excerpt from “swansea terminal” by robert lewis

People thought he was very funny for the first five minutes. Outside Oxwich he harassed a geriatric in a Peugeot estate until he drove into a hedge and they applauded. But they were all very quiet by the time we got to town. As a matter of fact the guy opposite me called him a fucking idiot: we’d had five near-shunts by the time we’d got to Uplands. He spent half his driving time reading from a laminated sheet of route stops, and the other half on his hands free, moaning to some sympathetic or hapless woman about how he’d really had enough today. He made driving a bus look like something the equivalent of running a hospital single-handed. A living rebuttal of the maxim that if you want something done, you should ask a busy person, he could have looked busy standing alone in a darkened room. A one-man trade union, was what he was, membership and executive all rolled into one, making up the constitution as he went along, feeding off the traditional unity between yourself and whatever it is you think you want at the time. It’s the only kind of solidarity you see these days.


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