Daffodils

3. 11am. Bottom deck, at the back on the left.

As the bus glided to a stop I looked out of the window. The most gorgeous sight: a class of primary school children, in starched navy uniforms and gleaming white socks, lined up along a sun-kissed brick wall. Their teacher got on and asked the driver whether there was space for everyone – ‘there are twenty-nine pupils altogether,’ she explained. The driver must have nodded because a minute or so later the children started filing on in pairs. They were instructed to find seats on the top deck. Up they went, holding hands and chattering. Their smiling heads bobbed as they walked; en masse they reminded me strongly of a field of daffodils dancing in a breeze.

All the grown-up passengers on the bus watched them as they went. I’m pretty sure that I wasn’t the only one who, as well as melting in the cuteness of the moment, silently counted the children, just to make sure.

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