  It is hot and it is raining. Fat summer raindrops the size of eyeballs and bath pearls splatter commuters and pockmark the pavement.
I am on my way to work. I consider what-shall-there-be-for-dinner-tonight, the state of my finances and my frown in the bus window. The rain becomes more determined, slashes the window and darkens the sky. I consider skin conditions and new washing powder brands. The dark-haired, checked-shirted boy sitting next to me twitches his leg nervously. I muse on where to buy shelves.
A couple behind me witter about barbecue sauce and chicken grease. I think about flamingos and the mighty pinking-power of prawns. The teenager in front is discussing babies’ names from a newly-bought book with someone ( the father? Is she pregnant? ) on her mobile phone. I consider Roman ruins and how pubs get their names. A man in a cap saunters up the stairs and slots himself next to a suited businessman on the front seat, oozing body odour and stale weed.
I picture a love scene, an embrace, a release. The girl across the aisle has biguglytoes and loose skin around her toenails. I think about cups of tea, cups of tea, cups of tea. The bus lurches to an untidy halt an inch from the no. 38 in front. I think about monkey-dung and giggling. A woman with a blonde baby girl in a push chair struggles to keep her footing as the bus pulls out into the traffic again.
I pull out my book, consider the yellow flowers on the front, put it away again. A man in a leather jacket, newspaper in backpocket, starts to argue with a professional-looking woman standing by the door about pushing and not apologising. I shut my eyes and will it to be night. None of this is interesting. None of this is newsworthy. None of this is worth your time. 
