A few minutes at the Sow Hill Bus Station…

But first…
Dulltown, UK: Today’s featured fruit is the misty blueberry that has rolled off the kitchen worktop and has made a secret new home for itself under the fridge.
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I am writing this leaning, my back against the rough wall at the entrance to the Sow Hill Bus Station in Beverley East Yorkshire – well, actually I did write this there, but I am now of course typing it out onto my PC in the relative comfort of my home – but to continue:
A young bloke of, I would guess, somewhere between fifteen and twenty years of age, is waiting for the bus to Dulltown, as am I. He is standing with his pink podgy hands resting on the top of a galvanised steel safety barrier. Going around a horizontal element at the bottom of the barrier is one of those U-shaped bicycle locks; it is alone with no bicycle attached.
The youth is kicking the abandoned lock with his foot: Clang… Clang… Clang-clang… Clang… the barrier acting as a sort of resonator. Why is he doing this? I ask myself, maybe he is bored, and just needs an outlet for his youthful energy? Maybe this is just ‘something to do’?
We all need something to do don’t we? Perhaps this is his ‘thing’ in life? Me, I’m standing here writing this – is writing this better than kicking a captured lock on a steel barrier? Possibly not, but I think it might be a little bit more creative – unless you are an ardent fan of the music of Karlheinz Stockhausen of course… Which the young man might be. (KS)
Clang… Clang… Clang…
But I am finding this annoying. Am I bit over sensitive? I stare at him. He looks back at me, and after a second or two he looks down at his foot and stops the clanging. But, after a moment’s thought, perhaps thinking that I have somehow thwarted him in his pursuit of happiness (I have not really done much proper thwarting in my life) and perhaps that I have caused him to consider that he might perhaps be a ‘noisy dickhead’, he decides to show ‘who is boss’, and has resumed his kicking and clanging. But, hang on, after only a few seconds of the resumed performance he seems to have become bored with the whole thing and has stopped. See, he now turns and leans with his back against the barrier, scratches his chin thoughtfully, takes out his phone to stare at, and begins a session of piercing and tuneless whistling…
Sorry dear reader this writing must stop now – here comes our No. 122 bus… I wonder if he will whistle on the bus, I must be careful in choosing my seat…

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in drama, existentialism, Grumpiness, humour, information, observations, people, serendipity, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to A few minutes at the Sow Hill Bus Station…

  1. Funny. Especially the first two lines, which would have been sufficient for one blog.

  2. Dana Doran says:

    He obviously read your facial expression incorrectly. He thought….oh! That old dude writing something over there is dismayed at my having quit clanging out the beat to my favorite song..perhaps I should treat him to yet another chorus!?! And, he was 15 and dad just told him to stop practicing his drums at 7am.

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