"He was from a different planet, man," one of the bus drivers said in the murky gloom of a typical January Monday morning. The roads were their usual unpredictable selves. Frozen rain had fallen on the snow which had fallen on the ice which offered three different ways to skid into the ditch. The shovel was back at the front of the bus as a precautionary measure.
"Yeah he was definitely on a different planet," he repeated. I thought he may have been referring to me, as often I have seen other drivers huddled in corners, uttering that exact phrase and pointing their fingers in my direction, positioning me somewhere between Uranus and Neptune.
This time it was not me, but a passenger who had got on the bus wearing a t-shirt, shorts and flip flops on the coldest of days. Northerners are tough and seem blissfully happy feeling the arctic breeze on their skin. You see in in the Toon on Friday and Saturday nights where the colder it gets, the less the clubbers wear.
The hoots of derision are widespread at my view that any bloody fool can be cold.They are less than impressed when I wear four layers and a vest when the temperature drops below 10 degrees celsius. I truly am from a different planet. Today the wind chill is so bad that my legs look like the Michelin Man's as a result of wearing some long johns. I adhere to John Shuttleworth's stereotype in his film 'Southern Softies'. I admit it. I can't cope with the northern winds.
But, no matter, it is what the other drivers expect of me. They would be disappointed if my eccentricity was to be tamed.
Fat chance.
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