Friday, 15 May 2015

He drove a bus...

Home was hell!


Dad was a bus driver, and although he often told me that driving a bus was a responsible job, that required a great deal of care and attention, his weekly pay never reflected the fact that people entrusted him to get them from A to B, safely. I think my old man made a big thing about how careful he had to be when transporting his passengers, and it sometimes sounded like he was actually a Jumbo Jet pilot, and not a lowly bus driver, who earned very little, and didn't even get the opportunity to drive his bus anywhere else other than on the estate where we lived.

But driving a bus was a steady job, that came with a uniform, the right to cheap bus travel and four weeks holiday a year. It wasn't exciting, but it WAS a job, and as dad told me every now and then, as though I hadn't heard it a hundred times before, having a job was the most important thing in life. Mum used to tell him to shut up when he started asking me what I wanted to do when I left school, telling him that I was a smart kid, and that I would end up doing something better than driving a bus for a living. I think if my wife had insulted me, like that, I would have laid into her, but because dad liked to avoid confrontation, and rarely listened to what my mum said, he just smiled, and say that there was no shame in being a bus driver.

Extract taken from "Dad drove a bus" - an ebook for kindle.
By the same author, in the same series: "The Londoners", "The Londoners 2 - After Love Comes Hate" & "The Londoners 3 - No Turning Back"

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