The Bus Driver's Cubbyhole of Misery

Sometimes it's a simple miscommunication that brings about a meltdown. Something as broad ranging as 'social disability' may, on certain days, not be triggered by two shouting people in the street, but by one ignorant person.

I can confidentially say I was doing the right thing. And a nice thing.

I can assert that this first month in a job that requires 3 hours of commuting and resisting the urge to bang on train windows where restless or jump down onto train tracks 'just to have a look' is incredibly difficult.

Today I got on the bus home, a First Bus. The 36, if you're interested. I got on with my C+ pass. It was on time and not crowded. This was good. Two stops on a young girl got on and said, '£1.50.'

The bus driver growled, 'There is no £1.50. You tell me where you're going.'

The girl replies, 'Right near X Street. I've just finished work and I get this route every day and they always charge me £1.50.'

Him: There's no button for £1.50 and I've been doing this job for 4 years.
Her: Can you check?
Him: Okay. Do you wanna put money on it?
Her: What?
Him: Do you wanna put money on it?
Her: Look, what is it?
Him: £1.60.
Her: Oh, right. I thought you were going to say loads more.
Him: It will be if you're going further.
Her: I'm not. I'm going just by X Street.
Him: Just get on already. But I'm warning you, you get off when I say.

The bus goes on. At a stop that is...somewhere, the driver stops and orders her off. She stands and goes to his little cubbyhole of misery

Her: But this isn't where I get off!
Him: You get off here because that's what you paid for.

They argue. I start feeling squirmy, hot-eyed, like I want to bite my hand. I have a ten pound note and a five pound note in my hand.

I get up and approach girl and driver. I hold out my bunched-up notes.

Me: Hi. How much more does she owe? I can - 
Her: [To me] It's okay, cheers, I have the money, it's just - 
Him: Just get off the bus. [To me] You, sit yourself down. [Points arm back down the bus] Now.

I recoil. His tone was direct, an order, threatening. Will he throw me off the bus in the rain?

I don't sit. I lean against the pole, clutching my money and hugging my bag. I feel scared. My brain is losing its filter rapidly and I run a conversation in my head. I will explain that I was doing a good thing, that he was rude and that he shouldn't have said that to me. He will understand because he is human.

At my stop I don't get off, but stand by his cubbyhole of misery.

Me: Look [shows him the two notes] I was trying to help by offering to pay any extra she needed.
Him: She had money. She already got an extra stop, that one.
Me: But you didn't need to order me away like that. That was rude.
Him: I told her to get off.
Me: No, you were rude and ordered me away, which is wrong. You shouldn't be rude. It's not nice.
Him: You were interfering.
Me: [Holds up bright blue AUTISM ALERT card] I have autism and I was trying to help. Why were you mean?
Him: You were interfering. We'll leave it there.
Me: But - 
Him: Get off the bus.

I have a high-impact job. I deal with chaotic, vulnerable and yes, occasionally hostile people. And despite my facial expressions, I do give a shit. Today before I got on my train to work, I checked in with a homeless man who looked like he was going over and made sure to warn him to stay away from town in the afternoon in case it kicked off post-match and to also find out what had happened to the others tenting out. Answer: they were burned out.

I deal with the stresses of adult life and obsessions and rituals daily with a consistent lack of Theory Of Mind - I assume everyone thinks and approaches all situations as I do. Brain scans of autistic people even show a difference in brain make-up. Yet in my personal life, I cannot 'pass' so well. At work, I act a role and it exhausts me. Personally, I may be emotionally mature as the average 14-year old. 

Does this explain why after getting off the bus this evening, I put my hood up and actually cried the short walk to my house. Why, when I walked in and The Fiancé asked what was wrong the first words out of my mouth were, 'I'm a stupid fucking autistic freak' and ran upstairs to hide. I am 31 years old.

Since my diagnosis I have never referred to myself in those terms.

This was not a serious incident. Not a major assault on my personality or physical self. No one threw excrement at me or kicked me or called me a retard. Yet the mismatch between my want to do a nice thing and then being insulted and then finding further insult when I disclosed my autism stung more than anything else has in many months.

The Fiancé put it in simpler terms.

'Maybe he was angry because he missed the match. Or perhaps he had to deal with lairy fans all day. Or, maybe, just maybe, he's just a total twatwaffle.' 




POSTSCRIPT: The blue Autism Alert cards have so far proven utterly useless.

The Night We Did and Didn't Have

Last night we had tickets to go to Antwerp Mansion in Rusholme for a "Regression Session" pop-up nightclub.

We did study the event's Facebook page carefully and looked at the profile pictures of people who stated they were Going. All 447 of them. We decided that they were young, sexy club bunnies and everyone appeared 10 years younger than us with better make-up and less body fat.

We did analyse the situation, score our moods, do a Pros and Cons list of going, discuss travel arrangements, if we would or wouldn't like it, how much an Uber would cost at 3am and if our Prozac doses were correct...for a fucking HOUR AND A HALF.

We did reach a decision and changed the plan.

We did not go here:

We did not partake in this:

We did go here:

The local (and only) "rock" pub where we sat on benches that are encouraged to be graffitted on (someone had persistently scrawled COCKSUCKING THUNDERCUNT onto the wood) next to teenage Goth girls drinking water who whined about "hipster metalboys" (I don't know what these are. Please help me understand).

We did stand a metre away from one of the bands amongst a crowd of six who clapped self-consciously when Indie Band #57* finished a song. 

We did not change our minds and head to Rusholme. We did continue to here:

We did drink cider of many types. Brothers. Old Mout, Thatchers and local brews that The Fiancé likened to "like Hartley's making cider." We did win money on a fruit machine by bashing random buttons.

We did see a man in a Deadpool morph suit dancing camply beside women with walking sticks in front of a band who played hard rocked versions of David Bowie. We did not see ball pits, bouncy castles or glow sticks.

We did see three of my ex-clients sat on the pavements, trying to get money for food. I will not go into their details, but I knew they were hungry and did need that money for food. They chatted openly to me and The Fiancé about their housing situation. Quick summary: dangerous. 

We did not spend £150 on a Travelodge/Holiday Inn/Premier Inn room in Manchester just so that we could crash and not worry about bed for the night.

We did spend £20 in a Bolton takeaway on three pizzas and a chicken kebab (for one of the guys' dogs). We did walk for twenty minutes trying to find the ones who had swapped pitches. One guy we did have to track for awhile until we found him. He was able to go to where he goes to sleep and not have to make any more money that night. He would be able to feed his partner. He wouldn't get attacked tonight.

We did see Bolton's Street Angels (old men in High-Vis jackets) assisting drunken girls falling outside clubs. Girls with working phones and six friends to help them and probably at least the price of a 9 inch pizza each to get a taxi home. 

We did not see anyone talk to my clients. We did see people shout at them. We did not see Street Angels talk to them or stop beside them.

We did go back to the original pub and buy more cider. The Fiancé shambled out of the toilets after a long time, sat down and stated, 'I just used my trusty pound coin to carve FUCK JILLY** on the wall.' Then a passing man rubbed his head for good luck.

We did manage to sell one of the tickets for the thing we didn't do. We did not wish we'd been there instead.

We did go home, eat takeout and watch Family Guy.

We did not feel bad for being too afraid to go to a big fuck-off club night and opting instead for local pubs. We did not feel anything when we fell asleep. Except how good a bed feels when you've been out in the night air in the busy town centre. 

We did not take it for granted.


*Indie Band #57 was not their name, but I like it for a band name. I'll use it.
**Jilly is a false name for The Fiancé's old flame.

Bolton Food and Drink Festival

Enjoyed the splishy-splashy rain during the culinary delights of Bolton.

After being accosted by some amorous street performers as French chefs, The Boyfriend and I managed the swarms of people, puppies, and kids. There were Chinese noodles, Mexican nachos, Polish sausages, Spanish churros, Fish 'N' Rice, and unusual meat burgers. Plus artisan stalls selling handmade soaps (got a nice goat's milk and aloe vera bar that is supposedly very good for soothing skin), carved wooden figures, handmade jewellery, and, strangely, knock-off Adidas tracksuits with the logo replaced with the cannabis leaf and the word ADDICTED. 

I had a kangaroo burger, which apparently has 2% fat (all that jumping that Skippy does), but tasted very rich (apparently like venison?). 

I nipped into WHSmiths to grab a travel book for a holiday next year, and a little old member of staff on the basement floor saw me browsing for some time, saw me grab the book I wanted and make for the lift. She shouted at me to stop and asked where I was going. 

Me: Upstairs. To pay. 

Her: No. You pay here. 

Me: No, I'm getting some drinks upstairs as well.  

Her: You put it in this basket now. Before you go.

I dutifully put the book in the shopping basket and scowled all the way in the lift. I grabbed the bottles of pop and mentioned to the cashier I felt a little insulted that I'd been treated like a potential shoplifter. I said I'd regularly been in the shop to get books from the basement and preferred to pay in one hit upstairs so I could look at magazines and get my favoured energy drinks. I said I appreciated she was watching the store on a busy day, but frankly, an older couple or professionally-dressed person would not have been questioned (I have tattoos, wear jeans and have a fade on the side of my head). To my surprise, the cashier was angry and said, 'Oh, yeah, I know her,' and radioed for the manager who turned up straight away. I reiterated my confusion/anger and he also seemed angry. I basically summed it up as, 'I'm a professional adult who has no need or desire to shoplift and I very much resent the stereotyping.'

Bit odd. But there we go. Some older generations see me and think, 'Scruff.' Some older generations smile at me and say how much they like my tops. Mad. 

So, here's some pretty pictures to show how nice the rest of the day was.

What I Did On My Summer Holidays

[In the spirit of so many of friend's Facebook albums being dedicated to exotic and exciting holidays, here is my own Summer Holiday Essay]

Wow! Arrived in sunny Farnworth today and was gratified to see there was only 30% cloud cover. I'm so lucky!

I listened to the harmonising of sirens go back and forth to the local A&E department and gazed up at a heat-seeking helicopter that appeared to circle the estate. I couldn't hear birds, but at least four different dogs were barking and being told to, 'Shut the fook up!'

The boiler was temperamental and required running down the stairs in a towel to work some dial magic to make the water hot. But eventually I was able to wash my hair with a bottle of Head Strong shampoo, Aldi's finest. 

I visited the local convenience store and was brightened by the range of re-heated pasties, burgers, and chicken fillets. I marvelled that somewhere could sell such low price food with no allergen information or reference to Halal or Kosher. Such simpler ways!

On a Sunday, nothing else is open (not even the famous Pound Bakery!), so I was treated to the local area in all its relaxed splendour. Last night's abandoned scratchcards, bottles, and vomit lined the comfortably wide ginnels on my return to the house.

The day passed more slowly (some would say boringly, but I wouldn't!) and I sat on a warm patch of concrete, drinking a nice cold glass of water that had been boiled to eradicate the recent outbreak of the parasite cryptosporidium. 

That evening I retired to a leg of lamb with lashings of Smart Price ketchup and fell asleep to the dulcet tones of my neighbours snoring through the party wall. 

Discover this gem of the North-West before too many tourists get here!!

Here are my photos from this glorious day:

My arrival on Devil's Road!

A local beauty spot.

The local artwork is divine! 

Local cuisine!

The wildlife is endangered.*

It's advisable to take extra medication when you visit!

All mod-cons here!

A typical local sporting event.

Bolton Rail Station is shut every Sunday from now until October so be prepared to be captured by locals.


*Please note. This mouse was already very dead when the photo was taken. Presumably, like rats, it was sick and came out into the open to die just to shit up the neighbours.

Skin Deep

Nothing more romantic than getting scarred with your partner.

Last week, The Boyfriend and I were at Vida Loca Tattoos in Bolton getting inked. 

No, not matching tattoos and not each other's names i.e. "the kiss of death".

I now have a Game of Thrones quote (from beloved Tyrion)...

..and The Boyfriend had his final sitting of his Hulk piece. We are itchy and covered in Bepanthan.

Interestingly, we both established a good rapport with our artists. The Boyfriend had his done by Jamie and they chatted about art and whatnot. Becci did mine and she was a lovely soft spoken girl with a kick-ass attitude. With a love of comics and games, I had to resist blurting out, "I'm new to this town. Be my friend!"

But as a woman in a still mostly male industry I could tell she was hacked off that a lot of 'feminine' tattoos were coming her way: script, cats, flowers, etc. She wants to do big, cool pieces. So, when I'm ready to say goodbye to the clearness of my outer calf, she can do a big, beautiful piece of art down it.