The Horror of the Bus

Today was a Sunday like any other. I woke up at twenty to nine, looked at the clock, and decided I could allow myself another hour or so. I eventually got up nearly two hours later.

Not a good start.

To make matters worse, the only reason I got up was because I was warned that the sealant in the bathtub, which doubles as a shower (the tub, not the sealant), was mouldy, and so if I wanted a shower that morning I had to get in there within a matter of seconds, otherwise I would have to wait. I considered this, thinking that perhaps it would be better to have a shower later once the issue of the mould had been obliterated and I didn't have to worry about airborne spores embedding themselves into my skin and leading to an extensive and disgusting fungal infection. However, I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to be meeting with Paul at around 1ish. Given the extent to which the mould had pervaded the sealant and the length of time solving this problem would take compared with the relatively little time I had left, I decided to risk the grossness of the mould and have a very quick shower. At first, all was well. I was singing some Gershwin to myself and just generally having a pleasant time. Then it came to shampooing my hair. A bit of mould fell from the shampoo bottle on to my chest. This was unpleasant in the extreme. It's probably one of the grossest things that has ever happened to me, although I got off reasonably lightly compared to what happened later.

Once I had got myself ready, I went downstairs and decided I had enough time for breakfast. I opted for waffles with maple syrup. They were delicious. I felt like I was living in an American sitcom. Life was good. This illusion was cruelly shattered when I went to leave the house, yelling to my mother (who was at this point in time scraping mould off the bathroom wall) that I was leaving. At this point, she pops her head out of the door and pointedly asks me, "Have you got any you-know-whats?". To you, dear reader, this seems perfectly innocent. She could have been asking me if I had money. She could have been asking me if I had any breath mints. She could even have been asking if I had any miniature Voldemort dolls. Unfortunately, I knew exactly what this highly undescriptive question meant.

She was asking me if I had any condoms.

Apparently I can't leave the house without my rubbery little friends.

I was going to see a friend who happened to be male, not scouting for business. I'm not a prostitute. If I leave the house without johnnies, so be it. I'm not going straight from my abode to someone's bed. Why do I need condoms? Feeling somewhat bemused, I nodded my head (I actually did have condoms, but didn't plan on using them, except maybe to make some balloons if Paul was being particularly boring) and left the house, wondering why she felt the need to ask this and feeling slightly hurt that my mother seems to regard me as some kind of streetwalker.

Anyway, I made my way to Paul's, getting slightly lost in the process, and subsequently mocked. We insulted each other, watched some TV, insulted each some more, watched some stand-up, ate chocolate buttons (I'd never had the giant ones before, but they own the little ones. I'm never buying small ones again) and did some other things that are probably best not talked about. We also gave each other a top five list of celebrities we would sleep with, given half a chance. Here is my list:

Clockwise from op left.: Bradley Cooper; Ben Stiller; James Marsden; Jared Leto; Benjamin Burnley. Best. Orgy. EVER.

After getting unceremoniously kicked out of Paul's house by the man himself at around twenty to six, I proceeded to make my way home by bus. This is where one of the most traumatically disgusting experiences of my life occurred. I am sat on the bus, minding my own business, when a man gets on, who was either blind, homeless or both, because what he was wearing was appalling. From the bottom up: navy blue embroidered women's house slippers; lilac socks; blue straight-cut jeans that were ankle-swinging by a good two inches, complete with braided silver belt; a too-tight knock-off England shirt; electric pink and black striped fingerless gloves; and a long brown ladies' coat with fur trim. Now, don't get me wrong - I can deal with homeless people. I've done charity work with homeless people. Homeless people don't bother me. The thing that offended me about this particular homeless man was the stench emanating from him.

Yes, ladies and gents, this man absolutely reeked of piss.

The overwhelming odour seeped from his every pore. It was all I could do not to gag as he walked past me. Luckily, he sat at the back of the bus (I would have been much happier if he'd sat upstairs, but beggars can't be choosers. No pun intended). It's okay, I thought to myself. I don't have much longer on this bus. I can cope.

Not so. For this misguided soul then decided to shut every window on the bus.

That's right. I was slowly being gassed by the fumes coming off this clearly incontinent fellow. At that moment I wanted to weep. What had I done to deserve this? I've led a good life. I've been pleasant to others. I've been charitable. I've even carried condoms when I don't need them. And yet here I was, sat aboard the same vehicle as a urine-soaked man with terrible dress sense. Life is not fair.

Luckily, the bus soon ground to a halt and with that I leapt off and swiftly made my way home. I took a last glance back at the man who had further lowered my opinion of public transport. And do you know where he was going? The off-license. NO!, I wanted to scream. Alcohol consumption is directly linked to pee production! I really do not think you need to be generating any more of that right now, because you know what, you stink!

Shuddering with ill-disguised disgust, I went home to my mother and proceeded to recount my sorry tale. The response I got when I told her about the shutting of the windows shows just how little she understands these things. "Maybe he was cold", she suggested. I gave her my most withering look. "Mother," I said. "It is inconceivably hot today. I was marinading in my own sweat. And he was wearing a winter coat. I seriously doubt he was a bit chilly. It was an attempt on my life. I was being gassed to death with piss. Forget mustard gas, forget chlorine - if you're really intent on gassing someone, pickle yourself in your own pee and stand close to the intended target, ensuring you have sealed off all access to clean, unpolluted air. They will either suffocate or slash their own wrists in an effort to escape the nostril inavsion. That's the way to get 'em."

Instead of the sympathy I so clearly deserved, she rolled her eyes and went back to watching 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory'. What did I do to be treated with such a lack of concern? I reckon it had something to do with those rubbers...