In the Friday night Princes Street bus-melee, timetables – never particularly accurate – become fluid and sinuous. As reliable as a bridge made of smoke. I make it my rule to jump on the first bus that will take me within walking distance of home, no matter what…but even so i can’t bring myself to take the service buses. The ones that trundle the countryside like sharabangs out for a Sunday jaunt. Better to risk waiting in the hope an Express will come by.
Express buses – the commuter’s friend. Travelling from A to D with only a glance at B and C as they speed past.
There are only a few true expresses running between Edinburgh and Livingston. There are very many more impostors. These charlatans are service buses in disguise. They bear the glorious ‘x’ but stop at every doghouse, henhouse and outhouse in their path. A curse on the false-xes.
But I am happy. My usual little express has battled through the end-of-week scrum only a few minutes behind time. We are now out of the city and hurtling through the black night towards the lights of fair Livi. Soon I’ll be home and my weekend can commence.