The most frequent service in the city that runs every five minutes (or so the timetable would have you believe). It runs from the bottom of Leith all the way to the South Gyle and it takes in the breadth of the city on its way between the two. It travels through Princes Street, Lothian Road and beyond. It is my least favourite mode of transport of all time and that comes from a man who hates flying. It is hell.

Unlike the other 99% of the Edinburgh bus fleet, for some inexplicable reason the busiest bus route is maintained with single decker buses. So while I stand shivering at the side of the road watching empty 45's with their vacant top decks rumble by I can't help think why it is necessary to shoehorn myself onto the next available 22. Maybe it is penance for working in the industry that I do. It is my punishment for further perpetuating the status quo. What goes around comes around, unless it is a 22 bus which inevitably goes around and eventually comes around 10 minutes behind schedule and doesn't stop because it's already full. Maybe life is trying to tell me something. It is hell.