So another working week rolls round, once again beginning with a hideous bus journey into Ascot, complete with braying children from various schools across Berkshire. Most depressingly, I am now starting to know them by name, from the not-particularly-pleasant experience of hearing them discuss their sexual exploits. Ugh.
I don’t think I fully appreciated the lack of children on my commute last week, during the bliss of half-term. I could listen to lo-fi, chilled tunes to gently ease me into my day, without hearing the high-pitched wailings of the 16-year old harpies who haunt the back of the bus. I could crack open one of the ridiculous amounts of Library books stashed at home, and quietly read on my way to work, without being distracted by boys scrawling crap graffiti on the backs of chairs and trying to draw on each others faces.
I don’t mind kids being kids, in fact, I’d actually encourage it. I visibly beamed with pride when a bunch of the lads drew an incredibly anatomically correct cock (complete with anthropomorphic cheeky grin) on the steamed up windows last Autumn. Eavesdropping on two of the younger girls who always sit by the stairs discussing how one of the boys in their Geography class was always calling her ‘fat’ made me want to cuddle them up and tell them not to worry about it.
BUT WHY DO THEY HAVE TO DO IT SO LOUDLY WHEN IT ISN’T EVEN 8AM? HOW ARE THEY EVEN AWAKE?
WHY ARE THEY NOT RESPONDING TO MY SCOWLS AND SIGHS?
I will never know, nor understand. Perhaps that is the way it is meant to be.
God, I’m old.