Twenty Minutes at the Village Bus Stop

I'm sitting in the village bus shelter.  It's twenty minutes before the bus is due, but its arrival times are as fluid as today's pouring rain, and as we only have one bus a day you don't want to miss it.

Usually there are other people in here for me to chat to, but it seems that nobody else fancies a walk around soggy Cirencester today.

I'm not one of those people who automatically pulls out their mobile and stares at a screen while they're waiting. I like to look around.  I find it sad that when I'm at the doctor, dentist or airport all I see are people staring at lumps of plastic and perspex, clutched in their hands.  Years ago we used to talk, make eye contact, smile.

There are faint lines of graffiti on the shelter wall.  I've seen them before but never looked. They're along traditional lines :

'hannah fucks rick', says the first one, with a date of 2016.

'and PLFC', says the second line. PL is the initials of our village.  PLFC is our football club.

I think about the Hannahs in the village who would have been teenagers in 2016.  There's only one.  She's married to Richard, the captain of the football team.  Corroborating evidence.  Guess being captain he gets first dibs.

'and the navy', says the third line.

This is something of a conundrum.  The nearest port to us is Bristol about 50 miles away.  On the other hand, we have an army base only 6 miles north.  If Hannah had wished to expand her social circle outside the confines of the village, the army would seem the obvious choice.  So did she harbour dreams of running away to sea ? Was she in love with a sailor ?  I can hardly ask her.  It's another maritime mystery to join the Marie Céleste and the Waratah.

'and dnled trump', (sic) says the fourth line. The date is 2017, so from someone with a better grasp of contemporary politics than spelling.  Whether this is supposed to be a slur on Donald or Hannah I cannot tell.  It is the last line, so nobody, it seems, can trump Trump.

Dog walkers stomp past in wellies and shiny voluminous macs, their collars turned up and their faces turned down.  Resentful looking dogs are pulled along, their coats plastered down, casting envious glances at me in my (reasonably) dry shelter. Except for Charlie the black cocker spaniel.  He has a big grin on his face and is towing along his elderly owner Fred, who with his white beard, yellow waterproof and sou'wester could double for Captain Birdseye in an Atlantic gale. You can never have too much water for a spaniel.

Through the rainy sheets I see an orange blob making its way up the High Road.  Right on time. As I step onto the steamy, empty bus I think of Shakespeare's 'All the world's a stage'. I'm so glad he didn't have a mobile.