Two hours a day
The separation between home and work is one, not just of purpose, but of constrained time. I’m a regular on the city bus. A quarter of a century and counting, and some days that’s exactly what I do. I count the minutes. In a situation that is beyond my control, I still calculate how much longer until the next event. Obsessively. Over time, my internal clock has gained in accuracy where it serves little purpose. I know when we’re running behind schedule.
From the time I cast a last glance at the digital clock in the living room, where the hour plus 91 is already late (long story; blame it on a repair shop in West Germany that didn’t ship a replacement part in time) to the bus stop should never take more than seven minutes. I can’t afford to “dilly dally along the way”. I can tell you, frm experience, that the time for a bus to transit from the corner up north of here until it stops in front of the glass hut is just over two minutes. And any bus driver that deviates from a set route because of ignorance of the map is immediately a recipient of negative thoughts.
Some mornings I have time to purchase a muffin. Down to the lower level of an office complex, count the people already in line, step in, order (always bran and raisins), pay and retreat. Too long and I’m stuck in the middle of my route for up to thirty minutes. I know my margins.
Similarly, coming home requires an alignment, and certain bus drivers just don’t climb the hill quickly enough. On a good day, everything is synchronistic; I can read, talk, listen to good music (Colette Cheverie still holds my transit attention), even doze if I’m anchored properly. Two hours a day, with the minutes counted.
