The Knight Bus

After living here for 10 years, an unplanned and unexpected opportunity arose to return home from Manchester on Saturday night on the late bus. Let me issue a health warning here. The late bus bears no resemblance to the gridlock of double deckers prostituting themselves before unsuspecting pedestrians by day in the city centre in what Granada Reports calls 'the bus war'*.

No, this is an entirely different species, sharing its DNA with the wizards' Knight Bus in Harry Potter and Frankenstein's race car in Death Race 2000.

The Senior Ducks were over for the Christmas Classical Spectacular concert at the MEN arena (indoor fireworks, laser light show, communal singing, soldiers and cannon) as our gift to them. Mr Duck Snr. has emphysema and really can't walk any distance, so we elected for public transportation in order to land at the Arena itself and not have to walk from a car park. When the queue for the tram home turned ugly - union jack-waving, geriatric concert-goers, fuelled with Britannia and Jerusalem, squaring up to Metro staff, we decided to get a cab. When we reached the taxi rank, it became clear that others shared the same thought and we could be in for a long wait. Suddenly, we were nearly mown down by a #98 which skidded to a halt at the bus stop in front of us.

In hindsight, this should have sent us scurrying back to the tram platform and the angry mob. But it being late, and the #98 going right past our house, we boarded. At first the driver refused to sell us tickets saying it was too expensive. Mr Duck practically had to stuff used fivers - all two of them, down his shirt to get him to accept us as passengers.

There followed the most extraordinary 25 minute ride, through red lights, over speed humps - at least, I'm hoping it was speed humps, with an occasional emergency stop when someone dared to press the stopping bell. If you bear in mind this journey is normally at least 40 minutes by car, with no passenger stops, you have some idea of the reckless, yet curiously exhilirating trip we had. Mr Duck Snr. sucked on his inhaler and gripped the handrails. Mrs Duck Snr. clutched a Lambert & Butler King Size, ready for lighting on alighting.

"Merry Christmas!" - we wished them, as they departed on Sunday. "Come again, won't you?"

*not to be confused with the Rochdale Coach Battle of '92, or the Wayfarer Warfare of '78.