An open letter to the bus who splashed me

Dear Mr/Ms bus driver,
Yes you, the one who was driving along Quay Street just before 9am, almost opposite Queens Wharf. It must have been nice driving in that lovely empty bus lane, enjoying that wide open space in front of you, with no cars to block the way. I can only assume that you were feeling very relaxed, perhaps reminiscing about the perfectly crisped piece of toast you had at the beginning of your shift. Maybe you have recently begun a new relationship, and were lost in a warm happy fug of love hormones. Or maybe you are not really a bus driver but an artist working as a bus driver, and you were appreciating the way the many greys of the morning cloud were like a multitude of brighter colours to your sensitive artist’s eyes.
Whatever the case: YOU WERE NOT CONCENTRATING!
Or you would have seen me, my overstuffed bag and fine Tate Modern portfolio holder, striding along Quay St next to the very large puddle – which was actually more like a lake – and you would have slowed down as you approached, to allow me to pass the puddle safely, inside of whizzing by in your toast/lover’s/cloudophile’s daze, sending a wall of water up and over me and all I carried.
Over my portfolio, over my bag, over my jacket, into my ear. So when I dropped off my portfolio to its destination, an office a few metres further along, I appeared in the guise of a half-bedraggled rat.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you have any paper towels? I’ve just been splashed by a bus and I have water in my ear.”
To her credit, the girl at reception did not laugh.
Mr/Ms Bus Driver – I will assume you did not do it on purpose, vindictively stomping on the pedal as you recalled your burnt toast/lover’s scorn/34th rejection from the Elam School of Fine Arts.
Instead, I accept your apology, which I am sure you wish to give, and advise you that I am not holding you personally responsible for the splash, but have apportioned blame elsewhere.

Sam, otherwise known as ‘Catty Boomsticks’, ‘Chairman’, ‘CatDuck’ and ‘Dude’ decided that I was not allowed sleep last night. His hourly requests for pats, punctuated by attacks on the sofa out in the lounge, left me dazed and confused this morning, like my head was full of sand. (Unfortunately he is not allowed out at night, as he gets into fights which then lead to large vet bills. So he has decided to try and break me, instead of just my bank balance.)
If I had been more alert, I am sure I would have clocked the puddle, checked for buses and slowed myself down, or up, to avoid being splashed. In an ideal world, that would be the case.
So Mr/Ms bus driver. Don’t feel bad. But maybe next time you could concentrate a bit more. Some of us are disadvantaged, you know. We have cats.
Unless…perhaps it was not the toast, your lover or your aesthetic sensitivities that led you to miss the puddle and me. Maybe you were just shattered. Perhaps you have a cat like Sam, too. You poor bugger.

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