A woman gets on the bus

no, not an incredibly sexist joke

Victoria, the starting point of the homeward leg:
The woman got on the bus and, in heavily-accented Eastern-European English said to the driver, ‘A single to Oxford Street please.’

‘We don’t go to Oxford Street, we go to Oxford.’

‘Yes. A single please.’

‘Where to?’

‘Oxford Street.’

This had all of the hallmarks of turning in to an episode of comedy gold, but sadly some interfering old busybody kind soul who was already on the bus walked up to the woman and addressed her in her own language. I assume the conversation went something like this:

‘Look Tovarisch me old mucker, the driver wasn’t dealing you some bull, we really don’t go to Oxford Street in London. We go to the city of Oxford in Oxfordshire which is a fucking hugely long way outside of London. It’s so far outside London the place is surrounded by cows and fields and shit. If you want to go to Oxford Street you need to walk down there a bit and get a different bus. If you want to go to the city of Oxford and stare at the many magnificent bosoms that are on display on fine, sunny days, then just get on this one. OK?’

Evidently it was not OK because the Babushka got off.

But the ‘going home’ anecdote doesn’t end there.

Grosvenor Gardens, the second stop:
The woman got on the bus but the driver stopped her straight away.

‘You can’t bring hot food on the bus. You’ve got a McDonalds bag and that’s not allowed.’

‘But I want to bring my food on.’

‘You can’t. You either have to put it in the boot or catch the next bus.’

‘Can I put it in the bin?’

‘Yes’.

She made a move forwards.

‘You have to put it in the bin out there, not the bin on the bus.’

‘What?’

‘Put it in the bin out there or catch the next bus. It’s a company rule, no hot food allowed on the bus.’

The woman walked out to the bus stop and fumbled around then walked back.

‘You’re not getting on the bus. I saw you in my mirror; you’ve just put the bag of hot food in your handbag.’

‘I didn’t!’ she said with maximum indignation and outrage.

‘Right, well come here and I’ll have a look in your handbag when you get your purse out to pay me.’

‘Oh please. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since 8 o’clock this morning.’

‘You’ll have to catch the next bus then’.

‘Eat my shit.’

And with that parting comment straight out of the Emily Post book of etiquette, our charming, would-be mobile food nosher stomped off the bus over to a wall against which she leant while she extracted the bag of illicit hot food from her handbag and bit, angrily, in to her burger which she chewed venomously.

And do you know what I say?

I say Well Done to the driver for holding his ground and for not letting her browbeat him in to submission. Well Done Mr Oxford Tube driver.

Mind you, this rather triumphant exchange took on a nasty flavour at Hillingdon where a passenger got on, paid and took their seat clutching a bag of hot food from Burger King.

I do wonder if the change in the driver’s attitude is anything to do with the difference in passengers.

The first person was short, female, black and in her 50s. The second person was tall, well-built, male, shaven-headed, broken-nosed and in his 20s.

Now who are you sneering at? Yeah, me too.