One of the side effects of living in London for many years is the great indifference you must learn to feel (or at least display) towards the millions of the other bodies that share the city with you. Try to strike up a conversation with a stranger on the tube, and you will probably be ignored (at best) or institutionalised (at worst). When walking down the street, keep your eyes firmly on the ground in front of you. Do not make eye contact! Perhaps, however, the worst members of the public – and the ones you have to actually deal with - are those men and women entrusted with the task of getting us around the city. Bus drivers. Notoriously grumpy and always willing to make the effort to leave you stranded on a street corner at 3am, drunk and shivering and shaking your fist at the retrieving night bus. Knowing that the next one won’t be along for another hour.
So, it was with part-surprise/part-recognition that I rediscovered the niceness, the downright happiness, with which Sydney bus drivers go about their job. Many mornings my boyfriend and I have turned to each other and said, ‘Well, that wouldn’t happen in London!’ after the bus driver saw us running to the bus stop. And stopped. And waited. Even when there was no-one else at the bus stop. Passengers say thank you and wish the drivers a good day. The drivers respond. They smile at you, for goodness sake!
But this story is about a particular bus driver. One who goes about his day with such infectious glee, that having him drive you home is almost like being taken there by an affectionate uncle. He positively beams as he steers his massive charge through the Sydney traffic, chattering away and bestowing gallons of good cheer on all around him.
I was on his bus one afternoon, and I noticed that the bus in front of us was the connecting one I needed to take me up the hill. As my chuckling chauffeur drove up behind this bus, I was silently willing him to hurry up. I was the last passenger, and I needed to get off, and then sprint ahead to try to intercept the final link in my commuting chain. It is possible to walk those last few blocks, granted, but I wear high heels. OK, and I’m lazy.
‘Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up!’ I was muttering the mantra under my breath, willing my driver to let me off in time.
The bus in front stopped. My bus stopped. Not in the bus stop, in the street. The doors remained close. Bus Driver Extraordinaire must have sensed my anxiety (or heard my foot tapping next to him), because he looked over at me with a 1,000 watt smile and said, ‘I’m not going to let you off in the street. It’s a bit dangerous, isn’t it?’
‘I need to get that bus in front,’ I replied. Nervously. Quietly. Not wanting to offend his good intentions.
‘You need to get that bus? OK, hang on!’ With a flourish he pulled out and forwards (I could almost hear the superhero music crescendo in the background – Super! Bus Driver!!) and trapped the bus in front inside the bus stop. Gesturing to the other driver, he made sure that I was not going to miss my connection.
‘There you go, love! Have a nice day!’
I hopped onto my new bus with a couple of breathless thank yous and noted with interest that this new driver seemed to be less than impressed. In fact I’m sure he had a frown on his face (perhaps he was a Londoner who had inexplicably ended up and Sydney and was trying to spread the London Way). I, however, was beaming. Super Bus Driver had made my day.
