Your journey to the office, like many people’s, doesn’t much veer from the following standard going-to-work fare. You hurriedly lock the door behind you and crash onto the street. It may be raining, but invariably this is the first you know about it but you’ll miss your bus if you attempt to go back inside, unlock the door and find a broken umbrella. So, Wanda-like and flailing, you head for the end of the road.
The short walk to the bus stop: you have one eye on the shelter and another on the drone of vehicles passing by in case you spot your bus and have to mount a lumbering run to slip between its flapping doors. You reach the shelter, hopefully in good stead to catch your ride, but by this time if it’s raining you’re soaked through and know that you must slouch in sodden clothes for at least however long it takes before you can get off again.
This particular bus stop is always inhabited, but the seasons dictate the formation and the temperament of its dwellers. In the depths of winter it’s a clammy affair where people huddle for warmth underneath the slight roof of the shelter like newborn mice hankering for a lactating mother-tit, the more unfortunate relegated to the sidelines to cushion the fall of rainwater streaming gutter-like from the shelter ridges. If you’re late you don’t even have the privilege of this position and must watch from the pavement like an experiential meteorologist.
Eventually (and at this point we must assume it was a ‘good’ morning and you actually made it this far) the bus arrives, tailgated by the obligatory second bus behind. The endless wait ensues during which you scratch your head and curse under your breath as you consider the vacuous mind of Other People as they suddenly realise they have to pay to use public transport (as if this were some lightning-rod revelation) and must manage their petty cash at the bus stop, learn number set theory, call their accountant, haggle with the driver, and any other malignant fool-action they can devise in the long-haul time it took for them to activate their brain stem for the day ahead. You begin to sympathise with Sartre.
Eventually you all board and the driver heaves the hulking great wheels round the roundabout and you hunker down for the roasting/freezing journey to seven-hours-plus of Job in which your life is disappearing one second at a time…