Sunday, 14 November 2010

The Flying Pig And The Short Asses

"The short-asses have buggered the seat," a driver once announced when he was late leaving the depot one morning. History has repeated itself and here I am in the Flying Pig, with my knees wrapped around my shoulders as the seat is stuck in the short-ass driving position. It is unfair to criticise as I am in the minority. There are only two drivers, over 6 feet tall, who need the seat back. The rest require this position. Some even need a cushion so that their feet can reach the pedals.

Today is worrying as the seat won't move a centimetre. Each time I touch the clutch pedal, there is a crack as my knee crashes into the plastic console. It's going to be a painfully slow school run. The wind is still strong. So strong that the skylight in the roof magically opens on its own accord. It sounds like a champagne cork popping, before there is a rush of cold air whistling through the bus. There's a leak too. Every so often drips of cold water drop onto my head.

It's just another normal North Pennines winter morning. The wheelie bins are scattered all over the place. Some upside down in the ditch, others laying prostrate across road ends and driveways. The Flying Pig is buffeted from side to side. Being a small bus, like a small plane you feel every last bit of turbulence.

"There's Hilda," one of the children pointed out as we drew into the school coach park."She's in my class."

"That's nice."

"No it isn't. She doesn't like me."

The winter has only just begun.

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