My own personal saviour
My bike has a puncture at the moment, and is languishing in the underground bike lair under our offices. So far it’s been beyond my intellectual capability to visualise the process of walking the bike back home, or taking it to a bike shop. So instead it sits in the dusty bunker, feeling a bit sorry for itself, and wishing it had a more loving owner.
So I’ve either been taking the bus (10 minutes if it smoothly passes the Angel bottleneck) or walking (20 minutes). The choice is settled by either the weather or if a bus happens to be going past my house as I open the front door, giving me the chance to sprint down the road, past the butcher, grocer, drunks and fishmonger, and hop on the 476 or 73, which is still a bendy bus, yet to suffer the wrath of Boris Johnson’s merciless anti-bendy cull.
I’m not very good at noticing fellow passengers, but I’ve spotted one guy who usually travels at about 10:45, mainly because he looks like my own personal saviour, Jesus. He has a lovely beard, flowing locks, and an expression that suggests serene benignity. He has a roll-up placed behind his ear, which he lights as soon as he gets off the bus (at my stop!). He reads the Independent, which is stuffed into one of the many pockets of his holy overcoat.
He walks in the same direction as me, and we pass a Tesco metro on the way. I’ve only spotted him a handful of times, but so far he’s never gone into the store of doom. I saw a punk shopping at Tesco last month, which was fine – ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated? Yup, I’m over that.
But if Jesus – or, more accurately, a man who has clearly taken a conscious decision to look quite a bit like how Westerners think Jesus should have looked – were to out himself as a Tesco shopper it would be too much to bear. I’d probably have to try to stop him.
Today Jesus went merrily on his way, ignoring the gaping mouth of the beast, happy with his roll-up of peace and his doomed Indepedent newspaper.
And I went into Tesco and bought some pineapple.