Thatcher said no man over 26 who took a bus could be considered a success in life, but she never had to face the Central line.
I'm continuing my venture back into my degree by reading some Latin or Greek on my bus journey home. (I know Thatcher said that no man over the age of 26 who took a bus could be considered a success in life, but she never had to face the Central line.)
At the moment, I'm reading the most apposite Juvenal, the first-century BC Roman satirist, whose tirades – witty, raucous, clever, allusive, epic and low at the same time – deal with unpalatable aspects of life in Rome: the parasites the wealthy fund, the mean wealthy, homosexuals (gay weddings didn't go down well)…
In Satire Three, he takes on the most annoying features of urban life. The snarls of traffic as a wagon (read: no. 38 bus) breaks down. The mugger who'll tease you before he beats you, but won't touch the rich man. An influx of immigrants (tho' our view is considerably more tolerant). The price of everything.
Sitting on the top deck of my bus, as horns beep and blare, schoolgirls chatter, roadworks thrum and potholes cause me to jerk and jog about as I try to drink my £5 coffee, I know what he means.