There are just two of us on the double decker coach returning to Dublin, including the elderly driver - a kind, if slightly ridiculous man who called me pet five times while giving me my bus ticket. The other passenger - a man who has not stopped furiously typing on his laptop sits opposite me at a tabled seat. We share knowing comical glances as the bus halts and jumps due to the drivers misinterpretation of space on every bend. I scribble words on a piece of paper. He continues to abuse his laptop keyboard.
The sky is on fire as the sun sets. It magically silhouettes the stereotypical Irish landscape that surrounds the motorway. The shadows of hauntingly bare trees line up to our left as the last drips of light fall on the rolling hills to our right.
I dare to let my feet rest on the seat in front of me, secretly thrilled with my minuscule rebellion against the 'no feet on the seat' sign that lingers above my head.
I watch the world race past through a dirty bus window.
