Parp Parp Honk Honk

My Dear Fellow,

I’d gotten used to the pink-topped 22 buses picking me up and dropping me off from work. But recently (within the last few months) they have been replaced by a new, flash LUXURY 22, with nicer seats and fake wood-panelling inside.
 
It is very posh. But then you hear it turning a corner or slowing down. It must be a design flaw in the whole fleet, because these new buses occasionally FART.
 
I’m NOT kidding. I’m not sure what it is. The gear-shift? The suspension? These things make a noise like a bull moose with its foot stuck, or an air-horn let off inside a shed, or a cow blowing its nose on another cow. Or simply the world’s biggest blow-off. Like the bus has eaten a burrito and washed it down with curry sauce.

I tried to capture the sound on my iPhone on the way home today, but the bus refused to blow off. So maybe it is only some of them. I swear that noise isn't coming from me.
 
I don't really mind the noise because a) public transport in Edinburgh is brilliant and b) farts are hilarious. I am grateful that we are moving to Wellington, because apparently the public transport system is great there too. Having to learn to drive so we could move to Tauranga, where buses are limited, seemed very daunting to me. Ever since being in a road accident at the age of 11 I have doubted my own capacity to make speed/distance judgements and the idea of me being in charge of something like a car frightens me.
 
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure I could overcome it. And the actual mechanics of driving a car were fine for me when I last attempted to learn. But going at speed – ooooh – I’d be scared the whole time that I might squish a cat or a bunny or a whole line of pensioners.
 
We used to have this cat. His name was Figgy and he was the bestest kitty in the world ever. But he was like me when it came to spatial judgement. He was a tubby black cat, and HUGE. But also very considerate and didn’t want to be a bother. Every now and then I’d see him trying to squeeze through a small space that was clearly not meant for a cat the size of a pony and think, “Ooh no, Petal, that’s never going to work.” He’d think about it. And think. And then he’d MOVE. He’d lower his tail (like that would help) and CHARGE.
 
I once saw him run through an entire plate of chocolate cream eclairs which were blocking his path. It seemed to me that he closed his eyes, hoped for the best and went for it. Only when it was over did he look behind himself at the demolished cakes which had sprayed fresh cream and chocolate all over Er Indoors and think, “Hmmmm… that could have gone better.”
 
Little Figgy. I loved him, but I think of him when I imagine myself behind the wheel of a car. There would be smashed cream cakes all over the place. So I’m happy to be living in the city of Farty Buses.

El P.