City Bus Driver

A routine shift took an unexpected turn, not because of what I saw, but because of what I smelled. Then came the black butterflies drifting across the windscreen. Except they weren't butterflies at all. Every city has two faces. There's the one we know. Busy streets. Coffee cups in hurried hands. The rhythm of traffic. The familiar dance of buses, pedestrians and cyclists, each weaving around the other in a choreography repeated thousands of times a day. Then there's the other face. The one that only appears when something extraordinary happens. My day began like any other. There was nothing to suggest that, somewhere nearby, a building was fighting for its life. The first clue wasn't flashing blue lights or a road closure. It was the smell. Not the comforting scent of a wood fire, nor the faint aroma of traffic baking on warm tarmac. This was heavier. Damp smoke. Wet ash. Burnt timber soaked by thousands of gallons of water. A smell that settled in the air and lingered...

Some passengers board a bus. Others adopt it. One of my regulars has convinced me they're not entirely human, but rather a highly evolved house cat in a jacket. Some punters operate on an entirely different level. Take one of my regulars. Lovely soul. Polite. Quiet. Never any bother. But I'm increasingly convinced they're actually a domesticated cat. Every morning they climb aboard, tap on with the same gentle routine and offer a soft, almost musical, "Thank you, driver." Now, maybe it's the early starts. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe years of inhaling diesel fumes have finally loosened a few screws. But I swear they're purring. Not loudly, mind. Nothing obvious. Just the faintest suggestion of a contented little rumble as they shuffle past the cab. "Mrrrp." Classic cat behaviour. They always sit downstairs. Always. Yet they never sit in the same seat twice. No, no. That would be far too straightforward. First comes the inspection. Like some fel...

The summer heat has arrived, and with it comes strange sights. Driving through the city exposes you to humanity at its best, worst, and occasionally flattest. Today, I witnessed what may well be the first official casualty of Edinburgh's latest heat wave. The summer heat has finally landed in Edinburgh, and as every bus driver knows, once the temperature climbs above "pleasant", the city starts behaving differently. Driving in the city exposes you to all sorts. Tempers shorten. Shirts disappear. Folk suddenly decide that crossing the road without looking is an acceptable life choice because, apparently, heatstroke doubles as a traffic management strategy. Today, however, I witnessed what I can only describe as the first casualty of the recent heat wave. As I approached one of the city's many bus stops that have mysteriously evolved into unofficial loading bays, I spotted a familiar sight: a delivery lorry parked squarely in the stop while its driver carried out a drop...

Some passengers get on, pay their fare and sit down. Others treat the bus like they're viewing a flat to rent. This gentleman managed to turn a five-minute journey into a full-scale investigation into the climate of public transport. We've had one of those strange hot spells in Edinburgh where the entire city loses its mind. The folk who spend eleven months of the year complaining about the cold suddenly discover they're allergic to sunshine. Every second person is carrying a fan, every supermarket has sold out of ice lollies, and every bus driver has developed the complexion of a boiled lobster. Into this tropical paradise steps today's star attraction. The doors open and on he comes, dressed as if he was heading to a hill walk in the Cairngorms in February. Heavy jacket. Thick trousers. The sort of outfit that says, "I don't trust the weather, even in August." He looks at me and says, "Can you wait five seconds while I go upstairs and see how hot it...

Four former wedding photographers, one Edinburgh heatwave, and enough old stories to fill a photo album. What started as casual drinks on George Street became an afternoon of laughter, nostalgia, alfresco dining, and rediscovering the city through fresh eyes. Sometimes the best memories arrive quietly, over Guinness, cocktails, and Edinburgh architecture glowing in the sun. There’s something oddly restorative about seeing your city through the eyes of friends who don’t get into town nearly as often as they’d like. The moment they stepped onto George Street, the usual comments returned almost instantly, how grand Edinburgh feels, how every second building looks like it belongs on a postcard, and how even an ordinary wander between bars somehow turns into an accidental architecture tour. As locals, you forget that sometimes. You spend so much time navigating the city around shift patterns, traffic lights, diversions, and roadworks that you stop properly looking at it. But yesterday felt ...

A delayed train with clear updates feels manageable. A silent platform with flickering signs and no explanation turns an inconvenience into suspicion within minutes. Scottish football increasingly feels like that platform, supporters staring at the information board, waiting for transparency that never quite arrives. Anyone who regularly uses Britain’s transport networks understands the importance of clear communication when systems come under pressure. Delays, diversions, cancellations, most people can tolerate them surprisingly well when they are told honestly what’s happening. Frustration usually grows in the gap between the problem itself and the explanation that never arrives. That’s partly why so many supporters have become increasingly vocal about the state of governance and officiating in Scottish football. Not because every fan believes in wild conspiracies or hidden agendas, but because people naturally lose confidence when institutions appear reluctant to explain themselves ...

Four nights in Portrush for the NW200: superbikes at 200mph, luxury digs, Guinness by the gallon, a naked man unknowingly wearing a sock as a thong, and a near-disaster involving a flying D-lock bag on the ride home. Road racing was only half the story. There are holidays designed for relaxation. Spa weekends. Quiet cottages. Little countryside retreats involving herbal tea and conversations about scented candles. Then there’s the annual migration to the North West 200 in Portrush,  where thousands of people gather beside ordinary public roads to watch motorcycles attempt to punch holes through reality at 200mph. Naturally, that sounded far more appropriate. So four of us headed across the water for a four-night stay on the North Coast, armed with questionable planning, race-week optimism, and enough overnight bags to suggest we’d misunderstood the concept of “travelling light.” And somehow, against all odds, it became one of those trips you immediately know you’ll still be...