A tale of a bus ride.
I had to go into London today for a hospital appointment and thought I’d seize the chance to also exchange a pair of boots I’d bought. Actually it wasn’t really an exchange, it was more a return to get a refund to buy them again using a gift voucher I’d been given as a birthday gift which I hadn’t been able to use when I paid originally as it was a telephone transaction. Phew! I managed to get that out in one breath (albeit written)!
Anyway I drove into North West London and parked at Brent Cross shopping centre. I got there too early to do my convoluted exchange/refund and since my appointment wasn’t till 10.40am, I decided to take a bus to Belsize Park. I had a novel with me and thought I’d use the rare opportunity to polish off a few chapters.
I got so caught up in the story I was reading (which I would highly recommend, Francine Rivers’ latest delivery in form of a duo, ‘Her mother’s hope’ and ‘Her daughter’s dream’) by the time I looked up, we were at Finchley Road Station.
Not having been on a London bus in years and particularly never on the C11, I had no idea what route it would take to get to my destination and panicked for a few good seconds that we’d gone right past my stop. So I asked a gentleman behind me if we had and reassured me we hadn’t.
I decided it would be in my best interest to stop reading and watch out for the right stop. It was at this point I noticed what a job the bus drivers have manoeuvring the already narrow streets of London narrowed further still by double-parked cars, delivery lorries loading and off-loading their goods and the scourge of road works. We drove down several back streets and all these obstacles stretched the journey longer than it should have taken.
The minutes, which had seemed plentiful when we first set out, were ticking past so quickly I started to get concerned I would be late. To my great relief, we arrived at my stop exactly six minutes to the time for my appointment. The hospital was a 3 minute walk from the bus stop and I would still have to get through the revolving doors, walk past the lobby, get the lift to the first floor and navigate a series of long corridors to get where I needed. The very thought of coming all this way only to miss my appointment injected some much-needed strength into my legs and I ran. Well it was more a cross between a sprint and a tiptoed jog! However my technique was inconsequential, the important thing was it yielded the required result; I made it.
So what’s the point of this narrative? None, really. I just wanted to tell you about my day. Well the first part of it anyway.
Hope you’ve enjoyed reading it.
Tara for now