My bike is at the local bike shop for a couple of days, so I’m back on the bus – the 43. Forgive me then if I return to an old habit.

Now I’m back on the top deck and looking at bald-spots. I see cyclists in yellow jackets wizz past. I wonder if I’ll see me. Probable not (I’m on the bus, you see).

Someone sits down right in front of me, when there are plenty of other seats available. Sure, it’s fine for him, but he doesn’t have to have someone’s dandruff spoiling his view for the rest of the journey.

A young girl sports a bob the builder helmet as she is hurried past us by her mother at a skip and stumble pace. The bus pauses for a few moments (just for a rest, it seems – no one gets on or off).

At the big new Fallowfield bus stop there is battalion of transport officers in yellow hi-viz jackets – there to manage the otherwise orderless sprawl of buses and students- but it’s not so busy now so they stand around and talk. They are all about the same age and shape with the same amount of hair, like bus-controller Lego men that have all come from the same packet.

It’s not so bad, this bus riding thing. Warmer, at least, but the air smells mildly of cigarettes and curry.

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