I hate buses

If there really is a fellow down in that fiery lake with a red pitchfork, I don't think he has the tyrannical or apocalyptic tendencies for which he is so renowned. Let's face it: if he wanted to bring about the destruction of Earth, subjugation of mankind or similar wickedness, he would have done it by now; after all, God doesn't seem to have much clout nowadays - at least not in my atheistic and hopefully inoffensive view. No, I think the Devil is more a jester who gets a kick out of winding people up.

Buses evidence my theory. Having finished a day's work at South Devon College on Friday afternoon, I was walking into the car park towards a free lift home when I got a text - from my boss, asking me to stick around until the minibus arrives to pick up some students (Russian students who are studying there - I'm a teaching assistant). "OK," I thought, "last time I had to stay, the bus was late, but I'm sure it won't be this time." It was, by half an hour. By this time the lift was unavailable and the rain showed no signs of easing. My only other recourse? A bus. A Stagecoach bus. I'd been waiting at the shelter for around 15 minutes when a 12C pulled up, and then for another couple of minutes outside its doors while the driver shuffled his papers. Once he'd sufficiently milked the 'you're getting wet and I'm not' routine (although, in his defence, it would be a literal impossibility to shuffle papers after I boarded), I asked if he was heading past Paignton Zoo. Naturally, he wasn't, and I apparently needed a 12A. 20 minutes later another 12C arrived which, given previous instruction, I ignored, shortly followed by the desired 12A. After this bus stopped I saw the driver swap sheets of paper where the route number is displayed (yes, he did do this before opening the doors), leading me to mumble "If you're no longer a ****ing 12A..." or sentiments to that effect. He eventually let me on, so I parroted my question about the zoo. "No, you need the bus that just left" came the reply. "Have you switched routes?" I then queried with embarrassing uncertainty. "Yeees." The developing enigma of bus routes was bad enough, but what made me truly cringe was the condescension in his voice, as though I were asking whether A is the first letter in the Roman alphabet. If I were in the mood for sarcasm I'd say you have a large penis which women don't find repulsive, but it's surprising how mundane lengths of time in the rain and on aching feet ebb away at one's sense of humour. Twatflap.

I walked home in the end, which took another half-hour. Unpleasant. A pox on you, Satan!

Anyway, we successfully moved house. I remain in Paignton, now with my grandparents, whilst ma and pa (I really should call them that...) are at the other end of the country. Nothing beats a bit of polarisation. It's incredible how much junk I've accumulated over the years: books, documents, equipment and sundries are all crammed into a limited space, but all grievances are allayed by the vast wonders of the double bed. Xbox functionality is present but diminished. My 27" HD telly wouldn't fit, so I have to settle for a smaller, low-def model. Worse still, I don't have Xbox Live set up. If I can find a certain WPA key, however, I'll be able to connect to a network with a whole one bar of signal strength! Result! Undoubtedly there will be an issue with the MTU or ICMP, or failing that my NAT is sure to be stricter than Hitler's foreign policy. (You must have had Xbox headaches to fully understand this calamity.)

Still, overall things aren't too shabby. My brain is keeping very active with all the coffee-break games in my grandparents' daily newspapers. By September I ought to be extraordinarily intelligent, and dull. You'll have the chance to watch that transformation through future blog entries. This entry, however, must draw to a close. It's gone midnight and my eyes are probably bloodshot.

Rock on and rock out,
Ryan