Monday

MONDAY

I'm standing at the bus stop, finishing a cigarette. There's a group of Eastern Europeans to my left. Two men in their late twenties, and a blonde haired girl of about the same age. I think they're Polish. On the red plastic seating sits an old bearded man, small and hunched, smoking a dirty rollup. He coughs weakly. A Hasidic couple walk past, young child in tow. It's a cold October morning, mist lingering in the air, the damp seeping into my jacket. I shiver slightly. The bus arrives, I swipe my Oyster, go find a seat, manoeuvring round a large African lady tending a pram and screaming child. I get a window seat, my favourite. I pull out my CD player and put the plastic headphones in my ears, press play and Leatherface scream into my skull. The 'Horsebox' LP, from 2000, the first LP after they reformed. Good stuff, wakes me up, primes me for a day at work. I pull out the 'zine I'm reading, some article on how we can cut carbon emissions by about 70% through decentralised energy. "The most touted example is the town of Woking in Surrey; the council have reduced their carbon dioxide emissions by 77% thanks to a mixture of BE and energy efficiency. My Nan used to live in Woking, I remember.

At Manor House, a pretty young Muslim girl sits down next to me, looking somewhat nervous and perching on her seat. She must be about eighteen. I stop reading and stare out the window as the bus crawls through the morning traffic pass Finsbury Park and down the Holloway Road. Condensation clings to the glass, small beads of liquid jerking with the motions of the vehicle. I pass the women's prison and think of the week I spent sleeping on a friend's floor, in the flats next to the prison. This is when I was flat-hunting. That was over a year ago now. What's that pub we went to? The one with the free jukebox? The Swimmer. That was it.

I can see the three Poles standing at the front of the bus, chatting. I watch them as the bus reaches Camden Road, wondering what it is they do. Where they work, where they drink, what they want out of life. In my ears, Leatherface have reached their cover of Nick Cave's 'Ship Song', a personal favourite. Every time I hear this band I feel inspired, positive, and I believe that punk rock can matter in the modern world, it can help down break down barriers and bring people closer together. It was never about not caring, cutting yourself off from history, nihilism, whatever. It was never about fashion. It's an idea that transcends class, culture, race and gender, and is open to anyone who cares to find it. The DIY scene is proving to be more and more important in my life. I wish I could be contributing more. I've started writing again; this time I'm not trying to impress anyone, I have my own ideas about what I want to say. No pale homages. In my head I can tie it all together. Oliver Cromwell and Margaret Thatcher, Derek Jarman and William Blake, Alan Moore and Frankie Stubbs. Finally, I can see how it all fits together. I'm not even angry with all that was kept from me during my education. I found this myself, it took a long time, but now I feel ready to move with it.

My mind always sparks like this on the bus, why I couldn't say, but I enjoy it.

Today I'm going to work, and every day for the next few months will be like this. That I can accept, but my life is going to change soon. I can feel it.

I snap out my daze and realise the bus is pulling into Euston. The pretty Muslim girl still perches next to me. We alight together. The Poles are gone. So has the African lady with the screaming child. Did he scream the entire journey, I wonder. I step off the bus into a cloud of exhaust fumes, walk out the station and cut through the University, push through a group of excited looking first-years (you can tell immediately). A group of construction workers sit by their scaffolding, smoking, clearly eyeing the young student girls with lustful stares. I pass the student union, cut through the campus onto Gower Street, pass the bookstore I once worked at. Idly I think of the colleague I pursued romantically, trying hard to remember what I ever saw in her. I cut up Chenies Street and reach the back entrance of work. My manager is at the other side of the glass door, keys in hand. He motions at me inquiringly. Idiot sign language for: 'Do you want to come in?' I hold up the cigarette I have just rolled. My sign language for: 'In a minute'. He opens the door, tells me he'll leave the keys in the door and for me to lock them on my way in. We don't open for another hour. He scurries away.

I sit on the concrete steps, light my cigarette and think of trying to quit. I think of punk rock and carbon emissions, of Poles and Muslims and Africans, of the old man on the bench with the dirty roll-up, who just sat and stared as I climbed onto the bus. The sun is coming up. The mist is lifting, and I smile.

Gary Budden, 2006