The Loud Mouth
Hearing yourself as other do is not for the fainthearted.
Advice, when not asked for, is often received with a lot of under-your-breath swearing.
I was in Nairn last weekend for our final performance for the year. And I did it all via public transport.
A few of us were traveling together, and I reveled in the company, with a decent amount of loud banter that would have my mother and ‘ex’ giving me ‘dagger’ looks, while hissing ‘be quiet’.
We went for a swim in the Nairn beach, a long sandy beach reminding me of Australia, well apart from the missing sun. It was freezing. The sort of freezing that requires an I’m mad and I’m not going to take any more dash into the water, and shrinks up your bits and pieces, giving you hope of botox firming.
Who am I kidding?
I was heading to Stonehaven via Aberdeen afterwards for my customary conjugal rights with the Hubby and was pondering train, or bus, over a cappuccino and a healthy bean affair, when unwanted advice wiped the smile off my face.
There were a few from the caste at the table and a couple who had watched the performance the night before. They walked in to an over-the-top ‘way-hay’ greeting from me, which the male( name forgotten) seemed to enjoy, while the female (name also forgotten) responded with a motherly “shh.”
It’s been a long time since my loudness had been moaned about. I thought at sixty-five nobody cared, that my free bus pass and wrinkles had earned me the right to be as loud and as sweary as I wanted.
“I am embarrassed for you,” she said, which had me stumped.
We talked of heading home, I about heading to Stonehaven (minus the Congicgal rights joke), and he (the unknown male) started giving me advice like I had never been to the friggin place.
“You’d better be off with the bus,” he said.
Wish I’d made the conjugal rights joke now.
Then he threw me a look like I had the legs of a geriatric who struggled to balance on an escalator and said. “The train station is a mile away from the centre in Stonehaven.”
Listen, buddy, I wanted to yell, I have sex on a mile-high bed a mile, sometimes without lubricant (bit of an exaggeration), a mile walk is ‘a walk in the park’ for me.
But I didn’t; instead, I gave him and his wife of no name an extra loud, hyper enthusiastic ‘way-hay’ goodbye and stupidly went with his advice.
Well, the bus is free for an occasional-get-her-end-away ole codger like me.
The next day, way too early for my booked bus, I appeared to find a double-decker, stop-at-every-corner red bus parked, engine running, with Aberdeen blazoned across the front. The chatty he/she/other driver was having a fag and nearly coughed her/he/other self stupid when I asked how long it would take to get to Aberdeen.
“Just over a couple of hours,” the driver spluttered with a vague wave south, and I, figuring that it was better than a half-hour wait in the rain, for the bus I booked stupidly believed the driver.
I jumped on..
Take in the sights and sounds, I thought as the bus began to fill with local accents. Let the writer in you drink in the conversations, be inspired as a fight broke out.
An hour, two fights, and stops heading into double figures later, we finally arrived at a shopping center. The bus emptied, the he/she/other driver jumped off with a ‘have fun’ wave at me, and a new all-male driver sauntered on, followed by a pile of new local accents —one with an approachable face.
I asked, “How long for Aberdeen?”
“At least an hour,” she said, followed by a soaked of pity, “love.”
Her pal expertly looked it up on her phone. “Yes, a bit over an hour.” She threw me a patronising friggin look. “You should have gotten the number “9-blah blah-blah” like I had asked for her opinion.
I arrived at Aberdeen’s space shuttle bus/train terminal, and without even thinking, jumped on the train to Stonehaven. My back to a table of four high on hangover caffeine and jokes like they had been celebrating New Year early.
One woman’s laugh was particularly loud, and the other talked like she was addressing parliament occasionally waking me from a nap.
That is how I sound, I thought with more than a hint of embarrassment.
The Other Side Of Yes
I giving The Red Cross SHo And The Codpeice a rest this month and thought I would treat you to a bit of a Bus Ride, from The Other Side Of Yes…
A few hours, and several Proseccos later, I was at the bus stop for the return journey home, my bladder reassuringly empty.
I had spent the afternoon with a hairdresser who had been generous with the Prosecco, the boss was away and as she had opened the bottle just for me, I might as well finish it.
As I was waiting, the bottle-blonde from the morning appeared. She looked at my hair and said, “Pensioner deal haircut?”
“Yes.”
“I guess you get what you pay for,” she sniffed as the bus pulled up.
The bus was full of high school students talking non-stop, until I stepped on. They stared at me like I was naked with an extra set of breasts. I threw them my best sober smile, and I liked to think they swallowed it. The bus driver certainly did.
“New hair?” he said with a big smile.
Some of the students laughed. I assumed it was because I looked amazing. I can’t remember the last time I was so close to youth en masse. The banter was like another language and they, another species. They were so loud they drowned out Radio 2, even when the driver turned it up full blast.
A bumpy ride can fair put a drunk woman to sleep and I slept through most of it, my head fuzzy with memories of my time in front of the hairdresser’s mirror. I was vaguely aware of the bus stopping and starting, high school students stumbling up the aisle, until the bus crashed to a stop and someone stumbled into my lap.
“Jesus Christ,” snapped the bus driver as a sheep sauntered across the road.
The girl student lifted herself from my lap with a warm smile. As the boy behind took her hand, she caught my eye. “Love your hair.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“So bold.”
“Thank you.”
“My gran wouldn’t be seen dead in pink.”
“It’s ok,” shouted the boy to the driver. “We can get off here.”
The girl threw me another smile, told me not to take any notice of what the others said, and called me an inspiration.
I watched them jump from the bus, clasping hands, and shoving each other with playful pushes, laughing until the boy flung his arms around her. They stopped and kissed and were still going at it when the bus pulled away, leaving me alone with the bus driver and Gloria Gaynor singing on the radio: I am what I am…
“Oh to be that young again.” The driver sounded strangely human. He drove on, singing to himself, and I caught his face in the mirror. It was a picture of happiness.
Funny to think he was the same grumpy man of the morning, but maybe he was not a morning person. He sang louder and louder as we went down the road, past the sheep and their lambs. In fact, he forgot I was there and nearly missed my stop until I staggered up the aisle.
When I arrived home I didn’t see my hair at first, I was too busy making it to the loo. Then I slid my hands under the tap and looked up at the mirror – and stopped. It dawned on my why the students hadn’t looked directly at me; without a decent amount of Prosecco, pink stiff hair looks really stupid.
They were trying not to laugh.
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Until next time happy reading