Conversation on the 168 bus to Hampstead Heath

I have been taking walks. Every day this week and next week I have a planned walk that takes in a part of London that is less familiar to me. There is a reason for this. Several, in fact. Primary among them is the need to give my poor overtaxed, burned out brain, some space, not to mention sufficient fresh air, to get itself in order again. But it has to be said that the opportunity of this week and next, presenting itself at a time when the kids are back at school, is irresistible as a time to reclaim quality space that is just for me. It makes me practically delirious to pore over a map of London and decide on my day trips without any reference to child or teen friendly activities, the location of toilets, pasta restaurants, tube stations that aren't too busy etc etc, and deciding on clothes to wear without having to think about getting bits of rice cake down the front of my shirt is akin to a night out on the town.  Small wonder that I have been dressing for these walks as if I were going out on a date. The exciting thing about wandering parts of London on your own, is spontenaity. I would walk up a street, glance to my left, see something interesting and change course. Just like that. No need to ask anyone, suggest it to anyone, sell it to anyone (look! I bet if we go down there we'll find ice cream/art galleries/Tonko the clown/a pub that sells your favourite beer!). I wander down a side street because, well, I like the cobbled pavements. Or a house down near the end looks like it might be worth taking a look. Or I caught sight of a blue plaque. Or I just want to defy the plan and go off on a tangent.Yesterday found me wandering through Bloomsbury, eyes permanently up, because in Bloomsbury lots of very old shops selling things like bespoke umbrellas and period furniture are located over three or four floors and the tops of the buildings are decorated to reflect the wares available inside. Or the date of construction and architect are displayed just below the rooftop. Who knew. Today was Camden Lock day, a time to savour the crowds, check out kooky unwearable kit, inhale the cheap incense, eat unpronouncable food hoping for the best, and getting lost over and over again in the tunnels by the canal. Brilliant. I finally emerged, dirty and triumphant, on Chalk Farm road and on a whim, I hopped on to a 168 bus. At the same stop I am joined at the back of the bus by a woman about my age, and a man who looks to be in his seventies. We begin the usual practice of carefully not engaging in eye contact, but when the bus revs up, as if to get up the energy to tackle Haverstock Hill, we can't resist a titter. The noise at the back of the bus is infernal. This bus is on its last legs, says the elderly man. We nod resignedly in assent, covertly clutching our seats. No I mean it, he says, that noise is the prop shaft on the engine that has come away partly. If we make it to the top of the hill it'll be a miracle. Prop shaft? Engine? I have no idea what he is talking about but it sounds serious. I consider getting off the bus at the next stop but worry slightly that if it stops at the next stop it'll never start again thus doing everyone else on the bus out of their moneysworth. So I sit tight and regard the elderly man, who is looking very dapper, a faint hint of wax on his moustaches. How come you think it's the prop shaft, I say without thinking. I am slightly taken aback at my words. I have no idea what I am talking about, after all. The man looks equally surprised - less so at the human interaction, more I suspect at the prospect of a woman conversing confidently about car mechanics. He begins to explain to me the inner workings of a bus. It transpires that he is in fact a retired bus mechanic. I tell him I am surprised he still wants to travel on the things after years spent fixing them up. More friendly, buses, he says. People talk. Not like the tube. I look at the woman opposite me, who has been listening with every appearance of rapt interest. He's right.  They are. Part of me feels sad for this gentleman who travels on the bus because he is lonely. And part of me is triumphant. Not only have I rolled back the years sauntering through Camden Market as if it is something I do every weekend. I have also had a crash course in bus engines.  I'm definitely doing this again tomorrow.