Just not the ticket

Paul Carter gets more than he bargained for on his bus journey home.

I hate London buses at the best of the times. During the day they’re like a nightmarish series of Big Brother, while at night they turn into, well, an even more nightmarish version of Big Brother, except with more nudity.

Anyway, as Disability Now Towers are helpfully located in an area resembling downtown Basra, I have little choice but to rely on this wonderful form of transport for my journey to and from work.

I’m used to hearing certain things: “Can you manage?”, “Were you in an accident?”, “Get away from me or I’ll spray you with mace,” that sort of thing.

But, one day, my way home on one of the motorised misery machines was punctuated by an encounter with a friendly, elderly lady, who proceeded to take the seat next to me, despite there being others free, and tell me how brave and wonderful I am. I know this.

However, it wasn’t long before she broke from form, and asked me a question I can safely say I have never had the pleasure of being asked (which is no mean feat in itself. Go, granny).

“So…” she said, like she was talking to a budgie…“Can you eat?”

I was totally stopped in my tracks.

The budgie nearly fell off its perch. It was at precisely this moment that I have to admit I hit a bit of an emotional impasse.

I mean, she seemed sweet enough, but a big part of me wanted to fire back with some witty/hilarious/ offensive riposte, telling her that her line of questioning was inappropriate.

I know I should have, but to be honest, I couldn’t be bothered.

It was ten past six. It was raining. I wanted to get home to my microwave lasagne, watch celebrity embalming on ice with Alan Titchmarsh on BBC9, and tackle the menacing pile of old laundry sitting beside my bed that had not only reached the size of a dangerous dog, but was beginning to smell like one. I thought I’d heard it growl once, but that might have been me.

Anyway, my point is that the last thing I had the energy to do, with such matters of national importance pending, was remonstrate with an octogenarian about the merits of the social model and independent living. I failed you, dear movement. I’m sorry.

Yes, I’m ashamed to say that I did what any reasonably polite, socially disaffected 20-something would do – I smiled politely and told her that as remarkable as it may sound, I do indeed have the ability to eat food.

I didn’t tell her that (when Pizza Hut are shut at least) I can cook it, too. It might have finished her off. I didn’t need that on my conscience. Not before tackling laundry hound anyway.

So that was that. She looked suitably amazed, while I was relieved that she could instead go back to telling me all about her bunions and the details of her entire day at the hospital.

Or so I thought.

Her reply to my attempt at diffusing this potentially awkward situation?

“Well, at least you don’t have to do the washing-up.”

I give up.