My expired car park pass means that to get to work, I now have to face extortionate parking fees. Or I could take the bus in to town; doing my bit for my bank balance, the local transport economy, the environment and the world’s oil supplies. Which would be nice in theory. But who wants to have to get up earlier and traipse through whatever the British weather throws at you, just to be cramped into a herd of faces that are not driving just cos they’re too old? Or cos they’re too young. Or – worse still – cos they’re too working class. Not me. Too many training shoes, ‘iPods’ noise spillages and small change transactions for my liking.
However I kind of met my good intentions half-way today, easing myself into a greener existence by car-pooling my way to work, then catching the bus home. But I found it strange experience waiting at the stop to get home. I was flooded with feelings of nostalgia. This was the same bus stop I used to wait at as a young teenager. In the same town as when I was a teenager. Heading back to the same home I lived at as a teenager. The last time I was doing this regularly, there was time to kill by standing at bus stops. Life was just starting. There were many paths to take laid out in front, leading in all sorts of different directions; all mine for the choosing. But here I was, back again. In my home town which seemed virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Wearing the same face which was virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Fifteen years on, and following years of carving a new life through different cities, different jobs, different homes and different unsuccessful relationships, I have found myself back here again, waiting at this same damn bus stop, to get back to my parent’s home, where I find myself living again in a quiet suburban village. It is amazing how quick nostalgia morphs into melancholy. And yes, you did read that bit correctly. I am a 31 year old man living with his dad. The ultimate status symbol of a sad, stagnated existence.
In fairness, it was my own decision to move back in with my dad. But there were pressures at the time and since my parents’ divorce, it seemed more sensible and noble to financially assist my own dad with rent rather my last landlord. I also thought that living there as an adult might be a bit like Frasier, with two optimistic bachelors sharing a house and making inter-generational wry comments about each other. But in practise, it is more like Steptoe and Son; with two tragic figures stomping around a house, swearing at each other. Whilst wearing long-johns.
Eventually the bus arrived. It cost £1.80, which would make it £3.60 a day were I to regularly travel both ways. In future I have decided to pay the extra 90p to cover the £4.50 car park charge; if only to shield and anaesthetise me from having to address any further issues like the ones bought up today. The way I see it, that’s pretty good value. It’s sort of thing usually costs me a tenner in the pub.
