Buses. I'm Not A Fan.

I do not like buses.

I appreciate their usefulness. I understand they perform an important public service, getting people around for a relatively low cost (or free, if you’re of a certain age), reducing traffic, helping the environment and all that important stuff. It’s wonderful, it really is.

I still don’t like them.

For starters, they’re always hot. Not warm, hot. There’s a very specific bus heat that somehow exists regardless of what the weather is doing outside. You can be on one mid February, dressed like you’ve just completed an Arctic expedition, battled horizontal rain and sat yourself on a bus, and wondered why you weren’t dressed in shorts and t-shirt.

Then, there’s the smell. Every bus has one. It’s almost impossible to describe because it’s not one particular smell. It’s more of a sweaty mess of smells that have combined over many years to create a unique eau de bus. Damp coats, warm upholstery, a stale sandwich, deodorant, a vague hint of diesel and something you can’t quite identify but would rather not look into too closely.

I also don’t particularly enjoy buses where people insist on talking to me.

I’m a social person. I like people. I enjoy chatting. Buses, however, should be treated the same way as urinals. Not in that way, obviously, although judging by the behaviour of some people on public transport, perhaps those rules need clarifying. What I mean is, don’t sit next to me unless absolutely necessary, don’t make prolonged eye contact, and most of all, don’t start a conversation. Let’s all just do what we’ve got to do, and get off.

Unfortunately, on Saturday evening, I found myself on a bus.

This wasn’t through choice. We’d just got back to the train station, walked briskly outside and joined the queue at the taxi rank. We waited patiently for a taxi to arrive for us, and eventually, we reach the coveted position of ‘next’. This, however, doesn’t actually mean you are next.

A taxi pulled up, looked at the queue (and when I say queue, this was a queue of two parties) and decided that somebody else was considerably more appealing than me. I’m not entirely sure what the criteria was that was being used, but whatever that was, I failed. So, having been rejected by what appeared to be North Wales’ only taxi, we got the bus.

I was with my parents, and when we got on, we immediately spotted the back seats. Perfect. The back of the bus is ideal because you’re away from people and there’s minimal chance anyone can sneak up behind you and tell you their entire life story. We sat down, and embraced a full 30 seconds of peace.

Then… they arrived. A couple who had spent the afternoon becoming extremely well refreshed with what can only be described as most of the wine available in Llandudno. They made their way, slowly, to the back of the bus. Of course they did.

They weren’t really talking to each other. In fact, they weren’t really talking to anyone. They were just.. saying words. A stream of consciousness being shared with anyone unfortunate enough to be in range.

I immediately tried the public transport defence mechanisms. Look out of the window. Check phone. Read the adverts. All with a level of intensity never before used. Then, I noticed it. Mum noticed it. Dad noticed it.

A dog.

This, I thought to myself, could be a problem. Despite the well know and (probably) scientifically known fact that dogs are better than cats, it is illegal to not say hello to a dog. Out went our hands, and over came the dog. ‘Awww,’ we said, collectively. That’s fulfilled our conversation.

‘She’s called Helen, she is’

Is she. That’s lovely.

‘This is Helen.’

We’ve established that.

‘She’s 10 months old, she is.

‘Well that’s lovely’

‘I’ve got a turtle called Alan.’

I’m still trying to work out how that became an appropriate answer to a conversation about a 10-month old dog called Helen, but here we are.

'Oh...!'

'He's ten years old'

'Is he! Wow'

‘She’s called Helen, our dog is’

‘She’s a lovely dog!’ Mum replied, while I sat curious as to where this Alan detour had come from.

‘She’s called Helen.’

I know. I know she’s called Helen. Everyone on the bus knows she’s called Helen. People on the upper deck of a different bus can probably grasp that this dog is called Helen. And, to her credit, Helen looked every bit as fed up with the journey as I was, and we’d been on the bus for less than two minutes.

The couple, in a brief moment of appropriate volume talking, decided to settle in. They had to get settled, they insisted, because they were going to St. Asaph. With Helen. Their dog. Who is called Helen. They shuffled themselves round, made themselves comfortable, then restarted the talking at a volume that suggested they wanted to communicate with someone several stops ahead. At one point she buried her head in her partner's pelvis. I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why. Dad glanced over. He likes this bus. I'm not sure he was a fan of this one.

By this point, I had accepted that I’d probably be stuck here forever. The conversation continued, if repeating the same sentences in a different order can be classed as conversation. It slowly became a background murmur, punctuated by the occasional ‘Helen’, who is a dog.

I stared out of the window, and started trying to work out how long it’d take me to walk from where I was. Probably a while. Less talkative though.

I know buses are important, practical and thousands of very normal people use them without incident. But I also know there’s a 10 month old dog somewhere in St. Asaph called Helen. And thanks to this journey, I’ll never, ever, forget that.

I’ll walk next time.