7 June 2023
Not a time of day either of us generally venture out, but a surprising number of people are already abroad—many in school uniform or work clothes. There is a palpable excited determination in the air at this hour that contrasts starkly with the sullen resignation of evening journeys.
The bus is rammed, this being a popular time to travel, and we try to tap in with our old-people cards but they’re not working. A little message on the display reads “Not valid at this time of day”. We are literally too early to be out and about. The driver stares at us for a moment, checks his mirror to pull out, and stares back at us again. He seems to be assessing our capacity for coherent interaction to help him decide whether he should ask us to pay. I smile weakly. “We’re not only old, we’re also stupid”, I offer, in an effort to satisfy his curiosity, and he seems genuinely grateful for the clarification. He jerks his head back as if suddenly reaching terminal velocity, and we pass down the belly of the whale.
A young man in a blue-grey blazer with an embroidered gold badge on is standing on the stairs. He has an enormous afro. I ask if there are any seats upstairs and he responds without really moving his mouth properly so there are no discernible words but there’s just enough of a shrug and a quick glance towards the top deck to say “have a look”. I want to tell him that our knees collectively have about seven flights of steps in them to last the entire day and I don’t want to squander one in a speculative recce, but he’s not making eye contact and he might not really be a morning person either. We strike out from base bycamp and begin our ascent.
As I crest the ridge, wheezing in the thin, oxygen-poor air, I take in the view. There are perhaps one or two isolated empty spots, but certainly no two together, and I turn down to relay my findings to H, who is a couple of steps below me, belayed to the hand rail. Further down, I can make out something on the top of the afro. It is a small, bright orange leaf, nestling in the very crown. I throw a glance over H towards the vegetation and mouth “tell him”.
She scowls, momentarily affronted, but I know she won’t be able to resist.
From my vantage point at the top of the world, I hear her: “Excuse me, can I suggest you have a small leaf in your hair? Will you allow me to remove it?”
There are some low mumblings that are hard to make out at altitude, and H giggles. The young man leans forward slightly and she reaches in, removing the leaf. The merest smirk creeps unwittingly across his face. The bus stops and people clatter on the steps around us. When the dust clears, there’s a seat just behind the stairs, next to a normal-sized person; and another, directly behind, next to a man whose frame extends into the vacancy. He attempts to draw his extremities into himself like an enormous, amorphous mollusc but the space doesn’t really increase, so I perch on the edge of the seat, directly behind H.
I lean forward and whisper “‘Can I suggest?’ What sort of opening is that? You sound like a barrister in a court-room drama. ‘I put it to you that you have a leaf on your head. The facts are clear.’“
“Well what was I supposed to say?”
We giggle quietly all the way to Old Street, two stupid old people, a bit too early to be out and about.