What a difference a skirt makes.

A slightly later bus this morning. The Other Man at The Bus Stop in attendance.

Now The Other Man will be new to you. He dresses the same every day. Well, there may be small indiscernable differences but nothing very evident. And the dress that he adopts would not look out of place at a hunt. Tweedy kind of trousers. A tweedy kind of jacket. A flat cap. (Admittedly, this would not quite be hunt wear.) Sturdy shoes. And importantly, a satchel slung over his shoulders with initials embroidered onto it. Presumably his initials but maybe he picked it up cheap in a second-hand hunting man's shop.

Anyway, the point of this observation is that in all the years which I have been (sporadically) travelling on this particular bus, The Other Man at The Bus Stop, unlike The Man at The Bus Stop, has not once stepped aside to let me stride onto the bus ahead of him. Months and weeks and days of shoving himself forward to clamber on ahead of weak and delicate me.

And yet today. At the moment of decision, he surged forth and then - wait - stepped back and let me on first.

The sun is out. The skirt is short. A happy day.