City Bus Driver

Hospitals are just cities in soft shoes. The traffic’s slower, but it never stops, and no one’s indicating. I’ve been spending more time in hospital lately. Not as a patient, just visiting. One of those stretches that creeps from the odd evening to most days of the week, until you start recognising the vending machine repair guy and knowing which café has the strong tea. When you’re in that long enough, not in crisis, not in control, just there, you start to notice things. Patterns. Flows. Familiar strangers in uniforms. The way the place moves. And what struck me, more than anything, is that hospitals are just another kind of traffic system. A city of motion. Only instead of horns and headlights, it’s rubber soles and trolley wheels. There’s a certain choreography to it all. You can tell the staff from the visitors within two seconds. The staff move with purpose, straight lines, no hesitation. They walk like they’ve already made three decisions you haven’t caught up with. The visitors...

The weather’s warm, the schools are out, and everyone’s forgotten how doors work. Here’s how to keep your bus moving (mostly) forward. Top Tips for Managing Summer Crowds on the Bus Summer brings out the best in people, by which I mean their full volume, their worst planning, and their complete inability to stand behind a yellow line. If winter is for head-down commuting, summer is a circus, and the bus is the main tent. Here's how I survive the season without combusting or being mistaken for a tour guide. 1. Open the doors like you mean it, but only when you’ve assessed the species outside Approach the stop with caution. Not for traffic, for what’s waiting. You've got the dad who's already pointing where everyone should sit. The kid who's mid-meltdown about a dropped Calippo. The teenager pretending not to know the rest of them. And hovering off to one side, the wild card: the preboarder. You know the one. Does a wee side-step shuffle as if they're going to let oth...

It started, as these things often do, with something small. A mark. A smell. A hesitation no louder than a breath. The kind of moment you barely register, until it turns into something else entirely.  By the time the bus pulled away, the story had already begun to write itself. Just not the one anyone meant to tell. Three seconds. One shadow. A hundred headlines. There are moments on this job that last no longer than a blink, but echo for weeks. A pensioner's awkward glance. A hesitation at the step. A mark on the seat that might be nothing, or might be something. You weigh it. In real time. With forty people behind you. No script. No time to consult the manual (because there isn’t one). Just a quiet flicker of dread and the question no driver wants to ask:  If I’m wrong, what happens next? I wasn’t there. But I’ve been there. I’ve seen shadows that looked like stains, and stains that looked like shadows. I’ve had the smell of spilled cider haunt a bus for a whole shift, only ...

It was the last run of the shift, the sun was setting, and the air inside the bus was thick with the scent of teenage rebellion and something far worse. Between the Bluetooth beats, fruity fog and an unidentified chemical weapon left behind by a pensioner, I found myself refereeing a strange kind of peace treaty, with vape clouds as our only line of defence. School’s out, vapes are in, and one mystery stinker nearly derailed the lot. A tale of teamwork, tolerance, and a tactical haze. There’s a certain breed of chaos that only arrives when school’s out and the sun can’t decide if it’s setting or just sulking. You know the kind, restless energy, hormonal banter, and that dangerous combination of boredom and Bluetooth. I’d clocked the group as soon as they boarded. Usual weekend suspects. Faces I could sketch from memory, fair dodging routines rehearsed like a school play. One of them tried the classic "left my pass in my cousin’s car" routine. I gave him a look that said, “So...

A mysterious rider boards with a quiet grin and a coin in their pocket. Something’s being celebrated, but not out loud. They boarded like they’d just been knighted at the kitchen sink, fresh-faced, wide-eyed, carrying the kind of quiet victory that doesn’t need an audience but accepts one all the same. Not loud, not showy, just… unmistakably someone who woke up today already proud of themselves. There’s a kind of walk folk do when they’ve already won the day before breakfast. It’s not quite a strut, too self-aware for that, but there’s a bounce to it. Like the pavement’s giving them a round of applause. That’s what boarded this morning. Mid-morning, not quite rush, not quite calm. Buzzing with something invisible but important. They tapped on, grinning at nobody in particular, and made the kind of eye contact that tells you they’ve got good news and absolutely no plans to keep it to themselves. I gave them the usual nod, half polite, half do we know each other? …and they leaned in slig...

You Don’t Need to Be in the Cab to Feel It: A crash like that echoes through every depot. We weren’t there. But we know the weight of the wheel. I’m not a double deck driver. I wasn’t there. And I won’t claim to know what happened near Eastleigh yesterday, not with investigations still ongoing. But like a lot of us in the seat, I felt that cold drop in my gut. There’s something about seeing one of ours, uniformed, behind the wheel, doing the job, caught in a headline that starts with “crash” and ends with “students injured.” You feel it. Not because you know the full story (you don’t), but because you know the pressure, the road, the weight of that responsibility. Most of us go our whole careers without facing anything like that. We hope to keep it that way. But that doesn’t stop your mind from going there. Doesn't stop you wondering, What would I do? Would I have seen it coming? Could I have changed anything? The truth is, buses are heavy things. We drive them through tight spaces...

Once you’ve clocked 9 hours in uniform, even the vending machine starts judging you. It’s not just driving time that drags, it’s everything in between. Here’s why I stick to 39 hours and refuse overtime, no matter the pressure. Introduction I’m three months into a 12-month rethink of my overtime habits. After a steady drip of minor incidents, not enough to make headlines, but enough to make me think twice, I’ve realised piling on extra hours isn’t just about padding the pay packet. It’s about keeping my focus sharp, my sanity intact, and most importantly, everyone on the road safe. I know the desk staff might be throwing me the occasional side-eye, wondering why I’m not jumping at every chance to work overtime. If only money grew on trees, I’d be first in line. But unfortunately, it doesn’t. What does grow (or at least what I’m fiercely guarding) is my peace of mind, and a scrap of sanity after years of long shifts and minimal downtime. I’m at that point in life where I’d rather enjoy ...