All at sea, like a lost salmon

The young Metrolink employee at the bus stop sighed when I asked about the level of public anger over the new bus system. ‘‘It’s Friday. I thought people would be happy on a Friday but they’re not,’’ she said, making a sad face.

I had just walked past the hospital and was discombobulated to discover that the stop, for some illogical reason, had been moved.

Eventually the bus materialised and it was a double-decker. I got on and sat on the lower level next to an elderly woman who thought two-tiered buses were terrible for the older traveller who would never chance the top storey in case of a fall.

‘‘Besides, Wellington roads are too narrow for these buses when they turn,’’ she said.

On the way back I caught another bus so full I stood way up the front next to the driver. Schoolchildren weren’t occupying some of the available seats, making congestion worse, so I yelled out for them to sit down so we could all move along.

At the next bus stop, as soon as the door opened an angry guy started abusing the driver, shouting that the bus was late. The driver admonished the enraged commuter, telling his potential passenger: ‘‘That’s no way to talk.’’

It seemed to take all the fight out of him as he was swept on board, pushed by a sea of impatient commuters who could go no further than the front steps and remained pressed up against the closed door.

By this time, I had managed to acquire a seat next to an agitated guy who immediately asked me to get up because he needed to get out at the next stop.

‘‘Don’t worry, so do I,’’ I assured him as we stood up and squeezed down the line in a close maul. Just as I pressed the Snapper card, I realised that in the crush I had parted company with one of my grocery bags. Too late to turn back against the tide and retrieve it as we were flung out on to the road and left panting like sheep that had escaped livestock trucks bound for the works.

I stomped along the road, crossly imagining who would be enjoying my salmon, and was accosted by a brace of backpackers asking me which bus they should catch.

I gestured at them down the road to a distant bus stop, making a stab at what bus they should catch as they nodded and set off vaguely in the right direction.

At home I was unpacking the groceries when I had a guilty feeling I may have given the backpackers a bum steer with the new bus number. Too late to do anything about it now. But I had my greedy heart set on the lost salmon, so I jumped in the car, inching through peak-hour traffic, to return to the supermarket.

On the way back, who should I see but the backpackers way off course and staggering with fatigue. I pulled over, parked and ran after them, herding them into my car like a demented mother hen, squeezing their enormous rucksacks into my tiny vehicle.

When we finally got to their hostelry, they disgorged cheerfully and thanked me profusely. I got home, turned to the back seat where I had stashed the bag with the replacement crackers and salmon. It was nowhere to be found.