ADJUSTING WATCH BAND

I woke up and found that Seth's arm was locked around me, I wanted to get up and tell him to go home and change but part of me said enjoy the moment. I had to agree with the second part of me because I liked to watch him sleep, he was so peaceful. I loosened the grip on his arm trying to not to stir his deep sleep, but it was too late. Seth shoot up almost falling out of the bed and would if I hadn't caught him.
"Wha-what's wrong?" He asked grabbing my shoulders as his eyes blinked many times to keep focus. I giggled at his messy hair and tried to flatten it out.
"You should go home and take a shower and meet me at The King's Grill for lunch," I smiled as he turned his back on me and slipped and his shoes. I locked my arms around his shoulders leaning on his back. "Are you going to speak?"
"Yeah, I'll met you there what time?" He asked scratching his head and smiled slightly back at me.
"It's ten now so how about twelve?" I suggested and he nodded walking to my door. I cleared my throat and smiled as he ran back over to me bed. He gave me a quick kiss and was out the door. I fell back smiling and kicked my feet. He was mine at last, I jumped up and my hands shot in the air. A spark-or something rather bright-escaped from my hand. I examined my hands and stumbled over to the mirror. I was wearing a totally different outfit, my little black number was no where to be found. I was now wearing kaki kapris and a light blue shirt it was all to big on me.
A scream sounded from downstairs and I followed it emmedietly, but when I found out who the scream was from I wished I hadn't. My mother was now wearing my little black number and I was wearing her big blue and kaki number.
"What the hell was that?" My mother asked wide eyed. Her hands were shaking and I could see that she had dropped her salad bowl. I couldn't speak partially because I really didn't know what was going on and also because the outfit didn't fit her style at all. "I said what the hell was that?"
"I don't know...here have your clothes," I said stripping down to my undergarments.
"No...Sabrina we're having company over," She hissed pointing to the red van outside.
"Fuck," I cursed and then covered my mouth as she crossed her arms. "Sorry, then hurry get down and we'll change quickly."
I grabbed my back dress and pulled it on quickly and she did the same. "Isn't it funny how crazy stuff happens to us?"
"I guess but I have to take a shower and meet Seth at the King's Grill at twelve," I said helping her up and kissing her cheek before zipping up the steps. I jumped into the shower real quick and scrubbed my hair, by the time I finished my shower, got dressed, and fixed my make-up it was eleven-thirty. I rushed down the steps and grabbed my mom's car keys.
"I'll be back later maybe three or four, if you need the car just call me okay?" I asked while she served Mrs. Silverman a plate of my her famous diet omelete.I rolled my eyes and ran out the door to the car. I started the ignition and was on my way.

**Later At The King's Grill**

"Hey," I smiled hugging Seth as he stood up from our table to greet me. I inhaled his fresh springy smell, and sat down in the seat across from him.
"What do you need to talk about? You sounded in a rush on the phone when you called," He asked holding my hand.
"Well when you left I was...um happy because you kissed me and I shot up with my hands in the air and all of the sudden I was wearing my mother's clothes!" I hissed in a whisper so no one could possibly hear except for Seth. He stared at me.
"Did you see a form or a spark...something like that?"
"Yes well I think I did," I tried to explain the brightness and the color of the glow but I only saw it for a split second.
"Okay I only ordered fries and soda's so we can finish up here and go back to your place and then talk about this...power your gaining."
"Power?" My voice cracked in excitment and Seth nodded slowly. "Holy...crap I get powers?"
"Shhh, you're sounding like a freak," He laughed as people turned their head to us. Seth's face got red, "Great, just what we need; attention."
"Oh my god, I love your higlights where did yo get them done?" A girl about my age ran up to me asked. I grinned and looked over at Seth.
"Oh...I got them done when I went to England last week," I lied as her bright expression changed.
"Oh okay...well thanks anyways," She walked away frowning. I turned back to Seth and shurgged.
"What did I say?" I asked and he was still staring at her.
"Did you even smell her? She's a vampire...but don't worry your sense's will catch on Sabbs."
"Ew can't believe you still call be that," I smiled taking a bite into the fry. Seth watched me eat silently. "Wa

The end of an era. The last routemaster bus was taken off the road in London during december 2005. For some unknown reason, this one was parked close to the braehead shopping centre.
The Routemaster was the last bus to be wholly designed by London Transport. The first examples of the 1950's design were to complete the replacement of the once large London Trolleybus fleet. Built between 1958 and 1968, it was the last open platform bus to enter service in London and was designed for a 17 year life. Some 50 years after its first appearance in 1954, around 820 examples of this popular and famous London bus still exist in the British Isles out of the 2876 built in total. There are a further 470 elsewhere in the world, according to the latest figures (Jan 2006).

However, at the time of writing, the RM has been phased out of front-line service, finally leaving the streets of the capital on 9th December 2005. All 20 routes have been converted to modern vehicles since August 2003. Today, in 2006, the Routemaster has definitely become a legend in its own right. It remains a symbol of London and the buses that have been released from service are being sought by people all over the world and they are now in many of the world's major cities.

All all that remains in London are the two Heritage Routes, run by a remaining fleet of 16 refurbished RMs on short, central London sections of the 9 and 15 routes.

John Eppel



Waiting for the Bus


All along the road from Bulawayo
to Gwanda or Matopos or Vic Falls;
at bus-stops, lay-bys, under shadeless trees,
the people wait beside their bundled things.
All day long they wait, and sometimes all night
too, and the next day – anxiously waiting.

Waiting for the public transport to stop
and let them in and take them home. Waiting
with babies to nurse, children to comfort
and feed, chickens, the occasional goat.
They have learned to come prepared, with blankets,
izinduku, pots for cooking sadza.

Waiting for ZUPCO or SHU-SHINE, AJAY,
to get them to their Uncle's funeral,
their cousin's wedding, their baby brother's
baptism. Waiting with the new Camper Vans
cruising by. Anxious to be at work on
time. Anxious not to lose their jobs. Waiting.

They take their time now not by wrist-watches
but by the sun and the stars and the moon;
by the appearance of the mopani worms;
by the ripening of marula fruit;
by the coming of the rains. Not by bus
timetables but by birth, marriage and death.

And while they wait they count the jets that fly
to Harare and Johannesburg.
Liverish businessmen sucking whiskies
are in these jets. And Chefs with mistresses
wearing the latest digital watches,
Digital dolly-birds. All carry brief-
cases with combination locks, and next
to nothing inside: dark glasses perhaps;
and a newspaper to study the Stock
Exchange; something digital, perhaps, for
calculating profit . . . and more profit.
It's something for people to do while

they wait – counting the jets high overhead.
Often the vapour trails are the only
clouds in the sky. No Forex for buses,
They tell us, but the five-star hotels go
up, and another Boeing is purchased.
All day they wait; all night; long suffering.

And when, at last, a bus does stop, its tyres
are likely to be bald, its brakes likely
to be held together with wire, its body
battered, belching clouds of brain-tightening,
lung-collapsing smoke. Who's responsible?
"Not me," says the Chef dipping his fingers

in his girl-friend's cocktail, shifting his vast
belly, vast enough to accommodate
at least seven baby goats. "Don't look at
me," says the Managing Director, "my
bottom line is profit. I owe it to
the shareholders. Another whisky please."

And I don't think it is going to be any
different tomorrow or the next day
or the next. The time of sweet-becoming
is over. For those millions who depend
on buses, nothing has changed; only their
expectations have once again been dashed.

The time of bitter arrival is here:
not safe new buses, but the amassing
of personal wealth, the cultivation
of another crop of heroes. Street
names change, statues change; hotels go up, jets
go up, and the people go on waiting.