Bus past

The bus to ... is now boarding. The driver appears to be meditating.

So went the announcement as I was waiting for my bus in London's Victoria Coach station at 6am. I am not sure if it was reality or just the effect of being sat next to a druggie out of his skull on an overnight bus from Breda. Nope ... the announcer definitely said that.

Still, it fitted in with the way I was feeling. I had come back off holiday and I was tired and not too sure that I wanted to come back. Added to the fact was that I had become welded at the hip to some wierdo from Vlissingen who was doing his best to make a good argument for the maintenance of strict border controls for entry to the UK.

I threw my stuff in the other people's stuff, he said gloating as he attempted to hoover some hash resin into a cigarette paper.

How come I get stuck with these wierdos? I thought, as I attempted to sneak away. Twenty four hours without sleep had left me surprisingly alert and wondering about the wisdom of European Integration when it meant that dickhead such as him could wander in.

Someone who openly admitted to having multiple accidents as a drunk driver without a licence or insurance and who was on the run from the police for assault (I never look for trouble: it just finds me) and from his pregnant girlfriend who he had left bleeding in their flat after a row over money. On the other hand, some meek arabic guy had been spirited away at the border control, but they had let this one in ...

Travel broadens the mind. Hah. Welcome to England, Bram.

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