I’m pulling up to the stop, my eyes scanning the usual scene. Then I spot her, an elderly lady who looks like she’s about to launch the most covert mission of the century.
She’s sitting there, hunched over with a quiet intensity, completely engrossed in the contents of her handbag. It’s like she’s unravelling the mysteries of the universe, one crumpled receipt at a time.
Her hands move with the kind of precision that you only see in people who have rehearsed their movements for years, maybe decades. It’s as though she’s performing a delicate surgery on a handbag, removing each item with such careful deliberation that you’d think she was examining ancient relics. The lipstick is the first to make an appearance. It’s placed delicately, its shiny red surface glinting in the sunlight. No rush, no hesitation. Then the tissues. Folded neatly, placed with mathematical precision, as if the tissue-to-lipstick ratio could determine the fate of the universe.
She continues her performance, unfazed by the world around her, clearly so engrossed in her work that she doesn’t even notice the chaos that’s brewing just a few feet away. Receipts, hand sanitiser, an old bus ticket, each item finds its place in an invisible order known only to her. It’s a ritual, a sacred practice, the like of which I’ve never seen before. It could very well be the prelude to some intergalactic journey, or perhaps the preparation for the day’s greatest crisis, a royal visit, maybe? Or the sudden need to fend off a hoard of the undead?
As I watch, I feel an odd sense of awe. This isn’t just handbag organisation. No, no. This is a carefully crafted dance, a precise, planned choreography that she’s performing in full view of anyone lucky (or unlucky) enough to witness it. The bag becomes her stage, the items become her dancers, and the onlookers? Mere props in her grand, secret show.
She doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble. Everything’s placed exactly where it should be. It’s like watching a maestro conduct an invisible orchestra, the kind where the instruments are tubes of lipstick and scrunched-up receipts. She aligns each item with such focus that I’m half-tempted to applaud, though I’m not sure what for. Her complete absorption is unsettling, yet strangely hypnotic.
And then, finally, the moment comes. The bus pulls up. She stops, examines the masterpiece she’s created, and without a word, scoops everything back into her bag. Her work is done, as though the whole process was merely a warm-up for something greater. Perhaps she's not just getting ready for the bus ride. No, this was the prelude to something far more significant. An apocalypse-preparedness drill? A spy mission for MI6? Maybe she’s been hired by the government to carry out a top-secret operation that requires her to have tissues, hand sanitiser, and lipstick at the ready.
I’ll never know. I just have to marvel at how seamlessly she’s prepared herself for a world that, for most of us, is unprepared for the chaos ahead.
And as she steps on the bus, I can’t help but wonder: Does she know something we don’t?
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