Two Penn’orth: Driven to Distraction

You lurch out of the library or SU, tanked up on revision or low-grade vodka. Stumbling to the bus stop you gaze at the display: NEXT BUS 8 minutes. Dimly aware of your good fortune, you slide down to the floor, ready to wait in a sedentary state of vegetation, as the mission control countdown continues. NEXT BUS 7 minutes… 6 minutes… 5 minutes… 4 minutes… 10 minutes.

This is troubling; your bus appears caught, as usual, in some form of perpetual time-warp. Cynicism suggests you curl up under a paper bag for the night, morbid curiosity compels you to stay; worse than that time the number two refused to flush.

As expected, the timer finally reaches DUE and, oh the sheer temerity of frivolous surprise, the bus is a no show. Do the companies responsible know they’re losing vehicles? The drivers involved are either attending their own secret Fight Club or it’s something to do with our evil overlords, hellbent on instigating minor – but apoplectically infuriating – irritations. It’s no wonder the fare keeps increasing.

I wish this wasn’t an issue for me, that my life wasn’t so empty and devoid of meaning that it noticeably bothered me; if only that was the case. For starters, the entire process of complaining really is a petty and futile exercise, like shouting at those filthy immigrant grey squirrels. Worse still, I really don’t want them to trace my name on the interweb, find my picture, and ban me.

Unfortunately, though, it is an issue. We students are rather dependent on the public transport services and, as such, are subservient to their various whims and spontaneous inclinations. If the service provided isn’t adequate, the attitude largely seems to be indifference on their part and reluctant acceptance on ours. Officially dubbed the ‘grey squirrel’ effect.

It’s an issue which seems to affect large parts (but admittedly not all) of the public transport sector. So much so that we all have our own deep personal scars from one form of transport or another. My personal favourite is trains. At its conception I can imagine the locomotive was intended to go on and achieve great things with minimal fuss or flamboyance. And yet, only the other day, no word of a lie, I was delayed for an hour because of the “wrong kind of track”. This news paled into insignificance, however, compared to the bombshell dropped shortly afterwards by the driver: “We apologise for this delay, but I don’t care, as I’m now on overtime”. Murdoch and Trevithick would be turning in their graves.

This is the issue: we expect the train to be broken and the tube to explode. We nod along when informed that the replacement service is delayed or the plane has no wings. I admire the stoicism but the time is ripe to expect more. You’re in? Good. Tickets please.