Open Writing

Should I or shouldn’t I?

No, I really couldn’t afford it. My weekend in London had been
been more expensive than I had planned.

The tumbling stock market meant that my hard-earned capital was disappearing at a fast rate of knots and I knew I really should start counting the pennies.

Should I take a taxi, though? It was tempting.

A bus, of course, would be cheaper, not as comfortable, but definitely cheaper.
Take longer. But really time wasn’t that important. Another few minutes wouldn’t matter.

Yes, definitely a bus.

But as I marched out of Huddersfield station carrying my overnight bag and saw a line of taxis only a few yards away I changed my mind again.

I hurried towards the taxi at the front of the line - and then my
resolution faltered.

No! I will catch the bus. All I had to do was go to the bus station which was about five minutes walk away and somebody would tell me what number bus I wanted and where to catch it.

With a feeling of self righteous parsimony, I walked briskly towards the bus station. As I was walking I remembered that years ago, when I reached sixty five and was on my first serious economy drive, I had got myself a Senior Citizen bus pass. I had never used it, as it happens, but I was sure that I had put it carefully away with all my other cards in my card wallet.

It was a bit difficult getting out the wallet when carrying a large overnight bag, my glasses, my overcoat and my hat, so I realised that I must find somewhere to sit so that I could find the pass as unobtrusively as possible.

The bus station café was quite full. Full of senior citizens all chatting to each other amiably. All, I was sure, quite confident about their bus numbers, bus stops and how to use a bus pass.

There was quite a queue at the counter.

While I waited I looked absentmindedly at the display of sticky buns. That looked nice - fresh fruit salad tart, it said. Better have one of those. Never mind the diabetes. I mean you get a big peckish on a long train journey and I’d only had a sandwich and a coffee all day.

When it came to my turn the young girl who was serving gave me a bright smile and said:

“What will you have, love?”

“Tea, please, and one of those fresh fruit tarts.”

“Large or small?” she said.
“Pardon?”

“Tea - large or small?”

“Oh,” I said, “I thought you meant the tarts!”

She grinned.

“They’re all large,” she said. “Tea?”

“Oh go on,” I said expansively, “large. Last of the big spenders!”

We both laughed.

“That’ll be 3.45,” she said.

I gasped.

“3.45 for a cup of tea and a sticky bun!”

“Eighty pence for the tea and 2.65 for the tart.”

“2.65!!”

“Fresh fruit,” she said.

I couldn’t believe it!

I could have bought kilos of fruit for that!

Carrying my luggage and the tray would have been a problem, so the girl said:

“You sit down, love, we’ll bring it over for you.”

I’d never been in the bus station café before; it was nice and friendly,a bit too friendly in a way. I’d no sooner sat down, than a chap at the next table said:

“Expensive, them tarts,”

“You can say that again.”

“You must be a stranger to the café. None of the regulars ever buys one of them expensive tarts.”

“Too right,” I said, taking a bite.

“Catching a bus?” he said.

“Er…yes…”

I wondered why he thought I was sitting in the bus station café if I wasn’t catching a bus.

“I’m not,” he said, “I’m waiting for me mates. We always come in here round about now. Sort of a meeting place, like. Have a chat and a cup of tea. Don’t have one of them tarts, though.”

I began to feel excessively guilty for eating an expensive fruit tart that nobody else in the bus station could afford.

Actually it was very good, the tart, not 2.65 good, but good all the same.

I dug in my pocket for my card wallet and began rummaging through to see if I could find the bus pass.

“Got a pass?” my new friend asked.

“Somewhere,” I said.

“It’s there, back of your Visa.”

“Oh, right.”

And so it was. It bore a photograph of me, taken five years earlier. Not bad. Pretty handsome, I thought.

“Em….it’s 20 pence, isn’t it for,” I lowered my voice, “Senior Citizens?” I’d never actually thought of myself as a Senior Citizen before.

“30,” he said.

“30? I’m sure they told me 20 pence.”

“Went up last week.”

Just my luck, I thought. First time I’ve used the damned thing and they’ve put the price up.

“It’s a scandal,” he said.

Cheaper than a taxi, though, I thought smugly. I was saving at least £4.00.

Well, not counting the tart, of course.

Bearing in mind, I still had to find out the number of the bus and where it went from, I said:

“I need to find out where to catch my bus. I…er…I’m a stranger in town.” The little white lie troubled me a bit.

“They’ve got them new fangled electronic jobs in the station now,” he said, “That’ll tell you. Just look up the number and it’ll tell you which bay.”

“I…er…don’t actually know the number,” I said.

“Oh…right. Well you can press a button thing saying where you want to go and it’ll tell you.”

“Right, thanks very much.”

I picked up all my gear and walked out of the café to a chorus of “See you’s” and “Mind how you go”.

I found the ‘button thing’, pressed it and was told that I had to go to Bay 12.

Bay 12 was empty.

“Just missed one, love,” a woman said, sympathetically.

“Oh, you don’t know what time the next one will be, do you?”

“Says it on the board, love.”

I looked at the board. Twenty minutes.

There was a book shop in the bus station, so I thought I’d pass a little time in there, just browsing, of course.

Fifteen minutes later, clutching my new paper back, I went back to Bay 12.
The bus had just pulled in and I climbed aboard, clutching my pass.

“30p”, I said.

“Where to, mate?”

“Bradley Road.”

“That’s 90p.”

“No, I’ve got one of these.” Triumphantly I flourished my bus pass. The conductor took hold of it, studied it and grinned.
“Can’t use this, mate.”

My jaw dropped.

“I’m a Senior Citizen,” I said.

He gave a joyful laugh.

“You might be a Senior Citizen, mate,” he said, grinning like a maniac, but you can’t use this pass.”

“I most certainly can!”

“’Fraid not,mate”.

“And why not, may I ask?” I said, in my haughtiest voice.

“Out of date!”

He was laughing like a drain now.

“It can’t be out of date. I’ve never used it”

“Here,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “look at the date.It expired two days ago. That’ll be 90p, mate.''

Furiously I handed over a pound coin. He gave me 10p change and my ticket, still grinning as he tore the pass in half and kept both pieces.

Well, I thought, that settles that one.

There’ll be no more should I or shouldn’t I for me. Next time it will definitely be: I should and I will.