It was my last day at work before Christmas today. When I got off the bus, the nice bus driver (the nicest driver on the route) wished me Happy Christmas. It reminded me of the driver (aka Mr. Nice) we used to have on our school bus. I went to school just outside Croydon, a good 15 miles from my home. A lot of girls (I went to an all girls school) were in the same boat, and there were no public bus services on the route, so the parents clubbed together to hire a coach.
What we actually got was a double decker bus, which looked like the owners had dragged it out of a scrap heap. It was painted with horizontal stripes; cream, avocado and salmon, like a deranged Neapolitan ice cream. We would have bets on whether it would make it up the biggest hill without us having to get out and walk (I'm not kidding
- we had to do that more than once). We had two regular drivers - Mr. Nice and Mr. Nasty. Quite how either of them put up with dozens of lippy, loud and lairy pre- and post-pubescent females every day is beyond me, but Mr. Nice went above and beyond the call of duty. On the last day of term before Christmas, he would deck out the bus with tinsel and balloons for the return journey, and greet us with a huge tin of Quality Street. He also went round the last roundabout twice, just for the hell of it, with all of us hanging out the windows, yelling Christmas carols. What a top bloke.