"Things are bad when you feel your arse gripping the seat said a bus driver from another company, as I rolled up at the school coach park looking pale but determined.
The morning had not started well as the Flying Pig developed an electrical fault, losing half of its rear lights. The only bus left in the yard was the new bus, a 57 seater coach. The bus which I had reversed into a pile of gravel on its maiden voyage and put a minor dent into the back bumper. "I'm not going to say anything," the boss had said at the time, "but the place you dented was the only part of the bus which had been newly painted."
Every time he saw me, for weeks after he would say, "I'm not going to say anything, but perhaps you should know.............". It ceased when a van ploughed into the back of the bus and made such a mess of the panels that it was impossible to see my misdemeanour.
I was timid on the school run with all the black ice around. Most of the route was white and sparkling, but the new bus was sound and the journey was without incident. It was a great bus to drive, even on the ice. It had been acquired from an Asian bus company in the south of England. It had arrived in the depot, complete with a Bollywood dvd that had been left in the DVD player. Other buses previously, which had been bought from the Home Counties had reacted badly to their new lives in the inhospitable climate of the North Pennines. But not this one.
The way back to the depot was much more gratifying. The sun shone. The ice melted. The fog lifted. And my gluteus maximus relaxed as I performed a few exercises and released myself from the seat to the background rhythms of a Bollywood dance routine which filled the bus.
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