Well, it was easy to decide on my next subject matter. If Switzerland is the delicious filling in this sandwich of blogs, and the bread on the other side is my moan about the trains, then it’s only fitting to now close this open sandwich with another tale of the British transport system leaving me in a rage.
National Express. I booked the 3pm bus but happened to get there in time for the 2.30pm. I watched everyone board and saw that it wasn’t even half full, so asked the driver if he’d mind my getting the earlier.
Heavens no, it would seem my suggestion was absurd. Was I really asking that he mess with the system?
Why is this country so obsessed with paperwork and rules? In Malaysia there’d be no such protest. I wouldn’t even have a ticket there and it would be fine for me to travel sitting on someone's lap carrying a pet chicken. They ride entire families on mopeds out there, but that's not relevant.
No, madam, he says inspecting my ticket, you’re booked on the 3pm.
I know. I was hoping to get on that empty bus right there that’s going where I want to go right now. Why can’t I get on?
Because you’re booked on the 3pm madam.
Of course. I return to the waiting room in a rage and sit down in a huff. A kindly operative comes and sits with me to explain how the man I asked was in fact the manager and can’t possibly turn a blind eye.
I’d turn his eyes blind with my evil stare if I could, I tell him. That makes the guy laugh. He obviously hates his boss as much as I do. Suddenly I feel better.
"The composition of my soul is made, too great for servile, avaricious trade.
When raving in the lunacy of ink, I catch my pen and publish what I think."
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