This evening, I boarded a London bus whose driver was deeply sombre and morose. I thought back to this delightful soul whom we encountered a few years back, and thought I’d share the story with you again:
“I’ve never really thought of a red London bus as a chariot. But that’s exactly what we travelled in yesterday. Our bus driver told us so. Well, actually, he sang it so.
Travelling back from Greenwich to our home yesterday, our bus driver sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” at the top of his lungs, with all his heart and to the joy, horror and entertainment of his travelling charges. Some cynical commuters wondered if he was
p***ed drunk, some didn’t notice, some smiled coyly and two people alighted earlier than planned.
The self-confessed “drunken bum” next to my niece and me was endlessly entertained. The proud owner of approximately two teeth, he chattered constantly and laughed like a drain. If he could stand up, he’d have been a stand-up comedian. But his seated banter broadened our smiles all the way home, and the driver’s singing warmed my heart.
“He’s quite religious, I think. He’s trying to save you. Not me; I’m just a drunken bum. But he thinks he can save you. I don’t think he can, but that’s what he’s trying to do,” our toothless neighbour offered.
Thank you, Mr Bus Driver, for keeping my joy alive yesterday with your delight-filled noise and for carrying us home in style. Keep singing and may your musical dreams find their chance to break out of that dreary uniform; you never know who may be listening.”
Sunshine signing off for today.