when on the bus

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The man in front of me has sticky up hair. I'm inclined to lick my fingers, reach forward and pat it down into some semblance of normality. But then, what is normality? Maybe he likes having sticky up hair, reminiscent of a six year old. It's his normal. I was assaulted on the bus on Tuesday. Don't fret, it wasn't a physical assault and it wasn't even personal. It was simply an assault on my poor little ears. I'm afraid I'm not a big fan of the strong Scottish accent. Nor am I a fan of people who talk a lot, whether it be to someone physically there with them, or someone on the phone. There is no need for me to know their business and it frustrates me that they think there is a need. Unfortunately I had the honour of spending time in the presence of a woman who was both fiercely Scottish and extremely chatty. And loud. You'd be able to hear her quite clearly at a very loud rock concert ... that sort of loud. And not just on my hour and a half journey to town to meet my friends, but also on the hour and a half journey home again later in the day. She left me exhausted and she didn't even talk to me. I'm quite certain that at one point she was downstairs on the bus and I could hear her more clearly than the young man chatting to his mum on the seat behind me upstairs. Are these people aware that their chatter is so loud? Do they realise that they need an inside voice and an outside voice? Do they actually listen or are all their conversations one-sided? It's as if they have an insatiable desire to exist, and to let the world know they exist. If they stopped talking maybe the whole wide world would stop spinning. Perhaps they keep us all alive with their bluster and idle meaningless blatherings, the hot air they expel being the air we need to ensure the survival of the human race. But I am getting carried away. I will shush now, lest you think of me what I think of her ...