Joe Lynam's Blog

What’s going to bring you down today? The endless celebrity gossip, the commute to work, the boss who doesn’t value you, the colleagues you don’t like, the holiday you’ll never take, the government you elected? That’s the society we live in we’re told. Read this novel about a man who realised society began with him and that nothing would change if he did nothing. He decided to be the change he wanted to see in the world.
Take a peek. What do you have to lose?

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I spent that evening at the pub watching football on the telly. I stayed for a couple of drinks afterwards but it felt like time to go. I’m quite tired and I don’t want a hangover tomorrow. I’m not drunk, just a little tipsy; I think that’s the word for it. Whilst walking I can’t help staring down at my feet, watching how they’re not moving straight forward, just a little wonkily left and right. I wonder how the trail would look if I had paint underneath my shoes.

Michaela, my girlfriend of two years, is with me. She enjoys my behaviour when I’ve had something to drink. She finds it entertaining in an eccentric way. Not that she doesn’t like me when I’m sober; she likes me all the time. She loves me. I doubt she believes the sun shines out of my backside, but she probably thinks there’s light down there. In any case she often tells me how cute my backside is. It’s great to have someone beside you who compliments your body, laughs at your jokes and applauds your surreal behaviour.

At the moment we’re observing a comfortable silence, we spoke while we were out, we’ll speak when we get home but we don’t need to speak all the time. And as far as I know, we both feel like that.

As it has during the whole night, my mind is wandering around this idea I’ve had of being able to weed out the bad elements of society. So far I’ve had very little success, but that’s ok, I doubt Superman was able to master all his talents at the beginning (he must’ve flown through a couple of ceilings whilst learning to fly, and I’m sure he burned holes in some walls when he found out he could fire out those hot beams from his eyes). There’s been the cyclist who, after riding on the pavement, then pulled into the road and tried to pass through the red light. I stood in front of him to block his passing. Then there was the lad who dropped his litter on the street. ‘I think you dropped something.’ I told him. He didn’t say anything in reply, only raising a finger to demonstrate his opinion. There was also an occasion with a bag thief in a coffee shop. I noticed a man sitting at a table, tying his shoelace. Or at least pretending to. He was actually reaching over to grab a handbag from underneath the next table. From where I was sitting I managed to shout at him to stop and he ran away. These went ok but they haven’t been great successes. I would’ve liked to have spoken to these people, to get a chance to hear why they did what they did and explain why it’s no good to anyone. I stopped them on these occasions but they’ll do it again, I’ve no doubt. Still, it’s early days in my mission and no one else actually knows about it yet. At some point I’ll have to start spreading the word, then people will know how to react in such situations.

I think about bringing it up with Michaela. I’m not worried about her reaction or her opinion of it, she’s always understanding and supportive of things I do and ideas I have – no matter how different they may be. The main issue is how I bring it up with her. Maybe I should recount for her the events of the last few days. Or I could just blurt it all out. Yeah, I’m going to blurt it out and give her a monologue.

“Do you think it’s possible to do anything about the people in the world who piss you off or do wrong? Do you think that if you reason with a criminal, that you explain that what they’re doing is wrong, they’ll realise that and abide by the law? You know, instead of beating them or castigating them.”

She looks at me a little puzzled and doesn’t seem to have completely got the gist. She answers with something about prison, that this is the positive function of criminals being sent to prison.

“Um, yeah. Hopefully someone shows them the right path. Some kind of mentor, like a therapist or a priest. That has to be a part of their rehab, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s true, but that’s not what I meant. I meant before they go to prison. Even before they commit the crime.”

She’s looking at me puzzled again.

“Huh? What should you do before they commit the crime?”

“Talk to them. Ask them why they’re doing it. Put them off before they do it. Convince them it’s wrong.”

“But why would you do that? It’s dangerous for a start…”

“Of course it is,” I interrupt “But nothing will happen if you convince him not to.”

“What if someone shoots you or hits you or maybe stabs you while you’re discussing it?”

“Well…”

I can’t find an answer.

“Why don’t you become a policeman? Or a lawyer?”

“We already have plenty of those and things are still bad. I’m talking about members of the public. It would send out a stronger statement if the people helped their own people. Things will never change if people don’t do anything.”

“Why don’t you leave it to the government?”

“The government? They’re too busy looking after themselves.”



We now just sort of continue our walk, her still looking at me awaiting a response. Me, looking at the ground, almost wishing I’d never said anything at all.

Footsteps behind us begin to get louder and then seem to be running as they get closer to us. A head and a voice poke themselves between us.

“Sorry lads, don’t mean to bother ya.”

As I say, a head is poked between our two walking bodies, almost hovering in mid air between our shoulders. He’s a little too close for liking and, whether you wish to help society or not, it’s always wise in London to check and be vigilant that no one is robbing you from behind. As I look back I only see his hands down by his sides. I’m not too worried about my things; my wallet and phone are in my front pockets, as are my hands. He’ll have to get them out first before stealing anything. I look over at Michaela. Everything belonging to her is in her handbag hanging from her right shoulder. ‘Clutch it tightly.’ I try to tell her telepathically. She’s looking at the man, I don’t know if she heard me.

“Don’t mean to bother ya. Could ya lend me £5 to get home?”

That was direct, to the point. Usually you have to listen to a long story about why they need the money, what happened to the money they did have or something. But this one didn’t bother with any of that.

“No, sorry. Can’t help you.”

“Come on, please, I just need ya to lend me £5. I lost my wallet and now I got no money to get home.”

There’s the story, just had to wait a little for it. It wasn’t very imaginative though, not worth waiting for.

“No, I’m sorry,” And I shake my head this time. “We don’t have anything; we’ve spent everything tonight.”

I’m determined to be cool and calm in front of Michaela, to show what I was talking about. I’m going to deal with this man rationally and diplomatically. He won’t get any money from us, there’ll be no violence and, best of all, we will not resolve it by running away. To be honest I don’t even feel scared or threatened. I only have small change on me and I doubt he’ll want my phone. It would be completely different if I had my ipod with me. My most cherished possession. Also, by looking and listening to the man I feel a little more secure. I hope I don’t tempt fate when I say he doesn’t look like the scariest person to ever ask me for money. He doesn’t look much like a mugger. More like a begging mugger.

It’s down to my confidence that I tell him,

“What do you mean ‘lend me £5’? Are you going to pay it back to me?” In my head I think of saying something about giving him my address to send me the money or us meeting in the same spot next week. I don’t feel my confidence is enough to actually tell him that though.

“Ok, not lend. Can you give me £5?”

All this time Michaela and I are still walking towards the bus stop with our new friend following us. At least he interrupted the break in our conversation. I look over to Michaela to see her expression, to get an impression of what she feels about what’s going on. She’s frowning and staring at the ground as she walks. I don’t know what that means. Is she scared, angry, nervous, cool? It’s often hard to tell with her. Sometimes I tell her she looks sad or angry when in fact she’s not. She says something about not needing to smile broadly and jump up and down all the time. That’s fair enough I suppose.

“Look, I’m trying to be nice about this and asking you for the money nicely but if I need to I’ll just take it, alright?”

“You what?” I say the first words that I think of

“Not many people would be so nice in getting money off ya. I’ll take it if I wanna.”

Now’s my chance I feel. This guy’s just heated things a little and it’s going to be me who’s going to cool it back down again. I raise my voice just a little bit to sound forceful enough.

“You mean that you’ll get violent? Because we won’t give you any money, you’ll hurt us? Doesn’t that sound a little silly? Do you need it that much?”

He doesn’t even seem to be listening. I almost get the impression that he only said that to scare us into giving him the money sooner.

“Anyway, I told you we don’t have anything.”

“Yeah? Show me. Empty out your pockets.”

This reminds me of being in school when the big kids wanted my money and would tell me to jump up and down to prove I had no coins in my pockets. How ironic it is now, I’ve only got coins in my pockets now.

“Yeah? Look,” I stop and empty my pockets and hold out the contents in front of his face. My phone is there for the taking, “I’ve got that much money, an oyster card and my phone.”

He motions to us to start walking again.

“I don’t even have £5 to give you. Even if I wanted to.”

“What about her?”

This is tricky. I know Michaela has quite a bit of money on her. We’re planning on going to the supermarket on our way home and have agreed that she’ll pay for everything as she has cash with her and I need to go to the bank.

“She’s got nothing either.” I jump in before he makes her show him the contents of her bag. “I just bought everything for her.” Quick thinking, I congratulate myself.

“So you’ve both got nothing? What about we go to a cash machine and use your cards?”

As begging/mugging tactics go, this is a good one.

“What about I drag you both to a cash machine and we get my money?”

He’s starting to sound more threatening too but I’m getting fed up with it all now and want it to stop. I put on my louder voice again.

“Look, I’ve told you again and again we don’t have any money to give you and now I’ve just shown what I do have. Unless you want the change in my pocket, I think you’re wasting your time.”

And as quickly as he’d arrived he’s disappeared to the other side of the road. He seemed to sigh and storm off like an angry teenager. I look over to Michaela and smile. In my head I’m thinking, ‘He’s gone, it’s over, we did it.’ She doesn’t look as happy.

We stop walking. The frown she’s had for the past 10 minutes or so is now a scowl. What’s wrong with her? I thought she’d be pleased.

“Was that it? Was that your big plan?” she asks

“W-wha…” I can’t find the words. I don’t know what to say. I’m not really sure what’s going on.

“Why didn’t you do something? He could have robbed us or hurt us and you would’ve just let it happen. You were too busy trying to become his friend or something.”

I’m in a small state of shock to be honest. I thought she’d at least be relieved that we weren’t robbed or hurt, but instead she’s angry at me. Didn’t I just prove that what I was talking about could work? I warned the guy off without fighting him and we survived without running away.

“Come on, say something.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Aaargh!” she lets out an angry kind of groan “Say something. Don’t be so quiet. This guy could have done things to us and you were there to protect me and you did nothing. You behaved like it was a laugh.”

“But wait a sec,” I interrupt; I need to find out what’s wrong here. “he didn’t do anything. Nothing happened. He wanted money, I told him no and he left.”

“Eventually he did. You should have warned him off sooner. You were too nice to him.”

“But if I hadn’t been then maybe he would’ve got more aggressive. And who knows if he had a knife or something on him..?”

“And what would you have done then?”

“What do you mean?”

“If he’d had a knife, what would you have done? Would you have tried talking to him then?”

“Erm, I don’t know. It’s hypothetical. Probably, yes.”

“Because you’re scared.”

“What? I’m not scared. Scared of what?”

She looks me in the eyes, as if she really wants me to understand this.

“Scared that you’ll get hurt. Scared that you’ll get punched. Scared that someone will..” she pauses, trying to find the right word. What word is she going to say? “defeat you. That you won’t be the top man.”

The gloves are off, home truths are being told. She looks satisfied that she’s told me that. Almost smug, she’s waiting for me to deny it. I can’t though. She’s right. I know she’s right. I’m not one of those men who are so stubborn that they deny any negative aspect of themselves and will shout at their woman to put her down and make themselves feel bigger and more important. That’s not me. I’m not going to admit to her that she’s right, but I’m not going to admit to her she’s wrong either. But I am going to stand up for what I did to the mugger.

“Look,” I say calmly, trying to hide our conversation from the people passing us on the street. “I thought that was the best way to handle the situation. I don’t think me starting a fight would have helped. Speaking to him and explaining the situation worked out much better in the end.”

“Ooh, you could be like Jesus.” she says enthusiastically. Luckily I know sarcasm when I hear it. “You could hang around at night when all the criminals are out, stand behind their shoulders and show them the errors of their ways.”

‘Not Jesus,’ I think to myself ‘Superman.’

“You’re not Jesus, you’re a wimp. A scared wimp who’s afraid to get hurt, who’s afraid to defend his girlfriend.” Her voice is intensifying, she means this, she’s not holding back. “You slag people off behind their backs and the minute they confront you, you quiver and hide. Don’t you? I’ve seen it before. This was just another example.”

Everything I’ve ever buried deep inside of myself in order to cope with each day, so as not to be reminded of my flaws and fears, is being dug up in front of me by someone I wanted to hide it all from the most. The one person I most wanted to see the good things in me, the positive side. Not this thing stood in front of her now being ripped to shreds.

“A woman needs a man who’ll defend her and protect her. Even if you end up with cuts and bruises, at least you’d have done something. Not just been this weak and passive boy I’ve seen tonight.”

I wait for some sort of reassurance from her. Something that tells me, ‘but that’s ok, that’s who you are, I still love you.’ She doesn’t have to say anything; she could just smile or touch my arm. Or even just take away this angry expression and tone she’s got right now.

I don’t get it though.

“I..” she looks down to the ground “I need to be away from you right now. I need some space.”

I say nothing. I barely do anything. I don’t actually think I’ve moved a muscle for the last few minutes.

She turns and walks up the street. I stay where I am, my eyes watching her as far as they can see. I wait for her to turn around, just to give me a glance to say that everything’s ok, or at least it’s going to be. She doesn’t though. Not once. Not even when she gets to the crossing at the top of the road and has to look back this way to check for any cars coming. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Sitting alone upstairs on the bus, hoping no one will sit next to me, I just need a little peace for myself. Sometimes I hate having to share my space. I never get to sit alone on the bus; someone always comes along and plants their big arse next to mine. Usually it’s some kind of weirdo. Please I think I deserve it today, just this once. The seats around me are starting to fill up, soon there won’t be any spare ones left, and I’ll have to share.

Why didn’t I stand up for myself? I can’t answer that, I don’t know how to. I tried to be a smart-arse and bottled it when I got confronted. Made snide remarks to the driver and froze when he gave some back. I shouldn’t have said to him what I did. Or at least not in the way that I did. That was my mistake. That put me in the wrong when in the first place it was the driver who was wrong. Now I’m sitting here cringing at what happened. Embarrassed at leaving my backbone behind when I got on the bus.

But then why should I? It was he who was at fault and it was he who was being aggressive. And he’s a bus driver being aggressive to a passenger, that’s not right. There are codes of conduct against that kind of thing. Shall I demand to know his name and employee number or something? That could put me in a big light, show that I’m a big man who’s going to do something about this. And without violence or any physicality too. I could even say I’m a lawyer and that he’s going to get a shitstorm for what he’s done. Or I could say I work for Transport for London and I can get him sacked just like that (I would click my fingers). I’ll go back down there when I get off.



Here comes a man up the stairs, please don’t sit here. He looks like he just stepped out of a drug den and didn’t wash himself. His eyes are twitching from one side of the aisle to the other. One side of his mouth is half open, like he’s smiling on one side. He must be on something this fella. I almost hope he is. Otherwise what kind of nutter is he?

Phew, he sat somewhere else.

I caught a glimpse of him sitting down. He was nodding very enthusiastically to the woman he was joining. Now he’s turning around, he’s going to see me looking at him. I don’t look away, I can’t seem to. I want to see what he’s turning around for. Is he going to choose someone at random and start shouting at them? Seems like the sort of thing he’d do. He doesn’t seem to be looking around for anything, just staring into the space. I don’t think he even realises there are 10 or so people behind him. Or he doesn’t understand what we’re all doing here.

I can see another man now standing at the top of the stairs. He looks down to the few spare seats at the front and then to the back. He then bends his neck forward as if to get a different view of the back section of the bus. Does he think we’re hiding spare seats from him back here? Why does he keep looking? Just sit somewhere. Not next to me though.

He looks down again at the front of the bus. A couple are sitting together arm in arm on one seat and on another is the first man, who’s now sitting alone, the woman he was sitting next to leaving him to sit somewhere else. The man’s face suddenly has an expression of panic. He turns around to the steps below him and sees several people walking up and urging him to make way for them. He seems to gulp and intake a large breath as if he’s about to do a bungee jump. He steps into the aisle and walks towards the back section of the bus.

The man looks very nervous, like he’s afraid to make eye contact with anyone or accidentally touch anyone. What does he have to be nervous about I wonder? Is he fleeing the scene of a crime? Is he about to commit a crime? Maybe he’s one of those compulsive people who have to have everything a certain way. Maybe he can only sit on a bus with 14 passengers. More than that and he’ll start freaking out. He’s already passed a number of available seats but has decided to keep walking. He hasn’t decided to sit next to me, has he? I think I could put him off from sitting next to me if I look aggressive and hostile enough. He reaches my row and I give him a look that tells him he’ll get so much trouble if he sits next to me. He sits himself down in the seats opposite. He gives a tiny glance over to me to check I’m still giving him the look. I’m not though, I don’t need to anymore, job’s done.

Nearly all the seats are full now; I might make it to the end of my journey in peace.

But we’re at another bus stop now and I can see people getting on from the window. A woman comes up the steps and looks around for an empty seat. She’s looking over towards me, this could be interesting. She’s pretty, I’d allow her to sit here, that would be no problem. The difference between sharing your seat with a pretty woman and anyone else is huge. I’m not going to do anything; I have a girlfriend I’m very happy with. This is just companionship, someone to share my seat with. Before I can give her a smile she sits down a few rows in front of me. That was disappointing. Never mind, more fish in the sea and all that.

And here comes another. She’s medium height, blond hair, quite pale skin, looks foreign. Wearing a skirt and tights. Not a bad body. Not as good looking as the other but I’m not fussy. I keep check on her with the corner of my eye; I don’t want to seem too obvious. But when the time’s right I’ll give her a proper look to let her know I’m interested then I’ll give her a few more glances once the bus starts moving again and hope she does the same. Oh, but she’s sitting behind me. I can’t be dealing with that. If she was sitting in front or alongside me then I could do something and still maintain some control, especially if things went wrong and I needed to play it cool. If she caught me looking at her and was put off then I could pretend I was looking at something outside the window. But now she’s behind me I’ll have to turn around all the time. And what would my excuse be? ‘I want to see the traffic behind us.’ Or ‘I want to make sure the bus isn’t being followed.’ No, I’ll forget about her.


This is strange. I never get to sit alone on the bus for this long. Why is no one sitting next to me? Do I still have that hostile expression on I had earlier? Maybe people are looking at me and thinking they might catch something. I don’t understand it. I thought I looked reasonably presentable in the mirror when about to leave the flat. I hadn’t showered admittedly but I didn’t think that was immediately noticeable.

And then suddenly someone is sitting their self next to me. Half next to me maybe. He’s sitting almost with his back to me and his legs in the aisle, as if wanting to show people that he isn’t with me. Or to show that he’s not going to do like everyone else on the bus, i.e., sit straight, face the front and without talking to yourself. He’s not doing any of that. He really wants to be different this lad. What with his tracksuit bottoms tucked into his socks and his cap balanced on the side of his head. Is this what makes kids cool or hard these days? He’s continuously mumbling to himself about something I can’t catch. I’m trying my best to ignore him. I’m staring out of the window at the mundane urban view, I’m making a shopping list in my head, I’m pretending to be asleep.

But now I can’t ignore him much longer. His mumbling is getting louder and aimed more in my direction. He actually might be rapping, his hands are making lots of wild gestures and sometimes hitting my arm.

“Alright bruv?” he asks me. “I got some skunk in my pocket, you want some? I’ll give ya a good deal.”

“No, you’re alright.” I politely tell him.

But he keeps on. “Just a couple of quid. You’ll like it.”

Now the other passengers around us are looking at us, judging us for doing a drug deal on their public bus. I notice an elderly woman look at me and then at him. She only gave him a small glance, but for me she reserves a full stare. After a time she turns back to her husband and seems to mutter something that sounds like, ‘Why doesn’t he tell him to piss off?’ How can I though? Who knows what kind of reaction that’ll spark? You hear about knife violence on buses and gun crime, and how does that happen? Probably by telling a drug dealer on a bus to piss off.

I keep turning away towards the window, pretending to not know he’s there but his selling spot is getting louder and more forceful. Finally the end of my patience is reached and I get up and off the bus, two stops earlier than I need to. I look to see if another bus is coming but can only see dark clouds approaching in the sky. I turn and start to walk the rest of the way, my mind imagining me telling that boy to piss off.

I’m never forceful enough when I need to be. That lad on the bus was annoying me yet I never did anything about it, unless you count looking the other way and pretending not to hear him as doing something. Now I’m walking on the cold and wet streets while he’s on the warm bus. I should’ve told him I didn’t want his drugs nor to hear about them. And that his behaviour, selling drugs on buses, was no way to carry on. Yeah, that’s what I would’ve told him. I can see it now in my head. I’m looking in his eyes and telling him with a stern voice, clear and to the point. And if he’d got aggressive I would’ve told him that fighting was no way to solve problems, especially if it’s because someone doesn’t like you selling drugs on the bus.

That’s what I would’ve done.

This is typical of London. People trying to sell drugs on buses, people not knowing how to behave in public. Strangers suspicious of each other, all exchanges of manners and respect out of the window. And it’s getting worse. Children are being raised in this environment and are doing as they see. A rude, impolite, disrespectful cycle is forming.

I always try to tell myself that things don’t matter, that things will change, that these people will get theirs, but they don’t and here I am again, faced with more trouble. And what can be done about it? What can I do about it? I feel useless in situations like on the bus. I imagine what I would’ve done afterwards but at the time I do nothing, just wait for the problem to disappear. Anyway, what can I do about it? I’m just one person. I can’t influence the whole of society.

But then it always nags me that everyone thinks like that and that nothing will ever change if no one does anything. Nothing will ever change if I do nothing. I can’t affect everyone but I can affect the next person and the next and hope that some kind of change will take place. Be the change you want to see in the world, that’s how it goes. I could do that. I could be a Superman for society.

It’s a bright sunny morning. Looking up between the few clouds I see a blue autumn sky. It’s one of those autumn days that make you think it’s the last one of its kind until the spring. From now on things will get colder and darker. But for now the trees are shining in the sunlight, the leaves enjoying their places upon them before it’s their time to fall. Looking around me at the bus stop it seems that everyone has been cheered by this beautiful start to the day. I know I have.

I’m going to take the bus to work today. Though I am beginning to wish I wasn’t. I’m going to be late again, I can feel it. I look again at my watch, it’s five past. Where is the damn bus? I think to myself. People pay so much money for public transport and for what? It’s rarely on time, it’s rarely clean and there’s rarely enough space for everyone to get on board, never mind be comfortable. It makes me wonder where the money goes. But people need public transport, so they’ll always pay for it. But maybe people should stop paying the top price until they receive top service. If questions are asked by ticket inspectors then people can ask their own questions. For example, when will there be value for money? It always baffles me that fares are higher during peak-times when the transport is busier and therefore the service is of lower quality. Why isn’t the fare lower during those times when people are herded in like cattle into a late arriving bus or train? Why pay more for a worse service?



I can’t be late again. I was late just a few days ago; it’s becoming a regular thing. Soon they’ll start planning the work duties around me arriving late. And no one’s going to believe the bus was late, will they? Even though it is.

Usually I have a genuine reason for being late for work. The bus was late, or even cancelled, the traffic was terrible, there was an accident. Those have all happened to me before, I can’t use them again, can I? I have to think of a good excuse and ways of defending it in case the boss gets angry with me.

I’ve always wanted to use the one about the bus breaking down. With the driver trying to restart the engine, deciding we have to get off and then waiting for another bus, I think that could allow me to be about 30 minutes late. And I can blame it all on Transport for London.

Or I could say the bus was involved in an accident. The paramedics wanted to take everybody to the hospital for checks but I told them I was ok, despite the pain in my shoulder. If I then turned up for work holding my shoulder and with a pained expression on my face I could even get some sympathy too.
I’ll say the bus driver apologised to everyone for arriving late and let us have a free journey in order to placate the angry passengers. Yeah, I think angry passengers could be a good idea. If I say everyone was shouting and threatening to riot then that would deflect some of the focus away from me. Upon arriving at work I could say, “I know I’m late, but I’m probably lucky to be here at all!” I could even tell them to look up the story on the news and then look surprised when they don’t find anything.

The bus being late is actually the truth and if I tell the truth I won’t be wrong, will I? But who ever believes the truth? I’ll have to defend this one to the hilt.
I’ll say that no one ever mentions anything when I’m early, only when I’m late. If I’m not praised for the positives then don’t criticise the negatives.
These aren’t even excuses, this is the truth. There’s no way anyone could deny this. I just hope I remember it all in the heat of a possible argument.

Here comes the bus. A few schoolgirls are stood in front of me, I’ll let them get on first, my gentlemanly act done for the day. I look down at them, they’re all chewing gum and blowing bubbles with it. They’re speaking a language which might as well be foreign to me for what I can understand of it. I only manage to make out ‘hot’, ‘fit’, ‘ride’ and some boys’ names. I probably don’t want to know what they’re talking about. What’s more important at the moment is that they don’t actually seem to be getting on to the bus. They’re standing at the stop, next to the open door but not getting on. My eyes quickly move from the girls to the closing door of the bus. I, quite athletically, it must be said, launch myself past the girls towards the bus door, which smacks me in the face. The driver is now looking at the passing traffic out of his
window on the other side. He can’t see me. He’ll hear me though. I bang on the door of the bus. Nothing. Then I bang and shout, ‘Oi!!’ Still nothing. Until the driver turns from that window to the one straight ahead and starts to drive the bus forwards. ‘He’s going without me.’ I think. I was standing right here and he didn’t see me. He didn’t even hear me banging. Or he chose not to listen.

How could he do this? I give the bus a cold stare as it leaves me, hoping the driver’s looking at me in his mirror. I look at the bus’ number plate and make a note of it in my mind. Maybe I could report the driver. I might even get some kind of compensation that way. That would be a lengthy process though and would involve too much bureaucracy. I’d prefer something more immediate. Maybe I’ll head to the bus depot after work, find out which driver drives this bus and confront him. Or maybe I’ll just let down his tyres.

Almost as soon as the bus leaves the bus stop it leads to a red traffic light about 50 metres ahead. I start to wonder if I could run and manage to make it to the next bus stop ahead of the bus. It’s currently stuck at the back of the queue and I’m not convinced it will even make it through these lights without them turning to red again. The bus stop’s not that far away. If I run quickly I think I’ll do it. And that will show that damn driver. Oooh, yeah, I can imagine his face now as he sees me step on to his bus. Yep, that’s it, that’s tipped the scales, that’s the deciding factor. I had a small doubt as to whether I’d do it but the thoughts of the driver’s bemused face and my face of justice, pride and, not least of all, victory have convinced the petty mind inside of me. Let’s do it.

But let’s do it quickly. I can’t hang around or I’ll definitely arrive after the bus. I just need to decide on one more small thing. Shall I just run away immediately or shall I do it a little more gradually? What will the people around me think if I suddenly just sprint away from the bus stop? Maybe they’ll think I’ve just robbed someone and I’ll be chased. I suppose that would make me run quicker and beat the bus.

I decide to walk away from the bus stop and after a few metres I run. I don’t begin with a jog, I sprint right away. And I feel good. I’ve got a good speed and I can already see the finishing line up ahead. The only problem is the traffic in the road to my right has started moving. Very soon I’ll see the bus approach me. Or not, if the traffic light changed back to red before the bus passed it. I can’t look round, that will slow me down too much. Wait, there’s the bus now. It’s passing me, though not flying past me thankfully. I look ahead to the bus stop and see many people there waiting. I hope they’re waiting for the same bus as me. That way it’ll take a while for everyone to get on and the bus will be at the stop longer, giving me time to catch it up.

And that’s what happens. Around eight people get on the bus and the last of them is me. I swipe my oyster card and look at the driver. I tell him, “It was nice of you to stop this time. I made it after all”

Through the glass dividing us I can only hear a muffled “What?”

“Didn’t you see me run here from the last stop?”

I begin to walk away from the door towards the seats, content with the point I feel I’ve made.

“Go sit down, you prick, you’re wasting everyone’s time.” he tells me before preparing to restart the bus’ journey.

“You’re the prick, mate.” I say with the intention of being quiet enough so that the driver won’t hear but loud enough for the other passengers to hear and know that I’ve given something back.

But it seems I’ve said it loud enough. Behind me I hear the small door to the driver’s compartment open. I turn around and see his head leaning out along with one of his legs coming out of the doorway and down on to the floor. I suddenly feel my breakfast rising up to my throat and my knees turning to jelly.

“What did you say? he says. “If you give me any more of that I’ll throw you off this bus, alright?” He stares at me and maintains it for a few seconds. I stare back but without the same intensity I imagine.

I start to believe that he didn’t intentionally drive off from the last bus stop. He probably didn’t see me trying to get on. Should I explain the whole thing to him? Maybe that would placate the aggressive situation we have now.

I decide that for now the best thing to do would be to turn around. I look at the faces of some of the other passengers and they look right back at me. I quickly look away. I find a seat next to the window. I sit down, look ahead and see the driver’s eyes in the mirror looking at me. I’ve got a 30 minute journey ahead of me here. Maybe I should get off at the next stop and wait for the next bus. No, I’ll go sit upstairs instead.

Most ceilings look the same. White, or maybe cream, with few visible strokes or marks left behind by the paintbrush. Except for those old-fashioned ones where the painter would leave loads of blobs of paint all over the ceiling. If you looked carefully at those kinds of ceilings you could see faces and figures, like when you look at clouds. My grandparents used to have one of those ceilings in the room which I used to stay in when I visited them as a boy. During quiet moments I made visual stories of the people and animals I could see above me.

Nowadays I still often lay in my bed and stare at the white ceiling above me. Sometimes for a few minutes before going to sleep. Sometimes for a bit longer before I get up. Usually it’s to ponder the day that just was or the one that’s going to be. Or I might think about the good times and the bad. And the fun moments and the sad.
Today’s a little indifferent, but I’ve felt like that a lot recently for different reasons. I don’t really know how I’m feeling. I’ve laid here for maybe an hour now thinking about nothing, just staring into the whiteness, avoiding the day that awaits me.

Things used to seem so clear before, not only when I was a child being spoilt by my grandparents, but even just a few weeks ago. Somewhere the path got misty and now I don’t know what to do or how to feel. It makes me wonder if there’s someone, a higher power, pulling the strings of our lives. And are they doing it to help us or guide us? Or just to confuse and torment us?

How did things get like this? All I wanted to do was help but things have gone a little differently and now I’ve let things go too far. I did something bad last night, I’ll tell you about it in time, but first I’ll start from the beginning.

My name’s Doug by the way.

It seems to me that self-published writers are looked down on - that they’re just using up space in the market; that if their work was good enough to get a proper publishing deal it would have done; that they’re putting out any kind of rubbish just because technology allows them to. All of this went through my mind when I was considering whether to go ahead with it myself. Will I be a part of that stigma? Will people look down on me? Should I bother? Is my book good enough?

But what’s the alternative? I thought about not releasing it and keeping it for myself, but then I’d always wonder in my mind about what might have been. You never know if you don’t try. In the end I thought about what would be the worst that could happen. I just want to write. What can I do? Just because my book wasn’t picked up from the minefield of publishers I should give up doing what I enjoy?

I had doubts whilst writing and often wondered if I should carry on. Did I write it well enough? I always think no but maybe I did, who knows? Someone needs to tell me. I’m not the only judge. What I might consider bad someone else might consider good.

Now here I am with my book out there, not knowing how it’s being received or even getting noticed. How do I get it noticed? How does anyone get anything noticed? Money is needed to advertise the latest best-selling cookbook, autobiography or crime novel by the best-selling writer. If a pop star has a new record out there’ll be articles in the paper about the clothing they’re wearing or what they’re eating for lunch and it creates a buzz about their work, their product. What about me? Who cares about me? Do I pay money for someone to publicise me? Do I create some news to draw attention to me, a buzz, or a media frenzy as I think it’s called. No thanks. I don’t have the money for a start. But where does that leave me and my book?

I’m not one who’s driven by material possessions or status. When I was younger I always liked the idea of being a struggling little-known artist having to sell my work in order to afford food and a shelter over my head. I remember a scene from the film ‘Amelie’ when the unpublished poet finds some lines from his book written on the wall. I wouldn’t mind that happening to me…

I recall a Guardian article a few months ago about artists who have to continue working a day job to support themselves. This has been intended to portray someone at the level below that one. I’ll gladly continue working in cafes if it means I’ve made a small name for myself. It’s getting even that far that is proving a problem.

Don’t let the bankers bring you down. Doug didn’t. He stopped moaning and found there was something beneficial he could do for other people. If those in charge weren’t going to help then he was going to.

People trying to sell drugs on buses, people not knowing how to behave in public. Strangers suspicious of each other, all exchanges of manners and respect out of the window. And it’s getting worse. Children are being raised in this environment and are doing as they see. A rude, impolite, disrespectful cycle is forming.

I always try to tell myself that things don’t matter, that things will change, that these people will get theirs, but they don’t and here I am again, faced with more trouble. And what can be done about it? What can I do about it? I feel useless in situations like on the bus. I imagine what I would’ve done afterwards but at the time I do nothing, just wait for the problem to disappear. Anyway, what can I do about it? I’m just one person. I can’t influence the whole of society.

But then it always nags me that everyone thinks like that and that nothing will ever change if no one does anything. Nothing will ever change if I do nothing. I can’t affect everyone but I can affect the next person and the next and hope that some kind of change will take place. Be the change you want to see in the world, that’s how it goes. I could do that. I could be a Superman for society.

Don’t let work, money, greed, poverty obscure the beauty that surrounds you. That's life, one is told to believe. Don't Let Life Bring You Down. A story about a man trying to right the world of its wrongs.Don't Let Life Bring You Down