Present. It's my 21st birthday and the 73 is grinding up Pentonville Road on a dark, wet February evening. I'm off to a party near Tottenham Swan, and I've just opened my Mum's present, a green plastic melodica. I try playing it really quietly. It's packed and there's only a sliver of seat left next to a fat woman at the front. So I balance on the edge of the gangway, occasionally pressing my face against the cold front window in the hope seeing Seven Sisters. I wish the Conductor would come and ask for my fare, so I can proudly say "Last stop please". But she doesn't come
round. Posted by: seb | January 10, 2005 |at 09:41 AM

Post-script. A load of kids tried to mug me that night, right on my friend's doorstep, but he opened the door in the nick of time. All I could think as they surrounded me was how much bigger the forthcoming kicking would be when they discovered I was carrying the world's most effeminate musical instrument... Emailed by Seb | November 1, 2005

Daydreaming. The thing which I like about travelling on buses, is the thing I like about all forms of public transport: the opportunity it affords to switch off. I can board the bus, select a seat, then sit and stare while my mind wanders off. And because time spent travelling is such a 'non' time, spent in such a 'non' place, the feeling of wasting time rarely hangs heavy upon me. The daydreamers safe-haven. Posted by: Gerard | September 3, 2003 | 04:15 PM. Tottenham Court Road to Islington.