|Riding on city buses for a hobby ain't so bad
||[Jun. 27th, 2016|11:36 pm]
The lit up, steamed up windows of an 87 coming the other way up the Strand; odd to see that on a dry evening. Middle aged man thinks so to, says to his wife, in a tone almost indignant:|
Look at that. Are they boiling potatoes on that bus?
A couple discuss where they will eat tonight. It is taking a long time; we are on a 3, now passing the Crimea monument, they've been at it since Lambeth Bridge. His suggestions are lengthy, featuring favourite dishes at each establishment, the wine list, the disposition of the staff, the decor, the acoustics. Her contributions are staccato and terse, consisting primarily of the restaurant's name, cuisine and location.
There seems to be no point of agreement between them. Neither engages with the other's recommendations. They must be in a state of mutual oblivion, for it's not until the queue at Shoryu slides past the windows that he says:
Are you, ... I thought you were just, ... you're getting all this from your phone, ... from a, an app!