Managing Beastly Bus Brethren, Avoiding TB on the Tube and Staying on the Rails

Here are my rules of engagement for how to handle public transport in the UK:

• If you don’t have the correct change for the bus, crying doesn’t help. You will have to fork over a £5 note for a £3 fare and lose your change. Even if you jump up and down and stamp your foot. Even if you click your tongue or say “hayibo" or "eish" or "jislaaik” and plead complete and genuine ignorance. I have tried all of the above. To no avail. You will not win. It’s just the way it is. No one cares. The bus driver least of all. He scores. He points to the tiny sign that reads “exact fare required” as he takes your cash. You will want to smash his smug unhelpful little face into his little Plexiglass corner. He knows it. He also knows that he’ll get a bonus McFlurry on the way home. Compliments of the ignorant Saffa foreigner. But let him have his McFlurrry. Don’t get mad. Get even. Next time, present the exact £3 fare in 1, 2 and 5 pence coins. Don’t wait for him to count it. Make like haughty Victoria Beckham and swan off.
• Asking directions from aforementioned bus driver is like asking for fashion advice from Lady Gaga. You’ll get nowhere and you’ll look and feel like a tool. Don’t do it. If you’re not sure of the route, plan ahead. Call the helpline. Don’t board the bus to find out. You’ll be sorry. Mr. Smug Unhelpful will not help.
• Holding up the queue while you ask for these directions results in that creepy feeling you get when you can feel multiple sets of eyes boring into the back of your head. Negative bad energy and kooky karma with centripetal force. You can feel it for days after and you wonder if it’s left a mark. It has. On your ego.
• You will undoubtedly have a number of witnesses as you lug a pram overladen with groceries and your fidgety toddler onto the bus. You will huff and puff and your wine bottles will clink. A rogue pack of nappies may fall out. But no one will help you. Get over this. Don’t sulk. Get clever about how you pack your groceries. Use a backpack or a fanny pack. Ok a backpack. I just wanted to type the words fanny pack. Fanny pack. Fanny pack. Ok I’m over it now. Don’t hang too much from the sides of the pram. Buy your wine online.
• The buses in Windsor are mostly used by geriatrics. Grumpy geriatrics who don’t give a damn about a lot of things. Manners, patience and tolerance. Some aren’t fond of bathing either. Stand away rather than sit among them. They also don’t like children so keep your over-excited sproglets quiet and hidden with chocolate buttons (for the little one) and bribe trips to Legoland (for the older one). Don’t try and engage in any kind of conversation with the aged. These are not Mrs Doubtfire-esque souls with gumdrops in their housecoats and watery eyes. They are rude crotchety old bags with evil powers and whiskers. They’re pissed at the world because they’re old. It’s not your fault. Don’t take it personally. You are a nice person with perfectly normal children. It’s none of their business that your son is not at school/ his hair is too long/he sits with his feet on the seat. Or that your daughter isn’t wearing mittens/still uses a pacifier at 18 months/and clings to a dirty cloth for comfort. None of their business at all.
• If your kids distract you and you miss your stop, don’t bother appealing to the driver for help. He’ll carry on driving. You have to push that red button. The drivers are programmed only to respond to that button. Don’t try communicating like a human being. They’re like robots. Except Wall-e has more heart. Apologies Wall-e. I once lugged my children 1km further than we needed to because I missed my stop and wasn’t quick enough off the mark with the button. Now I’m like Oscar P. Effective with speed and triggers. I also keep my finger on the button at all times. That helps.
• When you’re boarding a train alone with your rotund little toddler seated in the pram and a 4 year old on foot, you physically cannot lift the pram and steer it up onto the train at the same time. Your 4 year old also can’t pull it up while you push. At that age, they’re just not strong enough. They need about 5 more years. Or 20 more kilos. Whichever comes first. In this instance you will have to do the unthinkable and ask a random stranger for help. Pick wisely. Avoid businesspeople or teenagers. The former will pretend not to hear you. The latter will also pretend not to hear you. Look for middle-aged women. Not businesswomen. Tourists. Not Chinese tourists either. They weigh less than your son. Look for a healthy mid-Western yank with big hair and a big bag. They’re friendly and happy to help.
• On the train you are almost guaranteed not get a seat because you’re last on it. You will stand with your daughter in her pram in the aisle and your son will sit on the floor. The group of teens sporting their ubiquitous Beats by Dr Dre headphones will continue to thumb flick through their smart phones. The businessmen will busy themselves on their tablets. No one will move a muscle or flick any eyelid in your direction. No one will offer you a seat. Not even when you squat on the floor alongside your son. Or when you finally give up all pretence of social sophistication and succumb to sitting on the floor like a dog.
• On the tube, no one makes eye contact. No one talks. No one smiles. It’s like being in the waiting room for a terminal cancer clinic where everyone’s getting their white blood cell count result. Depressing. This is just how it is. No one is in mourning. Nothing happened. Don’t try and make eye contact. Don’t try and smile. You’ll be shot down. Down to Chinatown.
• When there’s a heat wave, try to avoid the tube if at all possible. I got stuck last week standing on a tube that was packed with more travellers than should have been legal outside of Mumbai. No air-conditioning or regular influx of fresh air means that the atmosphere positively heaves with humans and their emissions. You can virtually see the rancid little bacteria multiply and morph into some strain of streptococcus that develops into a raging pneumococcal infection. The body odour factor is just as toxic and I have to admit there were times when I vommed a little in my mouth. When it’s over 30 degrees, just don’t take the tube. Ever. Not even for 2 stops. The public transport infrastructure is not geared to temperatures of this degree. The whole thing collapses. No one knows what to do. Rather take a taxi with aircon. It’s worth the fiver. It’s worth 5 fivers.
• Apparently on a Friday afternoon at around 3pm, there’s a high likelihood of a disruption to the train schedule as a result of a suicide by train. Especially on high-speed train lines. Locals macabrely refer to this incident as a “one-under”. If you’re at Paddington station trying to make your way home and the digital information board goes blank and your train is cancelled until further notice, there’s a strong chance that they’re scraping some poor blighter off the tracks. The train driver is probably breathing into a paper bag and the passengers on board are getting riled up over the inconsiderate nature of the person who chose to screw up their schedule. In fact the passenger mob mentality is so feral that if the jumper wasn’t already a goner, they’d probably maul him to pieces themselves. No one is particularly sympathetic to the person whose body is being collected in 14 bin liners. The Poms don’t take kindly to having their commute disrupted, especially by means as inconvenient as a suicide. My advice would be that if you’re considering a one-way trip to the other side, don’t do it on British Rail. St. Peter will probably deduct points off at the Pearly Gates. If an adventure death is your style, I’d consider a little sayonara off Tower Bridge with some lead boots or a pair of wedges. That should do it. No mess. No fuss. A little splash. Cute, yet effective. But then that’s just me.

British Rail's Attempt at Health & Safety. Should read: Don't off yourself on this track. Not cool.