The last bus ...
late one night, staggering home from the pub, I hopped onto what I assumed was the correct bus for my house. It set off in the general direction of my home, then suddenly, without warning, turned around.

I was a little nervous at this point, not so much about the direction change, but about the guy sat across from me fiddling with razor blades. Oh, and the group of chavs at the back with a broken stella bottle each. And the strange smell. We started heading out into the less savoury parts of Sheffield, and soon were in housing estates that I didn't recognise at all.

Now, normally, if I get on the wrong bus, I hop off and walk home. This was now not possible. First, there was the fact that I had no idea where I was, and second was the insane murderous types I was sharing the bus with. I figured if I didn't sit tight, I might not be sitting at all any more.

After about 45 minutes of sitting in deathly silence, with only the sniggering chavs and the occassional *snick* sound of another piece of seat being cut open by the guy with the razor blades, I spotted something I recognised. I couldn't tell what it was, as it was too far away for my drunken, spazzy eyes to make out but it seemed really familiar.

Imagine my joy when I discovered it was ... the petrol station near my house. We had managed to go full circle through all the roughest, scariest areas of the city, and back home. I got off the bus and legged it before anybody could give chase and arrived home out of breath, legs aching and stone cold sober. I put the deadbolt on that night.
( Evil|berT is posting post-hummusly, Thu 7 Sep 2006, 13:00, Reply)