the aged saga

News reaches us of a postie being hospitalised by a cat. I know this cat, I'm sure of it. The postie in question was so startled by the cat in the letterbox that he stumbled backwards, breaking his back, or something. When I first discovered this feline menace I didn't realise it was a cat at first, my first thought on feeling the intense pain in my fingertips was 'dog'. The wounds were pinprick small (but exceedingly bloody) so I assumed 'small scratty dog', or malicious pins in the letterbox. The next day I investigate.
I warily open the flap and peer in..immediately two claw encrusted paws come chomping at the bit, so to speak. It's a good strong letterbox spring and it closes nicely on the killer paws, trapping the bleedin moggy. I get some satisfaction from this but the next day I'm disappointed to discover it's still alive. A few days of paw trapping and eventually the owners put a postbox on the wall. Little pleasure denied.
On the Saturday I give my body a little treat by splashing out on the bus home. It's the least I can do to allieve the back breaking tedium of the past week. The bus station is jostling with the usual crowd of pensioners and students, and me. I sit on the last available metal bench to wait, next to me an old dear looking pensive. Eventually a bus trundles into the bay. Hordes of pensioners spring to life. It's bus 7, my bus, to the Marsh. The dear old lady collars me, 'is it bus 7?' she asks sweetly. 'Yes' I reply, 'bus 7 to the Marsh'. I like old people, well, the nice ones at least. She shuffles over to the queue, constantly peering up at the buses front board. I remember my duty and let her before me. 'It is bus 7 isn't it?' 'Yes, bus 7' She mutters under her breath, something about seven marshes.
Thirty odd proffered bus passes later she's at the driver. 'Where are you going?' she asks of him. 'Marsh love, bus 7'. With this her head drops and she gives me the evil eye. Barging past she hisses 'I didn't want bus 7!' I do try to help but it doesn't help me.