Sixty One Sixty Nine

Ironic isn't it? That I should go to work every day from 1961 to 1969 on the same bus with the registration SXT 169. Sixty-one, sixty-nine. Old faithful I called her. Rain, shine, snow or blow, she would always show up at my stop and take me to that mill.

Eight years I stood at that loom. Eight years of hard graft, deafening noise and poor pay. Then it closed down. Just like that.

I managed to get another job driving a lorry. At least it was quiet and I could drive to lots of interesting places. Although lugging all that heavy stuff day in, day out got harder as the years went on.

Then I retired. Lots of time on me hands now. What to do?

I heard that the bus company was selling off some of its old fleet. What about buying one and converting it to use for holidays? What a good idea.

I was handy with tools, and driving a bus would be just like driving a lorry. I could go to places by the sea, park up in a camp-site and go to sleep for the night in me own cara-bus-van. And I could cook on me own little stove.

So I went to the auction place to look at what was on offer. Would you believe it? The very bus that I used to catch to go to work. SXT 169. Sixty-one, sixty-nine. The auctioneer's hammer banged down on 350.00. A bit more than I had wanted to pay but, I reckoned it would be worth it to have me old pal as me new holiday home on wheels.

I got permission from a mate of mine who owned a farm, to put the bus on his land while I did the conversion. I reckoned I could do it in less than a year and, with me doing all of the work, parts would cost me another 300.00.

It started off well as I ripped out the seats and set to repairing the floor. The windows were in quite good nick; just needed new seals around. I ordered the kitchen unit and bed, but they never got installed.

I can't remember much about the accident. Just that I ended up at the bottom of the stairs, and I couldn't move. My next door neighbour found me. She used to pop round every other day to see if I needed anything from the supermarket. In the hospital they told me that I would never walk again, and that I would have to move to a care-home as my place couldn't be converted for a wheelchair.

It's quite nice in the home but I do miss me independence. The folks and the staff are alright but, I can't cook for myself and I can't go out without help. Worse still, I can't fix up Sixty-one, sixty-nine.

So it just sits there, rotting and falling apart. A bit like me. Ah, well.