Next Stop, Deutsche Bank.

nextstop

If recent posts are doing a poor job sequestering my love for all things infantile, fine. This is my pram, these are my toys, and I’ll throw them how I choose.

In a world where little boys sit in glass-wrapped offices and rest their Helmut Lang elbows on mahogany desks, I’m calling bullshit. Why?

Because I am a lady who rides the bus. And when some clown freezes the Jubilee Line because retrieving his smartphone from the tracks seemed a “better idea between trains”, Canary Wharf also rides the bus.

The bus is an interesting place. Seat margins replace profits, Tartine et Chocolat gives Tom Ford the middle finger, and there is no UberSelect. It’s called “I put my coat there first”. For all the billions these heavyweights net in their high-rises, I’ve yet to see one of these fuckers come up with a counter-argument for the twelve year-old who was “sitting there first”.

And that is because the bus is the rail replacement service to childhood.

Everyone pushes to get on.

Everyone wants to sit by the window/at the back/on the convex bit that’s cool because it’s above the wheel.

No-one argues with the driver.

Shoving? He’ll call you on it. Press the bell¬†when the sign clearly says someone already did? He’ll call you on it. And just like at school, if you’re the victim of bullying, eyes on the road, didn’t see a damn thing.

Food gets more interesting here, too. Fast food joints on the street won’t even register on your radar. But when that nurse pulls out a congealed tray of cold noodles? Noodles are the greatest thing CREATED EVER.

The older get priority seating.

They should get priority boarding, but no-one gives a shit.

Nobody should be littering. Everyone still does.

Someone always misses their stop. There is one acceptable reaction to this. Man the fuck up, and shrug it off.

If you’re on your way to an interview and on a bus, you’re probably not going to make it. To the interview, and you know, in life, generally. Still, retain what Google told you. Look like you’ve got it together. Sound like you’ve got it together. ¬†Make eye contact.

Except on the bus.

If you happen to be on the phone (which I believe these gargantuan office transactions at some point require), make sure everyone can hear you. No, louder. We like having our own little world hijacked by why you will or won’t be turning up to dinner, broken down into microscopic detail, then blasted through a megaphone. Make sure to repeat yourself. They might not have heard you the first time.

Make sure to begin your call with “hi, it’s me”.

No. Better. Leave it in a voicemail.

My popularity-guaranteed life coach services are available seven days a week. Except when I’m on the phone.

Advertisements

For Some Reason, Nicole Scherzinger Comes To Mind. You’ll See…

overload

Wouldn’t life be simpler if we all just had less stuff?

I mean yes, the mass acquisition of hairdryers and just-opened face creams that will even out those fine lines is important; you never know when you might grow an extra head that needs blow-drying and well, void of the creams, our bathroom shelves would take on a sudden abandoned Albanian warehouse feel. Is an empty bathroom cabinet just a new Cold War?

No, I mean stuff. The Suitcases Of Life. The more it weighs, the more you pay.

The mis-matched friends, one always inside out. You found her like that, so like that she will stay. The pamphlet that came with The Manual To Life. You keep it in the top drawer between the Really Important Stuff and the microwave warranty. You’ll never read it. You either know it all already; always did, always will and Don’t Need Instructions.

Or you’ve accepted.

Elements of life will always be pseudo-Swedish. Self-assemble. Break along the way because the bracket that was supposed to be a screw is in fact a really small tumour and helplines are closed on weekends. So you’ll try and put the thing together yourself. Call a friend who’s “good with things”. The manual? Well, it’s there as backup but let’s face it, the only growth it will ever really produce is a fine layer of dust.

It’s like clearing out your bookmarks folders. When was the last time you did that? Never. You don’t. You just create new ones. Because there are job specs and apartments you never visited and amazon urls for good eyeliner- of which, let’s make this clear now, there are none. There are only people good with eyeliner.

There’s useful stuff, though. The extension cord friends. Now they’re good. Totally useless on their own, but hook them up to shit that’s already there and my, doesn’t the room come alive?

The bottom drawer olive branches for the moments you’re as much at a loose end physically as you are metaphorically.

You envy those who don’t need extension cords. You know the kind I mean. Roll out of bed every morning at 7.05am looking like an Oxford shirt press just ran over a Malibu beach barbie in the most choreographed collision ever. They have no loose ties. No loose ends. No split ends. Just split peas in their quinoa, lentil and leaf rocket lunch salad.

Never could figure out how they needed fewer sockets. Then I realised, they need fewer plugs. Three, maybe. Phone, laptop and the worst. Spare. Christ, they even have spare time.

I am highly suspect of people without the need for spare extension cords. That’s why you people wear cable-knit sweaters, isn’t it?

I know you and I hate you. Your printer never runs out of colour ink even though you and everyone else on this fucking planet only prints in black and white. You find your flat immediately. The viewing was on your way home from work and anyway, by the time you’d signed, your girlfriend was just about done with finishing touches of her eyeliner to meet you for dinner. She eats Italian and doesn’t make a mess. She’s a good eyeliner person. I hate her too.

You never had to quit anything; jobs, cigarettes. You don’t even have to Force Quit. You are Control, have Alternatives and you never need to Delete because you never make mistakes.

You have one pitfall, though. It’s not a big one, but it’s explained, for instance, by the fact that I’ve long unfollowed you on Facebook.

You’re boring. I can’t even decide if I you rank higher or lower than the distressed cut-offs. You’re literally so dull, I can’t decide how dull.

If you’re a recruiter who’s somehow landed on this page and made it this far, feel free to add “not dull” to her list of qualities. If you’re unsure as to its being a “marketable” quality, ask yourself this. Is the product you sell more or less interesting than The Comprehensive History Of Drains? If yes, good. because consumers generally like versatility and also congratulations on having avoided an industry where you’re grateful the default wallpaper on your smartphone is primarily a giant clock. If no, you’ve properly lucked out. Because I make drains sound fucking epic.