Joy

"Good morning," says the horrendously perky voice down the phone "is that Ms Joy Jones?" Her bubbly tone and the static signal of my decrepit mobile amplify together so it feels like every sunny syllable is bouncing between my hand and my head.

"Yes," I snap, hoping she will adopt a more appropriate tone for seven thirty in the sodding morning.

She doesn't.  If anything, she turns the charm offensive up a gear, dragging out vowels in a sing-song fashion.  "Weeel I'm just calling from your energy supplier.  We aaalways look after our loooyal customers and we have a great deal for you if you would consideeer switching your gas to us as well.  Before we start, dooo you mind if I call you Joy?"

I've had enough.  I put down the phone.  Inexplicably, it rings immediately and, in my sleepy stupor, I answer.

"Oopsie," she giggles "bad signal.  Now, where were we?"

I put down the phone again, holding it at arm's length, daring it to ring.  It doesn't.  The silence is pure bliss.

​Joy Jones.  My parents rigidly stuck to the name even when their bundle of "joy" arrived with judgemental brown eyes glaring up at them, imploring them to reconsider.  It's hard to be taken seriously in life when your name sounds like the love interest in a comic book, simpering over the hero, being appropriately sassy, and somehow always being kidnapped.  On many occasion I have considered changing my name but find the bureaucracy involved abhorrent, not to mention the family drama which would occur.

I wonder whether the owner of the voice on the phone is compensating for their name, like I am.  Maybe she has a deeply morose name like Gertrude but, I suppose, that could be mitigated with a perky nickname of Gertie or Trudy.  I also have a nickname, which has cropped up several times in my lifetime - "Joyless Jones."  Original.

I gather my bags and pound off to the bus stop.  One of my colleagues once asked me if I hated my feet because of the way I stomped about. I can't remember which colleague, they all prattle inane babble in order to avoid silence. I utilised silence in this case, pausing just long enough that she was ready to change the subject and then told her it was because I was imagining crushing the cowering faces of people I don't like. She laughed. I wasn't joking. Her face now joins the others. 

The bus is late, as per usual.  I wonder whether it would be worth moving the timetable forward by ten minutes so that the buses are then always on time.  They could even pretend that three are meant to arrive at the same time, covering up the system's ineptitude.  

The bus driver ignores all London protocols and addresses me as I get on.  "Give us a smile, love," he says with a patronising smirk, "it might never happen."

I sometimes wish that I were a six foot, burly, teenage boy with my hood up and music blasting.  No one ever tells them to smile.

I squeeze onto the bus, standing under some suited man's armpit, who is speaking loudly on his mobile to someone from his work.  I presume that this person is senior to him from the way this man is guffawing at every sentence.  I can almost see the brown on his nose.  He is wearing the uniform of the city, a grey suit and bright coloured socks - red, in this case - to show his individuality.  

Seated next to where the business man is standing is a harassed mother who is trying, and failing, to appease a toddler crying blue murder.  The toddler has been dressed in so many frills that she - with all of the pink, it is definitely a she - resembles a furious rose.  Beside the mother and ball of frilly fury is a girl who is putting on her makeup, using her phone as a mirror.  Once this masterpiece is created, she opens a small bottle and then the smell hits me.  Nail polish.  She's painting her nails on the bus, the selfish brat, and using chemical warfare on her fellow passengers at the same time.  The mother takes a look and seems about to say something to the girl when, I infer, she decides that it would be best to settle her little angel before starting a new battle.

Her method of overcoming the wailing onslaught is to place the child on her lap and start a rigorous version of 'The Wheels on the Bus'.

"The Wheels on the bus go round and round..."

It does appear to be working as the screaming ceases.

"...round and round..."

The baby may have stopped yelling but she still doesn't look happy.

"...round and round."

The baby has now gone from a shade of fuchsia, matching her outfit, to ghostly white.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round..."

The baby's eyes widen and I know what's coming and do my best to move away through the mass of commuters without sacrificing my viewpoint.

"...my fair..."

The mother is abruptly cut of as her child erupts and a tidal wave of vomit.  The mother is covered but she is not the only one.

"Eeeeew," squeals the vain girl, "it's in my hair!"

The suited man has also not escaped, although he is so distracted on the phone that he does not notice at first.

"David, I'll have to call you back." he says, with as much dignity as he can muster and a degree less bravado than he had previously.  He then starts mopping at his trousers in an attempt to stop his socks from being caught by the trail of liquid making a passage down his leg.  Alas, he is too slow and the red socks do not escape unscathed.

The mother apologises profusely and starts handing out what seems to be a never-ending supply of wet wipes.  The vain girl has started to cry so the cats eyes turn to panda eyes.  The suited man is on his phone again looking up one hour dry cleaners near Bank tube station.

The toddler is delighted, clearly feeling a lot better, bouncing up and down with no assistance from her mother, singing a garbled song that, if I'm not mistaken, is 'The Wheels on the Bus'.

During this scene, my eyes bulged and I kept my composure as I took everything in.  Then the suppressed laughter starts, at first I get away with heavy breathing but this soon turns into snorts.  My stomach aches from withholding the giggles so I give in, turning away from them all and leaning on a pole.  I no longer need to disguise the tears of laughter rolling down my face and I am shaking with misanthropic mirth.  In that one moment, I live up to my name.

If you expect the worst, you are never disappointed.  Why do we pander to pretend that every moment of every day is above average?  Not every second is perfect or interesting which is why it's special when you have moments of pure...

Joy.