Bus stop, wet day

My weekday commute to work takes me on a bus along what is now known as the Oxford Road corridor. It's the route the students use to come into the universities. I get on at Platt Fields, just opposite where I am living during the week. There's usually a choice of buses,all vying for passengers. It's a familiar journey into the city centre. Something strange happens every morning when the bus gets to All Saints. My unconscious mind says ' this is where I get off'. There's a lurch of recognition, a kind of muscle memory, maybe a kind of this life regression. Then I relax and remember that I don't work at 8th Day or Manchester Studies any more. It's not a journey I did for more than a couple of years when I was working at either of those two places. It's not as if it's been a lifetime habit. I loved both jobs, they were emotionally intense times in terms of relationships and friendships and I did a lot of growing up when I was there. All Saints will always be part of my emotional landscape but it's thirty years since I was based there. Strong links.