"You're not like other bus drivers," said my co-driver on our day off. "Most seem to want to sit in their hotel room and drink."
He was right on the first point and I minorly corrected him on the other point when we stopped at various points for a beer or to buy a bottle of wine, to prove that I was not one of those prudish and sometimes pious teetotallers.
His words echoed around the bus park in which I was standing in windy Northern England, sometime later on a different trip.
"Four of us bought 186 bottles into the European resort. We were staying for a week and didn't have to drive." said a driver reminiscing. "But that only lasted the first night."
"Yeah, Bloggins was in a terrible state. he fell over flat on his face into someone's garden."
"But he missed the flowers," chipped in another driver.
"We got to bed at six o'clock. Breakfast was at seven."
"We missed breakfast," said the lead driver, shaking his head.
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