Mountains, Molehills, Bugger and Fuck

Ever since I got rid of my immensely plush luxury car (because owning a car in London is about as useful as having plutonium in your eye), I have ridden the bus to work every day. Usually this is a non-eventful experience, where I can sit and read my copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J. K. Rowling, which I'm only reading so I can level informed arguments against idiotic supporters of the series) in peace for one-and-a-half-fucking hours on the way to work.

So this morning, I was sitting there on the bus, reading about Harry's god-awful capers when I noticed a girl sit down next to me.

Now, I wouldn't normally give a flying titwank about who sat next to me on a bus, because unless it's a tramp or a lunatic I'd be far too engrossed in my book to look up.

But I did notice this girl. Why’d I do that? Could it have been all that long, straight, blonde hair that was swishing around just moments from my right ear? You can bet your bottom Pop-Tart it was. An inaudible, blissful sigh weaved through my soul.

In any case, I knew I wasn't going to do anything. Chatting up girls on the bus? Classy... Nah, it's not for me. I was quite content to sit and read my book, even though it was shit and she was at least five trillion times more worth my while. Oh, and I'm shy.

But then - she got out a book. A book? Beautiful blonde girl on a bus with a book? Surely not? I assumed it must be some sort of girl-power, Mills & Boony, feel-good claptrap with pictures or something. But as I glanced even harder sideways, my blinkered stereotyping was shattered when I saw that it was actually Imajica by Clive Barker, which is one of the best, most creatively stimulating books I've read all decade.

She opened it towards the end. I was smitten.

Now then, would be my chance. My chance to engage her in conversation. The crack in the door through which I would shove my foot, bursting into the antechambers of her mind with a vast array of educated commentary on the very book she was about to finish.

Did I do anything? Did I, fuck. I just continued to stare gormlessly at my own book, not even reading, instead listening to my scheming brain citing reason after reason why I shouldn't talk to her. She might not want to be disturbed and she might not want to talk to you were coming in at the top of the list, but my eager head churned out hundreds more reasons than that - including, randomly, what if she has a wooden leg? What the fuck was wrong with me? Anyway...

I went back to reading. Easy come, easy not-to-do-a-fucking-thing-about-it. Story of my life.

But then...

THEN.

She dropped her book.

All over me.

Freeze action.

It wasn't the usual sort of fumble, the same sort of fumble that means most women spend hours forwarding and reversing their car in a straight line in the vague hope that against all laws of dynamics their car will fit into a parking space. No... This was deliberate. It had to be! How the hell does one drop a book so far to the left that it flaps all the way down my chest, over my own book, over my knees and onto the floor between my feet? That's no accident - she wanted it up the arse. From me.

It seemed as though my brain was on my side for this. Nice one. But of course, the eternal question: What, in the name of Christing Fuckery, was I going to do?

Brain: What? Isn't it obvious? Just pick up the sodding book and give it back to her - then ask her how she's finding it.
Me: But... Uhh... What if...
Brain: What if what, you stuttering imbecile?
Me: What if I fart?
Brain: What the fuck? Don't fucking fart you moron!

My final clutchings at straws didn't work. Brain was right. It was time to face the music. I was up. Showtime.

Resume action.

I'd already wasted valuable seconds being berated by my higher brain functions, so I had to work fast. I reached down, picked up the book, and turned to her waiting, smiling face. At this point, I could smell perfume - Issey Miyake - very faint, she must only wear it on nights out - pure class. I was at that turning point where rejection didn't matter because this girl was too good for me anyway. I was ready to say hi.

So I turned to her, eyes saying "IwantyouIwantyouIwantyou", handed her back the book and...

I burbled.

Not a simple stutter, nor a basic slurring of words. No. This was a burble born of the underworld. It sounded like a chain-cigar-smoking Jar-Jar Binks trying to speak Aramaic through a throat full of razor blades.

"Hrrrgrghhhhh*coughcoughcough*"

My hopes and spirits were dashed, and the hot flush of embarrassment was piling into my face and ears. Yet as this crazed sound emanated from my mouth, she continued to smile, saying,

"I'm sorry, what?"

A second chance? My brain was already reeling from the nightmarish failure that was my attempt to communicate with her. The echo of the burble was still hanging in my mind like a blazing symbol of my utter, utter incompetence. And she was still waiting for me to try again, to churn out the thousands of interesting and witty remarks I could make about her book - but all I could do was dwell on the demon-spawned gibberish that had crept betwixt my lips.

I pulled myself together to the point where I could say,

"Ah, sorry - here's your book."

Brain: Here's your book? Here's your book!? She knows that! Say something interesting!
Me: I've forgotten everything!
Brain: Idiot, Idiot, Idiot, Idiot, Idiot!

"Thanks, sorry about that," small laugh, "So you're into Harry Potter?"

Brain: QUICK! Say something clever about the Potter series!
Me: B-B-B-B-
Brain: You've been reading the stupid things for a week, you must know something!
Me: My mind is blank! You're distracting me!
Brain: Idiot, Idiot, Idiot, Idiot, Idiot!

"Uhh, yeah. Heh."

And then I went back to reading my book.

Brain: Fucking twat.

That wasn't even the worst of it. When she left the bus, she turned and smiled at me just as she was stepping off. She smiled at me - even after I'd considered her having a wooden leg, even after the Damien-cursed croak I'd levelled at her, and even after I'd proved myself to be a stupid little shit that couldn't string together any words worth listening to. In hindsight, it was probably a sympathy smile. But even that was nice of her. How did I repay her?

I raised my eyebrow at her.

I raised my cunting eyebrow at her, in some sort of derogatory 'smile all you want, but I won't smile back' way, even though my heart was sighing over her look and smell and character. What sort of mindlessly stupid idiocy-monger would dare attempt this form of lunacy? ME, that's who... Me.

I raised my eyebrow at her and went back to reading as though she didn't really exist. So bravo, me... Even if she did get this same bus on some other morning, I wouldn't get another chance. She'd avoid me like the blubbering, feckless plague that I am.

BUGGER.

What did I need with an Issey-Miyake-wearing, Cliver-Barker-reading, Perfect-Hair-swishing pretty girl that wanted to talk to me, anyway?

BUGGER AND FUCK.