There is a train conductor with a secret longing to be a Voiceover Guy. This my theory anyway. The man really has the golden tonsils. I'll be sitting there, seething into my book and loathing humanity; wishing I had the nerve to tell the guy two rows in front that if I can clearly hear the news that Roger Federer has defeated Inferior Player 6-3 6-3 6-0, then his personal radio is turned up too fucking loud. But then I'll hear the familiar BING BONG of the train announcement PA system thingy, and the Conductors voice will come through, soothing like melted chocolate. "Good evening Ladies and Gentleman… this is your conductor speaking." He'll just be apologising for the Inconvenience of the Short Delay or warning us that the Next Stop Is Glasgow Queen Street, but his tone commands attention. It's deep, rich and reassuring. It fills the carriages; rising and falling like an old ballad. While all the other conductors mumble, he sounds like he puts a lot of thought into it and practices into a hairbrush at night. He even does wee pauses for suspense. "The next stop is… [Ooh tell me, tell me!] Haymarket. I'd like to remind passengers to please… retain your tickets… [Why? Why?] as barrier checks… are now in operation." It's a lovely mild sort of Scots accent, not one of those incomprehensible ones or over the top like Mr Connery. It belongs in voiceovers, I tell you. I can just imagine him saying, "Hair care products. Three-for-two this week at Boots". Or, "Stay with us now on Channel Five; next up is the insightful new documentary… The Man Who Was Raised By Chickens". The conductor is a handsome bloke, 40-something; he'd look so dignified in a small booth with a microphone above him. The other day he sauntered through our carriage to inspect the tickets. This is where he really showcases his range. He managed to say something different to every single passenger as they half-heartedly waved their passes at him. Thank you. Much obliged. Thanks. Perfect. Merci. Ta. Beautiful. That's smashing. I never knew there were so many ways to acknowledge a valid ticket. Before he got to me, he had to announce the Next Stop. I don't understand how the system works, to be honest. Most trains have an automated voice that blasts through so abruptly that it feels like your sternum will shatter. But sometimes the conductors have to do it manually. Or maybe this guy chooses to do it that way. I watched him unlock the little hatch where the equipment resides. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, rolled his shoulders twice and cracked his knuckles, as if he was about to walk on stage to play King Lear. Finally he cleared his throat and picked up the handset, "Ladies and Gentleman… [dramatic pause!] The next stop… is Edinburgh Waverley." I was dying to tell him how brilliant I thought he was, how his voice warmed my soul and if put to commerical use, it would also make me want to buy stuff. But I figured he'd just think one of the following – 1.  I was being overly polite. Like when people at work thank me for making such great coffees for their meetings, when I KNOW full well I make the most shit coffees in the world, or 2.  I was drunk. Like 75% of passengers on my train line tend to be. Then again, maybe he had always harboured this secret desire to be a voiceover guy, but didn't have to confidence to really believe he could be a voiceover guy, and took the train conductor job because at least he got to announce the stations. Maybe if someone said to him, "Have you ever thought of doing voiceover work?" his secret desires would feel validated and he'd go and sign up for Voiceover School or whatever you have to do. Or maybe he was just a dedicated train conductor who happened to have a nice voice. When he came by I silently held out my ticket. I was rewarded with a Marvellous.

There were three girls on the train trying to establish who among them had the shittiest job. Was it the sales assistant, the coffee shop girl or the Pizza Hut chick? While they were all equally mistreated by customers and The Management, Pizza Hut Chick won because she had to come home stinking of cheese and tomato.

GIRL #1:  Anyway. Enough about work. Who’s coming to your 18th party?

GIRL #2:  Dunno yet.

GIRL #3:  Are you inviting Kelly?

G2:  No WAY. She’s a bitch. She said I didn’t get into St Andrews [University] because I wasn’t middle class!

G1:  That cow!

G3:  Middle class? What you mean by that?

G2:  You know, middle class.

G3:  No I don’t know.

G2:  Well you know, everyone has a class. There’s upper class, and below that is middle class, and below that is… what do you call the other one?

G1:  Working class.

G3:  Oh right. So how do you know which one you are?

G2:  It depends on what your dad does. If he’s something like a labourer or taxi driver then you’re working class.

G3:  Well. Then I’m working class.

G1:  Me too! And proud of it!

G3:  What are you if your Dad’s a doctor?

G1:  Depends what sort of doctor. There’s different classes of medical professional.

G2:  Yeah, like a brain surgeon would be upper class but a GP would be sorta… middle-upper.

Public transport is a cruel and evil form of mobile hell, in which one is forced to be surrounded by people at the very time of day when one least wants to be surrounded by people.

Yesterday the girl with the Justin Timberlake ringtone was in the midst of a lover’s quarrel with someone perhaps attempting contact whilst buried under an avalanche, such was the quality of the phone’s reception:

“Nooo. Wha? … I’m not arguing… Wha? No fuck youuu… Wha? … Wha? … I’m on the bus… Wha? … the BUS!”

The guy beside me was searching for his ears beneath the long greasy ropes of his hair. Once found, he jammed his earphones in and cranked up the volume to the maximum.

My blood began to simmer. When listening to music in public, it’s not difficult to check the volume before you put your earphones in to see if it’s audible to those around you. If so, you can decrease the volume accordingly. Or if you’re a jerky jerkface, you can just turn it up even louder to ensure the whole bus enjoys your bellowing Radio One DJ or obscure Scandinavian metal band.

“Wha? I’ll see you at home… HOOOME. Wha? Go to hell.”

I stood up and smacked the STOP bell. To hell with this bewheeled torture chamber! I’d paid £33 a month for unlimited travel on Lothian Buses. If this bus was so determined to shit me, I would simply get on a different one!

After ten minutes sulking in the afternoon drizzle, another bus came by. I was greeted by the unmistakable stench of the Great Unwashed. But I was willing to tolerate that for a few moments of silence. I sat back and noticed how this particular route was always full of elderly men with huge ears, curved and creviced like ashtrays.

I was dozing off when a young couple came clattering up the aisle, they couldn’t have been more than 14. They plonked down across from me and dropped their shopping bags. He carefully pushed back the hood of her regulation fur-trimmed parka and they commenced a furious snog session.

When you’re the one in the midst of a kiss, it sounds like heaven. Sweet or soft or sexy; the memory of it can keep you floating for days. But when you’re not involved, a kiss is one of the most irritating noises in the world. The sound of someone else’s smacking lips and clonking teeth makes the stomach scream in protest. I pulled my beanie down harder over my ears as he excavated traces of Irn-Bru and chip crumbs from her gums.

After ten minutes they stopped, and the boy spoke in nasal tones.

“Scratch my back would ya babe?”

“Wha?”

“I’m itchy. Below my shoulder. Lower. Aww yeah, that’s it.”

“Yeah?”

“Bit more to the left. Aww yeah. You’re the best babe.”

The slurping resumed with renewed vigour for a good four stops, until the girl’s mobile rang. You could almost hear their merged saliva stretch out and snap like mozzarella on a pizza as they reluctantly parted lips.

“Hello? Who?… Eh? … What you want? … I’m on the bus… THE BUS… Noo, I’m on my own… I’m on my ooown…. Fine.”

Beep.

Slurp slurp.

Breathless recap.

“So that was Douglas. Me phone rang and I said like Hello? and he’s like It’s Douglas and I’m like Who? and he says Douglas and I’m like Eh? What you want? and he’s like Where are you? and I’m like I’m on the bus and he’s like Where? THE BUS I said and he’s like, Is Kyle with you? and I’m like Noo, I’m on my own and he’s like, Suuuure, and I’m like, I’m on my ooown, and he’s like, I’m going, so I’m like, Fine.”

Slurp slurp slurp.

My fingers itched to hit the STOP button again, but all immediate exits were blocked by old geezers with satellite dish ears. I scratched at the vinyl seat and tried to ignore the din. Instead I focused on the man in front, admiring the way he’d artfully arranged his remaining hairs in a spiral around his spotty red scalp.

Slurp slurp.

I was brooding over the realisation that I’d have been home twenty minutes ago if I’d stayed on the first bus, when the bell rang. The scrawny Casanova dragged his girl down the aisle.

“Let’s go babe. I’m bursting on a piss.”