I have done some of my best thinking on the front seat at 2am
I apologise for starting a column about the joy of small things with the doom of depression, but it was in the middle of a quagmire of ennui, nocturnal sleeping patterns and the cold winds of increasing isolation – familiar to many who experience mental health problems – that this particular delight was discovered. It’s a slim delight, but a critical one. A delight that, when I am most well, I do not experience. It is riding buses at night.
Night buses are synonymous with drunken, rowdy revellers; takeaway food in polystyrene containers; the stink of skunk; amusing group banter overheard. But night buses midweek, when the sky is the colour of plums and the only other road users are council maintenance workers – those night buses are a different prospect altogether.
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