I was sitting on the top deck of the 388- an irregular but handy little number that takes me from Blackfriars to Shoreditch. Its often deserted and so I like to go to the top deck, sit at the front and pretend I am king of the bus, I will occasionally whisper under my breath as I take up my new found office 'Ahhh king of the bus'. When it's sunny I can shut my eyes, prop my feet up on the shelf and bask in the glory of my kingdom.
The bus neared its destination and I noticed it was on diversion, the traffic had been horrendous and I thought I better make a dash for the next stop before it went off piste. There was a red light and there, I thought, was my chance to get down the stairs. I picked up my bag, and abdicated my throne. I stepped onto the top step- it was going well and then onto the second- ha this is easy- I was,after all, until a few moments earlier king of the bus, going down stairs should be easy for someone like me. And then The bus jolted forward. I lost my grip, my shoulder ricocheted hard on to the wall and some how I spun round on my heel making me fall backwards. I was not gracefully gliding down these stars I was crashing and bouncing and swearing. My back smashed against the wall at the bottom and propelled me to the ground as if I had been wrestled by some invisible assailant. It seemed to happen embarrassingly slowly and I found my self lying on the lower deck, on my back wondering if I was broken.
Surely someone is going to help me. Perhaps there is no one on the bus. But then I heard a hearty laugh. From a man. with a WALKING STICK. Men with walking sticks shouldn't laugh at people falling over. But then I surmised that perhaps this was sweet revenge and he looked a bit mad- so I left him to his amusement. Until he laughed again and nodded at me. There was no hand to help me up, no 'are you ok?' just a gentle mocking laughter as if he had been watching a fat person falling over whilst eating a cake. It was the morning of April 1st, perhaps this man took me for a fool
The walking stick clearly wasn't going to come to my aid but surely someone else might. I assumed that the bus was empty until I turned to the backseats, which were full. Of mostly middle class looking women. Staring. At me, me clearly in pain sprawled indelicately across the floor. And not one of them helped me or asked if I was ok, they just watched me, as if I was on television. One women made a half hearted attempt-she half stood up out of her seat before she decided, actually no, she wouldn't. Which I think is worse some how; to think of helping, to show willing but not commitment.
C****S
As it transpired I was left unscathed but for a disappointing bruise and a slightly pathetic limp-that looks fake.
I've no idea why they didn't help. Maybe they didn't like the fact that I'd been king of the bus. Pride does come before a fall they say- except the other day when I got confused and said pride after a fall-which of course makes no sense- but I think is a sentiment not without merit.
I ought to add that when I regaled my friend at work with this tale she said
"Oh my god, thats awful, and have you hurt your face?" SHe pointed at my chin.
"No" I said quietly "Thats a spot"
Embarrassed silence.
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