Conked out coaches

The coach engine was turned off for the second time as we sat stationary in the depot, then we were all ordered off the vehicle.  A fault in the electric door apparently meant we couldn’t travel, so had to wait for an hour for a replacement vehicle.  Sunny, warm weather meant it wasn’t as miserable as it might have been.  My hope of watching any of the second FA Cup semi final slowly dissipated.  I dozed successfully on the second bus until we took an unscheduled stop at a service station.  Others were also severed from slumber by the slower, trundling pace, and turned around to realise steam was pouring from the rear of the vehicle.  It was out of water and would travel no further.  Some passengers smiled in exasperation, realising the futility of any other reaction; others, perhaps with places to be, looked angry.  haracters began emerging from the homogenous passenger mass, as they are brilliantly wont to under unusual circumstances.  An elderly, very proper lady enjoyed taking some sort of charge in lieu of the driver’s unclear communication.  She thrived on her appearance of doing something, strutting back down the coach aisle as if it were an aisle between classroom desks, broadcasting what was a pretty obvious situation.  “There’s steam coming out of the back of the bus and we can’t go any further.”   

Erm.  Thanks. 

People began sharing small details of their lives through the segway of comments about the unusual situation; how often they took that coach route to London, what they did for a living, the medical appointment they were going to London for, did anyone want a Pringle?  Some people made friends and began chatting to people they would not part from until the end of the journey.  A couple of attractive young girls travelling alone in the party caught the eye, but no opportunity presented itself to make an offhand comment in their presence or kick off a conversation, and I didn’t attempt to clumsily design one.  It was still sunny and warm, and not unpleasant weather to kick about in a service station car park if you had no other alternative.  The general acceptance of the situation might have been different if it had been cold and raining. 

After around an hour, another unmarked coach arrived.  There was a sense that the original driver had simply called in a favour from a mate nearby who had a coach.  We piled onto our third bus, tiring at what shouldn’t really be an epic journey, before our briefly outlined characters slowly dissolved back into a passive anonymous mass with a single shared experience.   

Human c