night buses

Living in Peckham, beyond the realm of walking or taxis, night buses have become a curse and a salvation. Several nights a week, I find myself negotiating the complexities of nocturnal travel, having acquired a propensity for timing journeys to ensure that the last regular bus or train is missed.

I don't mind night buses. I also have to concede I am have no objections to waiting. People say to me that London is forever in a hurry; but when you've passed the witching hour, there's no point in being in a hurry. Patience, a quality I once had in abundance, needs to be extracted from the bottom drawer.

Music helps. Tonight, Bach, Elvis Costello, Pernambuco traditional, Pulp, the great Em Ward and others, turned a kamikaze bus journey into another soul mission. You feel a bit stupid bopping on the bouncy buses, but there's nothing wrong with stupid every now and again.

One day I'll fulfill the dream, which I possessed for a while, of being able to stagger/ stroll/ amble home. Along the river, he recollects, night cormorants swooping past the pier, the Tate acting as a beacon. Or through the cathedral close. Or down 18, waiting to find the old pooch in Plaza Independecia. I treasured the times I could walk home, innately recognised the beauty of being able to use my own steam to find my way to bed. In the meantime, I'll enjoy the quirks of the night bus; the lights that sing an alcohol tune; the old friends you collide with; the guys who brood and the girls who chat.

Whatever gets you through the night, as the man said.