Joy had news for our art group, she had her new bus pass… at the age of eighty.

We all had something to say.

About time too, wouldn’t be without mine.

Why did you wait so long. I am looking forward to getting mine, but I’ve got to wait another thirty years.

Are you serious, you have never been on a bus?

‘Unless you count being born on one.’

Our imaginations went into overdrive…

‘At least my mother used to say You must have been born on a bus every time I left a door open.’

Buses have doors these days Joy, the Routemaster has been out of service for twenty years.

Our group varied in age and athletic ability and conversation progressed to discussion of various forms of transport from bicycles to E-scooters and back to cars and buses. Joy was joined at the hip to her car, but it transpired that Joy and the car had both failed their MOT.

‘I didn’t say I was actually going to go on a bus, the bus pass is just in case.’

You must at least have a go.

We all had bus stories, Mandy was expert at manoeuvring her double buggy and six shopping bags on board and I exclaimed how lucky she was to have floors that lowered and space to park. No folding up McClarren buggies for her. Maggie’s bus journey to the hospital to have her baby was equalled by Ron’s travelling from Land’s End to Berwick upon Tweed, using only his bus pass.

The next day I stood at the bus stop with Joy. She had reluctantly agreed to a trial run with moral support. We were at the second stop at the beginning of the route so Joy would be eased gently into the experience. The sunny spring day belied a sharp east wind and I prayed we wouldn’t have to wait long, having told Joy we had two frequent routes to choose from.

 ‘Why are we going into town, aren’t all the shops closing down?’

‘Not all of them, anyway that’s where the bus goes.’

‘How long do we have to wait?’

 ‘Not long, look at the bus ap on my phone, you can see the bus coming up the hill.’

 Joy peered at my phone screen, failing to see the tiny toy bus shaped arrow moving along the map. We were so busy looking, a bus sailed by before I had a chance to put my hand out.

 I always have my bus pass safely in my pocket, ready to produce immediately I’m on board. I hadn’t thought to prepare Joy for the operation. The next bus soon came along, but she spent five minutes fumbling in her handbag for her purse, then five minutes fumbling in her purse for her bus pass. It would have to be that grumpy driver.

I always head straight for the back half of the bus, or better still, upstairs on a double decker, smugly glad I don’t yet have to sit in the front seats with their little signs ‘Please offer these seats to elderly or disabled passengers’. Not actually forbidden so Joy happily plonked herself down in the front seat. I tried to tactfully urge her further back.

‘What was wrong with those seats?’

‘They’re for the elderly and…’

‘How old do you have to be, I’m a pensioner.’

‘But a spritely one, it’s only your eyes that failed the MOT.’

She crossed over the aisle and pulled down a folding seat.

‘The elderly won’t be wanting these ones.’

‘We can’t sit there, that’s the space for wheelchairs and prams.’

‘At least you didn’t make me go upstairs.’

Fortunately the bus soon started filling up with baby buggies, walking sticks and crutches to prove my point.

‘Goodness, how many more walking wounded are coming on board, oh surely she’s not allowed on board with that!’

A lady in a large designer motorised wheelchair/scooter contraption had just about made it up the ramp the driver had put down for her, but it looked as if she was also having her maiden bus trip. Grumpy bus driver set off looking firmly ahead, ignoring the fact that the embarrassed woman was having great trouble manoeuvring into the permitted space. Her face flushed with embarrassment, she pressed buttons and moved a few inches in each direction, ramming a passenger next to the aisle. Her ensuing panic resulted in her being firmly wedged in, preventing anyone getting on or off. I looked across the aisle at the emergency door and back to the window next to Joy, where a sign said In Emergency Break Glass with Hammer. Iwondered where the hammer was.

One passenger did get on and manage to squeeze by, or rather climb over the poor woman. To my horror it was our local ‘character’ Davo. We locals did not need to use the politically incorrect descriptions that came to mind with Davo. Just the mere mention of his name ‘Davo was in the shop’ or ‘Davo came up to our table in the restaurant’ was enough to illicit sympathy and horror.

‘Joy’ I whispered urgently ‘do not look that chap in the eye.’

Unfortunately he started talking in that bellowing voice of his to a young chap behind us, who obviously knew how to wind up Davo for entertainment. That’s when the baby, who had been sleeping peacefully strapped to his mother’s chest, started crying. By this time we had arrived at the stop planned for our disembarking, handy for the few shops in town that hadn’t closed down. It turned out the wheelchair was literally jammed and the driver was radioing his base for help. Luckily it transpired that Davo was an expert at smashing windows and opening emergency doors and the driver couldn’t reach us to stop him.

It was a long way down, but Davo helped us descend, albeit in a rather undignified manner,  bellowing ‘Age before beauty’ before assisting the young mum and other passengers.

Once safely on the pavement, Joy tapped into her phone. ‘Thanks goodness my nephew put the local taxi number into my new phone.’