This holiday Monday, I was standing in the middle of my living room, wearing nothing but my underwear, knifing zombies (as one does), and I heard very faintly, the sing-song voice of that one TTC driver as he rounded the corner at Parliament and Carlton, waft through my open windows.
“Neeext stop Gerrarrarrarrd!” he sang.
I’m sure you’ve all had this driver. Sometimes he sings stops along the Queen line, his heavy Slavic accent mangling street names like Ivana Trump while drunk on champagne.
Anyway, I realized two things: I could hear this driver from my second floor open window over the sound of a streetcar making a 90 degree turn. He’s loud but I never realized he was that loud. Then again, if you’ve heard him once, you will never forget his razorblades-on-glass voice, ever.
Secondly, I was in my underwear. I wondered if people could see me from the street? I doubt it, since I’ve tried looking in from across the street a few times, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling vulnerable.
I was then reminded of my old flat in London, UK. Brixton, actually. My brother and his lover at the time had purchased a flat on the second floor of a corner house (sort of near here) It was a cozy place. One of the first shortcomings of the flat I discovered on the second morning living there was that when you ironed your shirt in the front room (the only room large enough to accommodate an ironing board) you were exactly level with the top deck of the number 3 bus through Brixton Hill.
Yes. I was in my underwear as the bus slowly turned pass our living room window, giving the passengers a view of good old Canadian gitch. I could have run and shut the blinds, but it was a bit too late for that. I had no other option so I waved my iron and smiled at the lovely commuters to the city. What? I was suppose to cover my shame with the iron? I think not.
6 thoughts on “The Number 3 Bus Through Brixton”
i like that driver – i’ve been on his streetcar from coxwell and gerrard to roncesvalles and he is more pleasant to listen to than the robot woman fallback (who was likely a victim of bell canada downsizing) the updated buses have.
naked is our natural state. i sit on my somewhat public patio naked and my neighbour sits on hers in her bra. if we couldn’t do that in this heat, life would be intolerable.
It’s my understanding that folks head to the top deck of the bus specifically for the views, so I fail to see any cause for concern.
BTW – Random acts of nudity are relatively commonplace out here in the sticks – cuts down on the laundry.
Split
And you live…where?
(Thwap thwap thwap)
I’ve declared my propoerty a clothing-optional site. I run around the house naked all the time, and as soon as I finish the privacy fence for the backyard, I’ll be gardening naked.
Soon. When the heat gets to be about …oh say under 300C within the living room, we’ll have that Wii party mentioned prior.
By the way, where do you live? Is there a back alley?
(thwap thwap thwap)
My philosophy (much to Q’s chagrin) is that if you’re gonna look in my window, then you’re obviously looking for something to see. I have no problems providing that.
Q always shakes his head whenever I get out of the shower and then go downstairs naked, past the front and back bay windows, to get clean clothes that haven’t quite made it upstairs yet. Or walk around naked in a hotel room with the curtains wide open. Or get too drunk at a party, strip off my clothes, and jump in a hot tub.
I haven’t killed zombies in the nude yet though. Sounds kinky.