Three Ways to Recount a Bus Stop Moment

I would have won the jackpot on ‘Pointless’ the other day. The questions were about fantasy or graphic novels. One of the options was to identify titles of books by Neil Gaiman, something I could not have done. I have heard of the man but not read any of his work. The other option was to come up with authors who wrote fantasy or graphic novels. It just so happens that I have signed up to a BBC Maestro course, I was aware that when I am between units or semesters at UHI I get a little rusty, I am not in the writing zone. I’m in  a knitting zone or a veggie pot zone and sometimes, rarely, in a housework zone.

            The unit I am working through is led by Alan Moore – a pointless answer that would have seem me walking away with a few thousand pounds. The course is  ‘Storytelling’. I’m working my way through the teaching and completing the exercises as they crop up.

He was talking about writing styles. He encouraged us to write a paragraph or story in the Attic style with sparse, blunt sentences and then try the same story adding decoration in the Asiatic style.  A bus stop moment provided the inspiration.

• The Attic style of writing is to use sparse, blunt sentences.

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            ‘The Stagecoach app  told me the bus would be three minutes early. I was there at the bus stop early. My bus pass was in my hand. The time on the watch reached 9.41. The bus had not arrived. So much for early. I thought about how long I was prepared to wait. I had a meeting in town I needed to attend. Walking was my only option. It was a warm day.

• The Asiatic style of writing is decorated prose using a variety of techniques.

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I tossed things I thought I might need into the rucksack, a note book, a couple of pens and an extra bag for plunder. Time was ticking on and the bus was due to come a few minutes early. There were dogs in the field and I could hear the school bell in the distance. The sun was up and the bus shelter was like a greenhouse. A lone ant meandered over the paving stones, a small explorer among the weeds, pine cones and cigarette stumps. 9.41came and went  but there was no bus.  I didn’t want to walk. Whether it was my shoes or my feet that were the problem I hadn’t worked out. Of course, it was all uphill and every garden I pass was well manicured into submission. I promise to mow my lawn tomorrow.

And finally a poem freshly written-

Singing Dem Bus Blues

Mu baby  gotta walk

Cus ain’t no bus come round

Mu baby gotta walk

All dem miles to town

Oh, oh sad, sad day

When that bus don’t come her way

Oh, oh sad, sad day

When that bus don’t come her way

 Mu baby  gotta walk

She gotta hole in her shoe

Mu baby gotta walk

Dem trainers they ain’t so new

Oh, oh sad, sad day

When that bus don’t come her way

Oh, oh sad, sad day

When that bus don’t come her way

The bus not coming is a regular thing. It is a shoddy service at best. And we say we are a city.