There's a great quote from the movie 'Knocked Up', when Pete's looking at his kids running round with bubbles, and he says "I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles." As with most things in life, it's funny because it's true. It's hard, perhaps even impossible, to retain the same level of joy and excitement in the everyday when you're an adult, as the everyday mutates from something of novelty and wonder into - well - the everyday. A grind. Something to be endured rather than enjoyed. Getting that feeling back requires a lot of work, and if you have to work for it, surely that takes away the point of it? I've experienced it several times over the last week, but then again, I don't have a real job. Working for anything has got to be good for me right now. And I'm on medication that has the hilarious side effect of giving me a sense of euphoria (yes, really, and believe it or not, the NHS pays for most of it. Unfortunately, I'm only on it for about another week - must get out there and make the most of it while it lasts).
That quote ran through my head the other day as I looked out the window of a coffee shop chain on the Fulham Road, the name of which I will not mention as they have not started paying me yet, despite my near-constant frequentation. On the footpath outside, a small boy tugged on his mother/nanny's arm, pointing eagerly to a double decker red bus that had pulled up at a stop. Now you and I both know that public transport is ghastly, and London buses have got to be the lowest form of public transport ever, but this kid was so so excited. Absolutely over the moon at seeing the bus.
Conicidentally, it was the number 14, which winds its way down the Fulham Road every five to seven minutes (well, supposedly, unless you want to catch one - then it's another schedule entirely). This kid was in a local school uniform, so we can assume he had seen many, many number 14 buses in his short life. So - why the excitement? Is he just too young for the everyday to have turned into the grind? And when will it happen?
I hope, for his sake, not for a long time. Because if all the things that excited me and my brothers when we were growing up still excite children today, then it's not so bad. We were thrilled to bits to see buses and planes, and a train could throw us into an apoplectic fit. We grew up on Auckland's North Shore, you see, where families and suburbia rule, and as a result, all of the above are exceedingly rare. Although, it would seem, the rarity is not a pre-requisite for the enjoyment garnered. Which makes me happy, and gives me hope for those darling little stabby children of London.
So just those short thoughts for today. There is a bus parked outside our house. I'm going to go look out the window at it.