Rude Girls

It was half past midnight at Victoria coach station in London town. Unable to get seats on an earlier service, we had endured the two hour wait in the chilly hall where posters discouraged vagrancy, and the tannoy discouraged compassion towards beggars of used tube tickets. Legitimate passengers all, we had a homeless look about us though, with our bags and jackets travel dirtied. Above all, we were sullied by tiredness brought on by waiting under strip-lights. The discomforts did not end when the coach pulled in. Air conditioning created unavoidable drafts, our muscles cramped and my hip twinged with the beginnings of some chronic complaint.
In front of us, a young woman had the luxury of two seats. She slung her feet across both, fidgeted with her handbag and leaned against the window. The spaces filled up, voices huffing, dealing with cases and tickets, ‘excuse me’ and ‘anyone sitting here?’. It was mostly quiet though, there seemed a consensus that we might all try to sleep. In front of the woman, a young man settled down, he set his seat to recline, letting it fall back an inch. The woman in front of us let out a squawk and rapped urgently on the young man’s headrest. He looked around. ‘No! No!’ she exclaimed, waving her hands. He shrugged, apologised, and put his seat upright. Contented, the woman leaned back, wriggled, and set her own seat to recline into my companion’s face.

The bus rumbled on through London and on to the motorway. It continued very cold. The music from the radio, an easy listening style station, was torture. Easy listening is never easy for me. Relaxation, is fraught with tension, Pan pipes do not sing of peace. Neither do the bleeps of mobile phones. Into the quiet, rang the woman’s ring tone extra loud. ‘Hello’, she began ‘Yes, it left on time….’ her voice audible, melodious, and capable of clear communication. During the journey, she was telephoned several times. On each occasion, she sat up by hefting herself forward with the support of the young man’s seat in front of her. He looked around, but made no comment until the time when along with the vinyl support she grasped a chunk of his hair. He yelped then, but softly. She let go and went back to her conversation. It was about her shopping.

New Look, as I’ve said before, is no longer the store for me. It seemed a good place to shop for prom shoes for H though. She found a pair of satin dress shoes in champagne. Her first high heels, another watershed, something fun, to be celebrated. Upstairs, two checkouts, both occupied with customers who had faulty items. A queue of perhaps twenty people. Staff on the shop floor glancing in the direction, but carrying on with their hanger shuffling at a steady pace. A slow day, Thursday, after all. ‘We’ll go downstairs’, I said. There won’t be a queue there. One person on the till, the line moving fast until there was a customer returning a poorly stitched top. She operator went off to find her manager, unhurried. Two people carrying clip boards glanced at us, and along the row of ten of us waiting to pay. Our woman came back into view and went up to one of the clipboard carriers (now on the opposite desk, jotting) to take advice. There was more shuffling for pens and cards. At last, to us, ‘That’s twenty’ and a bag, no apology.

Human beings are selfish. I am selfish. Sometimes I am rude. Rude and selfish is no fun. I am reminded to better.