They got on with bags marked CDG. One tall and tired-looking, the other shorter, blonde and with a tie so garishly striped diagonally in yellow and black that it must have signified membership of something.

He says in a voice that is slightly too loud for the proximity to his friend:

“I always find that wilderness and density of population go hand in hand. No, not wilderness, that’s not what I mean…what’s the word? Ah, willingness!”

His friend looks tired, slightly exasperated, and shifts in his seat.

The blonde one weaves in front of his seated chum, and says:

“…so I typed it in: W - A - N - K - E - R … as if anyone would actually choose that for themselves. But he had! I love that. W - A - N - K - E - R … WANKER, see? I love that kind of wacky humour. I’m a bit mad like that. WANKER. That’s great. I nearly died laughing.”

On the other side of the bus, hanging on to the rail as we cornered sharpley onto Church Road, a burly man in a puffer jacket with shoes the size of boats and a thick moustache regards the pair with barely-disguised loathing.

The blonde one staggers slightly with the motion of the bus. He says:

“I’m dancing around here! Three pints and already I’m on the stage….What’s the economic profile of this area?”

The older, tireder man rings the bell to signal the bus to stop. The pair gather their overcoats, conservative short scarves and laptop bags, and disembark. A long day of travelling, together.