By Caroline Fraser
The bus takes it’s time on my journey to university at 8.25am every Monday. I rub my eyes as they complain with tiredness and I regret, once again, not getting an early night. I yawn as the bus crawls in the heavy traffic, stopping to let other students aboard; some wide awake, some just as tired as I am, and the sorry few who are suffering from a dramatic hangover.
The sharp turns soon jolt me awake. The sun streams across the Bruntsfield Links and into my eyes. The quirky, brightly coloured shops line the streets as the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts onto the bus, arousing my senses. Builders, who have been awake for hours, hang from scaffolding in front of shop windows and shout, “Alright Steve, son, how’s it going?” to each other over their noisy machinery. My day has just begun.
Hours pass and classes are over. My bag, full of paper and mountains of library books is weighing me down. My course mates pour past me saying, “Are you still coming round tonight?” and I say, “Aye, about 8.30pm okay with you?” The bus pulls in and off we go. Our journey takes us past a cemetery facing rows of houses. Some of the grave stones have grown weary over time and have succumbed to lying down on their grassy beds. The mood lightens and we pass a pub with men standing outside, discussing football and causally smoking a cigarette.