I watch from my upstairs vantage point as it pulls up to collect the old folk waiting on the corner.
John Twonil is dressed extremely smartly, and looking ever so enthusiastic in his new role. I can see him scanning my windows, to see if he can catch me unaware, and force me to join him as a Community Bus Driver. I hide behind the curtains as he draws off up the hill with his cargo of senior citizens. I know that he will be looking for fellow new volunteers later in the Village Pub.
“And so then I called the police,” he tells us subsequently, as he grips his pint of Wherry angrily. “And told them that my bus had been stolen.”
We fall about laughing, sympathetically.
“And all I could really think about, was ‘how the hell am I going to get fifteen elderly people back home?'”
There is a short pause. “Anyway,” he continues. “Have you thought about joining me as a volunteer yet?”
I have spoken to the Washing Machine Man. The part has arrived, but they have sent him the wrong part again. I have told him that something needs to be done, as the dirty washing is mounting up in the scullery, and that we need a right part soon. He has offered to find a spare one and put it in temporarily.