. . . on a stranger on the bus
Róisín Ingle. . . on a stranger on the bus
I NOTICED HER IN the queue before we got on. A tall woman, wearing a fawn-coloured full-length coat with a fur lined hood, which covered her head, so you could hardly see her face. The hood made her look as though she was off on an Arctic expedition. Dressed with glamour and comfort in mind, she stood out from the crowd. A true character, with that touch of old school elegance. I wondered whether that was a real silk Burberry scarf around her neck or something hooky picked up in a market in London? Her sensible shoes were trimmed with a jazzy bit of material that sparkled as she moved. The bag was red crocodile skin, or what looked like crocodile. It might have been alligator.
On long journeys I always head for the back of the bus. Because people have a thing about the back of the bus, they seem to avoid it because of an aversion to the rumble of the engine, and so they are usually the last seats to fill up. This is lucky for those of us who don’t mind the rumble of the engine, and sit there remembering school trips of yore when the back of the bus was the only place to be.
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Fears that China may slow hit 
