A Day Out...

Wednesday 14th June 2006

Take a busload of my guys (special needs adults) on a trip today to a Hydrotherapy Centre in Essex. At least, that's the intended destination. Don't get far up the A2, though, before the traffic comes to a complete standstill in the lashing rain ' obviously an accident up ahead.

Switch off the CD and tune to the dreaded Invicta FM to listen for travel news. Some ga-ga female presenter crapping on about what she watched on last night's telly ' much of it apparently 'well wicked'. By the same logic, I suppose the rubbish was 'well good'. If she's ever ill, I wonder, would she be 'well unwell'?

The guys remain remarkably quiet and unperturbed. Ring the office on the bus mobile to inform them I'll be late ' that I'm stuck in a no man's land between turn-offs. Spend the next couple of minutes trying to find a different ringtone for the mobile. The current one sounds like an arrangement for Stylophone by Harrison Birtwistle: atonal, syncopated, steering-wheel-punchingly irritating. In my mobile-phobic ignorance, press random buttons and bring up all sorts of esoteric menus. Accidentally happen on one that controls volume. Switch it to zero. That'll do.

After about ten minutes, sirens are heard approaching on the road behind. People begin turning their cars towards either the hard shoulder or the central reservation, creating a clear space in the middle. A police car, followed by an ambulance ' then, a short while later, another ambulance. Obviously very nasty. Could be some time. Nothing to do but wait.

An hour later, and still no movement ' apart from some daft tossers who've decided to use the path cleared for emergency services as a way of getting towards the front. Some people just can't wait. But then you can't factor in this sort of thing. You can't set out saying "Well, it usually takes 20 minutes ' but better allow another hour in case there's a crash. You know how long it normally takes, so that's what you give it. Fortunately, despite the madness of many people on the roads, such incidents are comparatively rare. But one mistake, one burst tyre, one skid, one heart attack, one head-on ' and suddenly, everyone's day has slipped into a new time frame of missed appointments, missed flights, late clocking-in, frantic mobile calls, rearranged timetables and schedules, late deliveries. But what about the poor sods up front? Will such stuff still matter to them any more? Have they just reached their very last appointment much earlier than ever intended?

I get the flask out of the boot and pour us all a coffee each. While they're drinking, I jump up on the central reservation barrier and look ahead along the carriageway. I can see about a mile of bumper-to-bumper stasis, like a two-lane car park. People are wandering around their cars and vans, leaning over bonnets, having conversations they never expected to have with people they don't know in a place they'd normally never set foot. Dead areas, these parts of the earth. Millions of miles of them everywhere, and all of them as hostile and as uninhabitable as the North Pole or the middle of the Sahara. In fact, they might as well be on the Moon. I look around at the flora growing along the edges ' the nettles and ragwort and groundsel sprouting up from the concrete around the crash barriers. It's probably the first and last time anyone will ever stop to consider them. It feels very odd. A little bit of land reclaimed for a little bit of time before the great Hydra-headed traffic-monster juggernauts into life again.

*

Just over and hour and a half, and we're finally moving. Too late now to get to the Hydro in time, so I turn off at Gillingham and head for The Pentagon ' a shopping centre where I hope to at least find somewhere for everyone to sit safely undercover and have their packed lunch. Another soulless cathedral of consumerism. We ride the glass-fronted lift up to the mezzanine level and head for a huge open-plan café where most of the tables are empty. I ask one of the waiters if it would be alright for us to use one of the tables. He takes me over to check with the supervisor. I explain the situation to her: special needs, traffic hold-up, packed lunch, nowhere else to go, etc.

"Sorry, she says. "The tables are for café customers only. There are benches downstairs for people who want to eat their own food.

Down again in the glass-fronted lift. The guys enjoy that, at least. Buttons to play with. A ride. A bit of fun.

The benches are all fully-occupied ' mainly by people pulling funny faces at us: sad smiles, abject horror, stifled chuckles ' like we're some kind of lunchtime cabaret troupe, brought out for their entertainment. Thoroughly sick of this place by now, I take the guys back to the bus and drive up onto the roof of the multi-storey, where it's open and empty and quiet, and dish out their sandwiches to them on their laps. At least they can sit in comfort and safety while they eat, and we can make a quicker getaway.

While we're sitting there ' windows open, munching away, staring out over the Medway rooftops ' a stairwell door beside us suddenly opens and a young chap steps out onto the asphalt. He's quite sensibly turned out ' designer T-shirt, jeans, trainers, smart hair-cut. Something is obviously not right, though. He begins to wander around in elaborate figure-eights, looking all about him. At first I think he's come up to the wrong level and can't understand why he can't find his car. Then he suddenly stops, throws his arms up above his head and looks skywards.

"I love you, Lord Jesus Christ! he cries ' so loudly that even my lot are astonished.

They all turn and gape at him. A sort of turning of the tables for them, I think. He puts his arms down again and continues his figure-eights. Then he repeats his elaborate devotional display.

"I love you, Lord Jesus Christ!

I get out of the bus and go to the boot to get the guys another coffee, behaving as if I'm completely used to this sort of thing and it doesn't perturb me in the least ' which is, of course, more than partly true. The young chap had acknowledged our presence from the first anyway, and he didn't seem perturbed either. Fine.

"I love you, Lord Jesus Christ! again ' slightly louder, certainly joyfully.

And so on, several times over, as I hand the coffee cups in to the guys.

Finally, he turns towards me. Here we go, I think. The keys are in the ignition ready. All I have to do is jump in and shut the door¦.

"How many was that? he calls over, in a voice as rational as if he was asking the time.

"Sorry?

"How many times was that? Was it ten?

The penny drops.

"Sorry, mate, I call back. "I wasn't counting.

He gives me the sort of look I last saw on the face of a teacher after getting the answer to a sum wrong.

"I think it was ten, he calls.

Then, just to be certain, he throws his arms up into the air and looks skywards one last time.

"I LOVE YOU, LORD JESUS CHRIST!

And then he heads back to the stair well door, opens it, and is gone.

*

On the way out of the multi-storey, I show the bus 'Disabled' badge to a warden who's busy doing something to one of the exit barriers.

"Sorry, he says ' genuinely looking it, too, to be fair. "We don't give free parking for disabled in this car park. You need to pay at the machine over there.

As I'm doing so, he stops by.

"For next time, there's a car park just over the way where disableds can park free.

"Thanks, I say. "I'll bear it in mind.

Next time? I don't think so, somehow.