Soon we’re back to crawling along the PRW at a snail’s pace with the windae wipers on full pelt, the driver hunched right forward in his seat with his face practically pressed to the glass so he can see, and next thing there’s suddenly an auld granny spread eagled in the road with her hauns flailing in the air, clearly taking nae risks the driver might miss her at her stop, face poking out from under the plastic rainmate plastered to her heid, a wee wheelie trolley dragging behind her with a big puddle on top.
The poor wee soul comes round then starts hauling herself up the steps, absolutely soaked through to the skin, water not just dripping but proper running off her coat tails, shoes actually squelching with each step she takes. She’s a sorry sight, puffing and panting and wheezing, and after a bit of a rummage she produces her wee bus pass, slaps it with a wet splodge on the meter, and without a single hint of irony or bitterness says to the driver in a cheery voice:
“Wee bit miserable the day, in’t it?”