It is not usual for me to be standing under a lampost after Midnight, staring at the nettles growing on the inside of the telephone box. I was waiting for the wedding party to return to Newcastle and in this out-of-the-way North Northumberland village, there was little else to do.
How different Newcastle was when we drove through the City Centre at 1.30am. The lampposts now had a secondary purpose of propping up paralytic women who used them not only as a support, but also they seemed to give a brief respite for a tug at the short hemlines in an attempt at restoring some sort of order and dignity. This had the opposite effect for the lady I was watching closely. Not because of her beauty or desirability. She scored poorly on both counts. But in case she passed out and fell prostrate in front of my bus.
It was just then that the intense Canadian sitting behind me broke the silence. "Oh my God. Stop the bus. I suffer from motion sickness." I caught my breath and tactfully avoided telling him that even if he was suffering from the very worst case of disentry, there was no way the bus was going to stop in the middle of the Geordie 'Big Night Oot'.
He had second thoughts too, when he spied a very drunk man take umbrage at the Chilean buskers on the pavement, launch a punch and try to snap one of the bands pan pipes. The sight of the man being enveloped by four burly Policemen made the motion sickness disappear as fast as it came.
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