Growing Old 'Gracefully'

This afternoon, I enjoyed the pleasure of riding on a bus. To the student with no other means of transport, maybe you will understand my excitement at public transport. My only other way of mobilising myself is via my vintage pushbike, sprayed multi-colour to disguise the various dents and patches of rust. My flatmate has a car, as I'm told every home in England must have one - but it really is a car in the most loose sense of the word. Unfortunately, when I am being led through the various technical problems of the vehicle taking up our parking-space, I have a nasty habit of humming absently in my head and staring at a point over my flatmate's left shoulder. Hence, all I know is that the handbrake rattles loudly, merely to irritate me. Something under the bonnet gives off a powerful smell of rotten eggs when we drive, meaning that we spend a lot of time on the side of the road with the bonnet propped up, while the insides get a bit of a rest. Other (I'm told 'minor') issues include: the glove compartment initially refused to open, and now, after a bit of screwdriver-damage, fails to shut. The boot also denies us entry. The tyres deflate one after the other, despite much usage of foot-pumps. The car, similar to my bicycle, is an OAP masquerading as a spritely youth, and it's fooling nobody.

So back to the journey. I was venturing to the hospital, where a b.e.a.utiful Doctor-man examined my feet and generally pulled them at many different angles. The bus-ride there was rather unexciting, apart from a point where I realised I had no idea where my stop would be, and so thought it was acceptable to ask a fellow passenger. Whereas in my native-land of Lincolnshire, eye-contact on a bus usually results in a conversation lasting the entire journey, and sometimes further, it seems the North-East rules are marginally different. I selected the one person not speaking to themselves/the conductor/the window/their handbag, and was perfectly polite. But it seems that the bus etiquette means that even if you fear you are in a different county to the one intended, you must suffer in silence and pretend that all is well. The lady in question spoke in an entirely alien language with lots of mumblings (Geordie) and kept talking about a place called Blakelaw, which I KNEW was no where near where I needed to be.

The journey back was far more exciting. Chock full of pre-pubescent school kids, high on the summer heat and Mars Bars, they made me and my friend feel very, very old. We sat awkwardly among them, knowing that we would never be that young again, with yoghurt spilled down the front of their purple jumpers (although, in my friend's case, if he did like yoghurt, it would probably be all over his clothes). The bus stopped at every single stop along one stretch of road, to save their tiny little legs. One girl, the popular loudmouth, even dared to casually mock us in an American accent (my friend is New York-ean) - whereas a few years ago I would have come up with something witty and cutting to fire back, I was only able to smile benignly. This is because, in the process of leaving school-uniform behind, I have become the rusty bicycle.

The final humiliation of the journey was the approaching-of-my-stop. Now I really do get irritated at the very old people who insist on standing up before their bus-stop is even in view, and in the process of making sure they get to the front, dropping all of their bags, showing their pants, falling on the floor and generally making an entire spectacle of themselves. There is, for their protection, a SIGN affixed to the front of the bus, INSTRUCTING them to 'remain seated until the bus stops'. My grandparents are very into 'the rules', and what is and is not allowed - thus, I can only assume that OAP bus-frequenters are rebelling against the obedience system. Nevertheless, I found myself getting excited when I knew I was near home. And while the bus was still accelerating to frighten an innocent cyclist, I was struggling down the bus steps (yes I had sat on the top floor), because I was certain that the bus driver was planning to sail right past my stop. I should mention that I had actually pressed the bell, but I still am not convinced that they really work for the top level. This resulted in the bus driver braking forcefully whilst I was half-way down the steps, clutching two shopping bags - I ended up doing a spectacularly undignified half pirouette, and almost collapsing into the lap of the old lady on the ground floor. Even though I'm told buses are fitted with cameras nowadays for our personal safety, I truly believe the bus-driver wanted to cause me ultimate pain and humiliation, but I still thanked him because I am English and thus explode if I am not formal and polite at all times.

I think that today was a taster of the rest of my life - I could no longer associate with the young girl on the bus which saddens me, because this year I will be 20 and that signals to me a great fall into the depths of old age. Instead, I am condemned to hospital appointments to assess the state of my ankles and embarrassing falls on buses. It could be worse though...I could be subjected to the 'noise those kids call music nowadays'. Now I remember when Steps were king of the pop scene...