The Wheels on the Bus
written by: Joel Bryant
Today, of all days, I was hoping the trip home would be hassle-free. Punctual would have been good too. No such luck. I think it was some perceptive French bloke who said that hell is other people. I ponder this as a gaggle of shouty, slightly drunk mums and their high-volume brood join the bus. The other passengers watch impatiently as they chaotically struggle on board, wrestling with misbehaving push chairs and heavy shopping bags. It has not been an efficient entrance, and the extra delay has annoyed the already fractious bus driver. If hell is the destination, a crowded, late-running bus would be the transport of choice for getting there.
There is a collective click of ring-pulls as cans of cider are cracked open by the ladies, answered with murmurs of soft tutting from some of the passengers. The usual background bus odour of damp and sweat is now masked by the smell of booze breath and pungent crisps. The frustrating stop, start, crawl through rush hour traffic resumes, and I resign myself to the fact that my planned evening excitement will now be delayed.
The group settle, and the crowd noise dwindles, but this proves to be only temporary. Unexpectedly, one of the children, a small girl dressed as a Disney princess, starts to sing, and is enthusiastically joined by the rest of her group.
“The wheels on the bus, go round and round,” they all bellow, at a volume that assails my ears. They manage to reach the part about wipers going swish, swish, swish, before the driver has had enough.
“No, thank you,” she shouts. The singing falters to a stuttering halt.
“All bus drivers hate that song,” she declares. “If you want me to continue, please stop singing.”
In a strange, masochistic way, I had been enjoying their communal sing-along. English buses are usually such dour environments. I can’t help feeling that the driver is being unnecessarily harsh. I remember doing something similar with my daughter without rebuke. Excluding the head-phone zombies, the deaf, senile, and partially conscious, the rest of the bus is waiting for the choir’s response.
“Better stop, don’t want to walk home,” says one of the mums, angrily glugging her drink.
However, the little Princess will not be deterred and instead finds other entertainment.
“I spy with my little eye something beginning with c,” she announces.
“Is it cow?” booms one of the ladies. I laugh out loud; it could have been far worse.
“No car, there are no cows around here,” answers the girl. She looks pleased with her quick victory.
“Yes, there are,” responds the lady to the confused child.
“You’re not supposed to say what it is until they guess it,” says one of the other children. “So, it’s my go. I spy with my little eye something beginning with b.”
“Bag?”
“Boot?”
“Battle axe?”
The mums have hijacked the game and are enjoying themselves immensely. The children appear thoroughly perplexed. The Princess has given up playing and instead has started drawing in a sketch pad.
From my seat, I have a perfect vantage point to view the driver. She is scowling and grasping the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Perhaps she is imagining throttling her antagonists.
“Shush, everyone, our stop is coming up.”
It looks like the driver will be released from her torment. The group disembarked in the same shambolic manner they entered. As they pass me, the Princess hands me a drawing of a man sitting on the bus. He looks cross and has been depicted with massive ears and a scruffy beard. I must admit it is a reasonably accurate likeness.
“Thank you, Cinderella,” I say, and she beams back at me.
The driver ignores them completely, exuding contempt. But she is not yet free from her ordeal. As the door starts to close and she prepares to pull away from the stop, she is suddenly serenaded again.
“The driver on the bus is a grumpy witch, grumpy witch, grumpy witch, all day long.”
Unexpectedly, I find myself smiling at their antics. I feel like I have been wearing rain-soaked clothes for weeks, cold and heavy. But now I feel a little better, warmed by the ladies’ collective piss-taking.
The house is silent when I get home. It never used to be like this. I put the picture on the dining room table, smiling at how harshly the child perceived my miserable face. On the table are all the house keys freshly labelled with their function. In the landing, I have laid out some tarpaulin, some rope, and a hacksaw.
I take a photo of the drawing and message it to my daughter. I hope it amuses her, although I suspect she will continue avoiding me. Since we lost Rachel, neither of us has had much inclination towards laughter. I move the drawing to the mantelpiece and remove the letter I left there to be discovered.
I hadn’t planned to do any cooking this evening, but I’ve changed my mind. I find a lonely lasagne lurking in the emptied fridge. The microwave pings to notify me that my dinner is ready. I settle down in front of the telly to eat it, but before I can spoon in a mouthful, my phone rings, displaying my daughter’s number. Hell is other people, true enough, just ask today’s bus driver. But that doesn’t apply to everyone.
- The Wheels on the Bus - January 20, 2026
