I tend to actually go on buses less than annually these days, but on a mandatory trip to Ambleside today, I noticed something a bit weird.

Everyone one I saw, seemed to be their own stereotype. And they all sat in a perfect chronological order.

The naughty / ‘cool’ kids were at the back, all full of dreams and curiosity and self consciousness. There were the loud, usually short, show-offs… The reserved, shy kid that was reading his book… The sensitive guy who stares out the window at the rain, et cetera.

Then in front of them, you get the awkward teens; sitting sideways on the seats to talk and chat and flirt amongst each other, with the loners still finishing off that book in silence, and the sensitive kids who can now afford iPods to accompany their window-gazing.

Ahead you have the older guys. You know… The ones who’s dreams have been killed, presumably by the fact that they are still riding the bus. The boisterous ones are now realising how unprepared for life they are, and are trying to finish off their deadlines on the way to work. The loner kids who buried themselves in their books are now wearing suits, still quiet and shy and out of place and afraid of contact, but doing okay. The sensitive ones aren’t here. They’re probably walking. In the rain.

And then right at the front we see the old chaps. The sensitive guys are back, having done okay in life, and only riding the bus because they love the cliche of nostalgia and the rowdy lads are now the miserable, old, walking-death-sentences. They hate the world and the fact that they’re still on the bus. But most of all, they hate the noise of the kids at the back… Foolishly relishing in the wonder and joy of life, totally unaware that they walk an inevitable path that leads back to the front of the bus, to become the object of their own mockery.