The obligatory school baths run should be a cinch. It usually is. It was today, apart from the fact that I was wet through, miles before we were anywhere near a swimming pool. Of course, I was driving the Flying Pig and there happened to be some heavy storms around. When I parked her, I couldn't follow the boss's advise and park facing uphill so that the water cculd run down the back and escape out of the boot.
It had accumulated above my head and deposited bucket-loads onto me everytime we hit a bump. There was something ironic, I thought, about being the only truly wet person on the bus - possibly in both senses of the word.
It gave the children something to laugh at and diverted their attention from being sick. It had not been a hopeful start as the teacher had announced to the children that he always felt travel sick on any bus he went on. Great. In my mirror I could see the nods of approval from many of the children, who had now had the seed of probability sown into their heads. I drove doubly slowly, even though it meant being showered more.
When we got there, the other waiting bus drivers made predictable comments like, 'Been for a swim' and 'Is it a bit damp in there?' One even started singing the old Split Enz song 'Six Months In A Leaky Boat', substituting the word boat for bus. It was the normal standard of bus driver banter.
The evening required another run from another school. The children were fired up by some kind of stage act and came onto the bus in over exuberant mood. The Eastern European child was in potent form. Aa a car passed us, perilously close, he shouted,
'Go on. Hit him. You must crash into deez car.'
'And why should I do that?' I naively asked.
'Why not?' he replied. 'No problem. It is not your car. So you can crash into it.'
He could be an interesting adult, I thought.
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