The Urge (That Should Have Been Denied)
Last night, I was struck by a sudden urge to eat a watermelon. One of those big, juicy watermelons that are sold in the town centre. This meant getting dressed and hopping on a bus to take a 15 minutes journey, all for a fruit.
It wasn’t hunger, exactly. I could’ve just ordered Chinese from the place across the street and picked it up in my pyjamas like a normal degenerate, but no - watermelon had become the holy grail. It was as if my body had developed a sudden, primal deficiency only a watermelon could cure.
Once I finally committed to the mission and started getting dressed, I felt a weird uneasiness in my gut. Something was whispering, “Don’t go.” I chalked it up to laziness and told my gut to shut up.
So, I get dressed, grab a bag big enough to carry a thick slice of watermelon (because obviously I wasn’t buying the whole beast), and as I’m locking the front door, I realise I’ve forgotten my headphones. “It’s just a short trip,” I tell myself. “I’ll be back in two shakes. No need for music.” Right.
The Encounter (That Could Have Been Avoided)
About halfway into the three-minute walk to the bus stop, I knew. I’ve successfully ignored my gut feeling, and now it was becoming louder.
-----I could hear him from a distance - long before I could see him - and I knew he’s trouble right away. A wild-eyed, scrawny man in his early thirties, clearly high. And by high, I mean high as a kite. He’s perched at my bus stop, shouting across the street at people waiting for their bus, throwing his toys out of the pram. Only in this case, his pram consists of two battered pizza boxes and a flurry of paper scraps he’s scattering like confetti.
Suddenly, the warning signs about this whole watermelon idea aren’t subtle anymore - they’re tap-dancing on my face in 8-inch high stiletto heels.
Luckily for the folks across the road, their bus arrives first.
“Oh God, now I’ll be stuck with this guy for another ten minutes,” I think, already regretting the decision that led to this moment.
Don’t get me wrong - I’m not easily scared by aggressive people. I may stand at a modest 5'0", but I’m physically strong and can make myself look taller, louder, and more threatening if need be. That said, I don’t like confrontation. I’ve lived long enough to know you can’t fix stupid, and trying only deems you unfixable yourself.
So, I leave the bus stop to him and cross the road, pretending to scout for the bus while doing my best not to acknowledge his existence. No eye contact. No sudden movements.
"Should I turn around and go back? Should I now do what my gut was telling me to do half an hour ago?"
The Ride (That Took More Than Expected)
When the bus finally arrives, I cross back slowly and carefully, hoping he’ll get on first.
“Get on the bus!” he shouts at me. I do. And as I sit down, I scan the available seats like a hawk - just in case he decides to sit next to me and start a conversation. And of course, here he is, plonking himself on the twin seat beside me like there was an unfinished conversation to be continued.
I politely excuse myself and relocate as far down the bus as possible, putting a healthy buffer zone between me and the human firecracker.
During the ride, he turns his attention to other passengers. I spot a guy smiling at him and offering a fist bump. A spirited soul, clearly. I feel marginally safer.
Three stops in, the guy presses the bell, signalling he wants off. He rummages through his backpack and pulls out a long windbreaker. To put it on, he has to remove his baseball cap - revealing a retreating hairline and a bald patch that could double as a landing strip.
“Whoa,” I think. “He’s got to be in his 50s. Amazing what a hat can do - note to self.”
The bus stops again - his stop this time - but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s forgotten. Wouldn’t be surprising, given his current state.
“Are you getting out?” the driver shouts from his seat. “This is your stop!”
The guy mumbles something unintelligible, still glued to his seat. But the driver’s not having it - he keeps the door open and insists. You can practically hear the internal scream: Please leave my bus.
Eventually, the guy gets up, but he’s in no rush. He fist-bumps another passenger, shouts something at someone else, and finally stumbles off. Attention, it seems, is his drug of choice - or, one of them.
I watch him settle onto the bench at the bus stop, probably waiting for another ride to nowhere. Who knows—maybe next time he’ll get lucky and provoke someone into a street brawl. Some people collect stamps. He looks like a guy who collects chaos.
As the doors close, I exhale. Relief. Sure, there’s still the return journey to worry about, and who knows? He might be waiting at the bus stop when I come back. But for now, I feel I’ve dodged the bullet.
The Warning (That Should Have Been Heard)
So, what's the point of me telling you all this?
For to you, this might read like a mildly entertaining story. A bit of midweek absurdity. But to me, it’s a warning.
Because this time, I got away. The bus came. The people on board provided just enough distraction to keep the guy from spiralling further. But London buses are famously unreliable. Sometimes they’re late. Sometimes they don’t come at all. And I can only imagine what might’ve happened if the bus hadn’t shown up - and the guy had gotten bored of shouting at invisible enemies and turned his attention to me instead. The consequences could’ve been tragic.
No, I couldn't have known exactly what would happen. But my gut did. It whispered, I silenced it - and that silence could’ve cost me.
Instinct is the quiet truth-teller we so often dismiss.
It doesn’t shout - it nudges.
Ignore the first nudge, and suddenly you’ve forgotten your headphones, only for the second nudge to come along with the volume pushed to the max.
Brush it off, and watch the bus going in the opposite direction take the only other people with it.
Then, you find yourself alone, in a situation that could turn dangerous, gambling with consequences you might not be ready to handle.
So here’s your takeaway, the moral of the story:
Listen to your gut. It’s WAY wiser than you.
