‘Food For Thought.’

A typical English summer afternoon. Grey skies, gale force winds and rain falling with such intensity that it met itself as it bounced off the ground and attempted to return from whence it came. It couldn’t get much worse, but yes it could. A giant bolt of lightning ricocheted across the mountainous sky in its search for absolution. It achieved this as it hit the lightning conductor of the local church. An explosion of such volume and pressure followed it that I was forced to cover my ears and shut my eyes tight. When I had full use of my senses again the rain intensified and with it hailstones the size of Ping-Pong balls. I was almost soaked to the skin but to prevent complete saturation I desperately looked round for shelter. There, just a hundred yards up the road was what I needed.

"Rain will spread south, reaching the Midlands this evening. Temperatures will be a pleasant twenty-two degrees. The forecast for tomorrow is heavy rain so don’t forget your brolly." The smiling weather girl on breakfast television announced the end of the heat wave. After all these years I still have faith in our meteorologists, in spite of Michael Fish, and so I planned a day out. There was a photographic exhibition I wanted to see; I had some book vouchers to spend and a new pair of jeans would be nice. The latter not necessary but why not! I decided to make a day of it and have lunch whilst I was out.

As usual the bus was late, and crowded. Full of pensioners on their way to the local supermarket. I eventually got a seat next to a very garrulous old lady. "Have you got enough room there dear? I shan’t be sorry to see the end of this hot weather will you?" I muttered my agreement. This was a very boring bus journey and a ‘boring’ conversation would not make it pass any quicker.
 "Just like the summer of seventy-six," she continued. "You could imagine you were abroad. Not that I’ve ever been. My daughter goes to Benidorm every year and she loves it. Can’t get enough of the sun. My cat Queenie, a Persian Blue, hates this weather. Just mopes around."
 I wouldn’t know a Persian Blue if it jumped up and bit me on the nose but then I was only required to make noises of agreement, which was a blessing.

I got to my stop and had to wait until all the pensioners got off. I know I shouldn’t complain, and I will be old one day, but why do they stop to talk to everyone else on the bus? Then just as you think that release is near you hear, "Thank you driver. I’ll see you later. I usually manage to get your bus. What happened the other day? It was your bus the ambulance came to wasn’t it. I was told some poor old lady was taken poorly!"
Then she notices me and says "Oh sorry dear. Do you want to get off?"
What did she think I was trying to do! I really believe that there should be pensioner only buses. I’m not surprised that a good percentage of the population suffers with bad hearts when one considers the stress involved in a simple bus journey.

First stop the bookshop. I’m never sure why spending book tokens is so much more difficult than spending cash. A treat must not be squandered I suppose. I eventually decided upon a book about Venice, a photography book and a couple of novels, combined cost a lot more than the value of the vouchers! Before I got out of the shop the plastic bag was cutting a groove in my fingers. I suppose it would be worth it when I sat at home enjoying them!

Next the exhibition. Immediately I felt calmer, white walls, discreet lighting and wonderful photographs. Simple images in black and white that seemed to capture so much feeling and atmosphere. Old wrinkled faces with years of experience stared back at me. Maybe I should take my camera onto the pensioner’s bus next time! Landscapes which had a haunting, timeless quality to them and decaying buildings holding ghosts and secrets. I sat and lost myself in their serenity.

When I eventually dragged myself away I realised that it was well past lunchtime. In order to catch the bus back home I’d either have to forget the jeans or forgo the lunch. The stomach usually wins in these situations so decision was made, but where to eat? I’m not emancipated enough to go into a pub on my own and the exhibition only had vending machine coffee and crisps. Then I remembered the new deli. It had a coffee shop and I’d heard that it was very good but expensive. I deliberated between machine coffee and expensive. It’s obvious which won. I’d saved money by not buying the jeans and I did deserve a treat. The deli was at the other end of the town in a little side street. It was a bit out of the way but there was still plenty of time before I needed to be at the bus stop.

As I left the exhibition my head was full of the images I had seen and my stomach was rumbling in anticipation. I failed to notice the growing mountain of clouds or the stillness of expectancy in the air. I decided to take a short cut through less populated streets and it was not until I was there that I became aware of the lack of sunshine. The heat of the sun no longer warming my bare arms. I looked up and saw the telltale anvil shaped clouds. As I did the skies opened and rain, which had been stored up for weeks, seemed to fall like a sheet from the heavens. Within seconds my hair was curling in rat-tails about my ears and my sandalled feet were squeaking and squelching in puddles that resembled lakes.