Every week end, my way back home on the – at least – 2 night buses gives me lot of human material.

I was  powerfully sitting on the aft at the second floor of a double decker bus, on may way home from Dalston to Tottehnam court road, when a  bunch of 10 morethandrink guys come to talk to me.
They were American (“no, I’m not American, I’m from California. No, I’m not from California, I’m from s. Francisco”), Canadian, Austrian. Wow.
One of those, typical hipsta-urbo-vintage-but-not-gay Shoreditchguy, showed me the Union Jack. Showed me the Union Jack that he got printed on his pants.
Cool.
I had got off at Totthenam Court Road, and tripped over  a young woman in her early 20 almost collapsing  – she was drunk. Someone was helping her, but she was laying on the dirty and cold ground, without breathing, completely pale. His boyfriend told me “she’s all right”.
Cool.
I was going to take the 207 when a typical elegant and charming English man came to me, asking how was the woman collapsing: “she’s all right”.
“would you like to fuck with me?”
“sorry?”
“where are you going, shall we go together”
“I’m ok alone, thanks”
“you sure?”
“yes.”
He looked pretty disappointed. Maybe this strategy works with someone.
Cool.
On the bus, the driver was directed to Queensway. Some tourists asked him “is it going to Queensway? ” He answered: “nope”. I was astonished. What? I’m getting off there…
I asked the driver why he didn’t tell them the truth.
“I’m tired” – he said.
Cool.