the randomness of a bus

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It's August, it's raining, and the bus is nowhere near as full as it is during term-time. I am on said bus, watching people, listening to their morning conversations and wondering just why it was that the BBC saw fit to confuse me this morning. I like that lady's pink nail varnish. My own is red and flakey. I like flakey nails ... they show that life goes on and the wheels keep turning, that nothing is continually perfect. They reveal that we're flawed. Of course, I like freshly done nails too, but there's something too perfect about them, as if they're trying to conceal our true identity; no warts here, love. From my position I can see three bald spots on three men. No, sorry, I can see four. That chap over there is elderly though so in my haste to tell you about the bald spots, I didn't include him. In my defence, his bald spot is more of a bald ocean surrounded by a receding island of white sandy beaches. Those two young men {you know you're getting on a bit when people in their twenties seem young} are enjoying a giggle, like a couple of schoolgirls whose crush has winked at them. I think they're playing Pokémon Go, the scoundrels. A woman has just sat next to me ... I fear she may start reading over my shoulder. Hi, woman. *waves* And so, the bus is fuller and my ramblings may not be so secret now. I should flee into the morning. Goodbye, cruel world. {I am so tired ... Baby Toddler Niece had better be in a happy mood, since this early start is for her benefit!}