Romance On The Buses

My mother had her obsessions. Only hers wasn’t bus drivers, it was doctors. And ‘at my age’ as she liked to put it she wanted me to get hitched to a doctor. But it wasn’t really for me, it was because she wanted to marry a doctor. Which doctor didn’t matter, any would be fine as long as he was a qualified medical practitioner. Just to clarify we’re talking about M.D.’s here and not honest-to-goodness ‘Live and Let Die’ voodoo priest witchdoctors.

Of course this means that most of the time I delete her messages from the answerphone because they all degenerate into ramblings on or around the subject of spawning grandchildren.

March 27th I found him driving the Number 27 (the one that terminates next to the station) and took it as a sign. So I set to work.

Smiling at him – no reaction.

Eyelash fluttering (moving on to advanced eyelash fluttering including a subtle wink) – no reaction.

After reflection I came to the conclusion that the wink may have been too subtle so moved things up a gear. I ‘lost’ my travel pass so had to get a new photo taken and got the sexiest pic a photobooth would allow. I pouted and showed a measured amount of flesh, still managed to keep it pre-watershed but still, somehow this provoked nothing more than a nod from this most-devious of devils.

Unperturbed I wrote my mobile number in the pass and flashed it every day for a fortnight. Morning journey to work and evening journey back.

No reaction.

It was at this point I realised that something had to give. Either I had to face the possibility that he was interminably and irrevocably stupid or I had so far failed to make a move that would really impress him. He had noticed me, oh yes, that serpent knew and I had a plan to win his heart once and for all

I was busy preparing so I missed him in the morning but waited for him to come around for a second pass and got on the bus. Top deck. Laid out the tablecloth and started to prepare the picnic; the freshly sliced baguette, the succulent roast beef, the Dijon mustard, the red wine uncorked and breathing.

We reached the end of the line and I quickly whipped a mirror out of my handbag, checked the make-up, hair and struck a pose as his footsteps started up the stairs towards me.

“Hello,” his voice arriving before him. “Is everything okay, Miss?”

I waited, pouted for a second then though better of it and just tried to look relaxed.

“Ah,” his face dropped for a second when he saw me. “You’re…”

“Yes?” I said and ran my fingertips through my fringe, brushing it back.

He said: “You’re the one who’s been stalking me, right?” And laughed.

“No!” I snapped then saw him flick a smile on then off again. I smiled back and said, “It’s not stalking. It’s romance.”

He nodded, the sides of his mouth rising slightly, tiny dimples appearing in both cheeks then sat down next to me. My mother was going to be so pissed off.