I had a Heals gift voucher so yesterday I took the 134 bus into Gower Street, next to Tottenham Court Road. The plan was to buy a posh bowl for the cat that lives in our house but doesn’t belong to us. Of course, as every reluctant shopper knows, if you have a specific idea of what you want, you’ll never find it, and so it came to pass; nobody on Tottenham Court Road sells cat bowls anymore. Presumably it’s a recession thing – cats having to cut back on their luxuries – but who knew?
I have spent most of my life travelling on public transport. If I look back, I can actually pinpoint key moments to specific bus routes: the first day of school, for example, and, not long afterwards, my first time sitting next to a boy. Much later, I progressed to the back seat and taught myself to flirt – nothing seedy, I hasten to add, just glances and sneaky smiles.
On that same bus, I travelled to my first ever date. He was called Peter and we’d spoken for about thirty seconds at an inter-school dance after spending several hours making eye contact. He’s looking at you, my friend kept saying. Is he? I wasn’t sure, or I acted like I wasn’t sure, but he definitely was and as the dance was closing up, he rushed over to give me a quick interview. Name? Age? Phone number? I answered breathlessly, my mind in a whirl, exaggerating only slightly on the age issue – I needed to be thirteen because I knew there was no way he’d be interested in a twelve year old, which is what I was. I added three months and kept my fingers crossed.
He rang the next day and we arranged to meet at the cinema. I don’t remember much about the film – I spent the entire time sending thought messages. Put your arm around me. Put your arm around me. Finally, he did and I watched the closing credits in ecstasy. Afterwards, he walked me to the bus stop and gave me a quick, exploratory kiss and left. I boarded, tingling and excited, desperate to tell someone, anyone, apart from my parents. I didn’t have a mobile phone – at that point in their technological history, they’d probably have been too big to fit on a bus – but in any case, although I would probably have rung my friend immediately to crow, I’d have been too shy to share the juicy details in public and so would have waited, as I did back then, to get home. I can still see myself on that bus ride: eyes bright and impatient as I looked out the window, noticing how everything seemed different, more pedestrian somehow, while I sat, glowing and apart from it all.
As it turned out, I never saw Peter again – someone told him I was a liar and that he by definition was a paedophile. He was fifteen so wasn’t quite, but he was furious. My father and sister were in the room when he called. We were all expecting the Follow Up so it was a shock to get this angry lecture instead. I hung up, devastated, and started to cry. Dad said never mind, there’ll be others, and looked unnerved as he realized. My sister, unusually, was quiet. No doubt she was absorbing the perils of the dating business, having now seen some of them firsthand. We were taken out roller-skating to compensate, but it
still took me almost the whole afternoon to get over Peter. So much for that particular bus route.
On the 134, two separate groups of girls boarded on Archway Road. They had different ethnicities, but the frisson was the same – they were going to Camden markets and, I could tell from the way they kept adjusting their hair and hijabs (depending on the group), it wasn’t just for the shopping. Put it this way, at least two would have nudged their ages up if they had to.
At Heals, having failed on the cat bowl, I scouted for items of less or equal value to my voucher. I came home with a silver frame, practically the only thing I could find. It’s still in its bag on the kitchen counter, such is its usefulness, and the cat that lives in our house but doesn’t belong to us is making do with a saucer. That is until the next adventure…
Kate Delin – you can catch more of Kate's adventures on her blog adventuresonpublictransport.com and follow her on Twitter @adventuresonpt
