What is the deal with bus drivers? As I was waiting for the 242 this morning, I watched as a young guy with a heavy rucksack ran towards the stop as his bus - the 38 - approached and drove away. I am convinced that the driver saw him and yet, he didn't stop. I mean, honestly... what goes through their heads? Of course, it's not the first time that I've seen it - the bus comes along, you can see the stop and you're running, running, running... and, despite the fact that the driver can see you in his mirror, he just drives on. He might as well blow you a kiss and flick you a V-sign. And if the bus is half-empty, it adds insult to injury.
Some - not all, but too many - bus drivers in London are bloody mean-spirited. Credit where it is due - it can't be an easy job - you get cut up by cars, you've got to navigate roadworks, you take verbal abuse from difficult passengers and 'attitude' from ticket-less kids who expect a free ride - but it is their job to stop and pick us up.
Fortunately, the backpacker didn't have to wait too long for another 38 - and when my 242 arrived, I immediately regretted boarding it. It sounded like a mobile hospital ward, and I was stuck infront of some coughing, sneezing, phlegm-swallowing maniac. I moved away as soon as the top deck thinned out at Liverpool Street station, but I woudn't be surprised if I've caught something from the dirty swine.
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