What does a bus driver do with his wife? He sends her off on a holiday to Cornwall. To the sunny beaches, the surfers' paradise and centre of excellence for anything to do with clotted cream or ice cream or clotted cream ice cream.
Well no, that's not strictly true.
Yes she's in Cornwall. No she's not on a holiday, but working hard with writing. And no, it's not been sunny. It's been cold and wet - the complete opposite from the weather she left at home in the North East where no clouds have been seen for the last week.
She rang me today. 'I'm on a bus.'
'Oh I'm so sorry, for you,' I replied, knowing that she rarely was seen on this form of transportation.
I expected a report of the poor state of West Country buses and the unfairness at having to travel on a public service vehicle. But it was the opposite.
'I'm so pleased to see that bus drivers are the same the country over.'
'What, grumpy?
'No what they talk about. They say the same things as you do. I've never enjoyed a journey so much. The bus is nice, friendly drivers. On time'
'What's the name of the company? Stagecoach? First? Arriva?'
'No it's called Something Greyhound - can't remember the first name.'
I looked at the Western Greyhound website. It is smart, efficient and smacks of through and through Cornish-ness. A true local independent company which seems to be holding its own in a difficult climate.
Well, good luck to them. They must be good if they can satisfy my wife's high standards.
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