What you doin, morning ruin?
This morning my anger caused me some ruin.
The only mode of transport more stressful than the tube is the bus. Filled with idiots and old people, none of whom can make a decision about where to sit. I hate their worried looks as they glance about the stinking crate looking for a free double to accommodate their peas and chips arses. Fucking English people. Arrived at Highbury corner having clenched my teeth all the way down Holloway Road, hoping one Dresden incendiary bomb was still blowing in the breeze sixty years later and headed straight for London to rid us of these shoplifters and pavement cyclers, road crossers and pram pushers, smokers and toothless fucks, and had to squeeze past an orange tanned leathery skin-pole of a woman, standing in the stairwell. I boiled and howled inside. At the bus shelter the was a queue of brainless shits waiting to get on and blocking my escape. And old lady with an impossibly large girth hobbled in front of me, swaying from side to side and refusing to die. I tried to get past. She saw me. She stood aside, stretched her arm out and let me by.
At the cash machine, waiting while some confused prole read re-read the screen, retrieved her card and re-entered it and again, and again, the old lady past me by. I pretended not to see her.