I belong to the bus pass generation

Watch out world, I have a National Entitlement Card and I intend to use it

This is my life now

I have entered my bus pass era. At last.

Huge apologies to friends and family who had to put up with a month of me bitching and moaning about the late arrival of this life-changing sliver of plastic. I may have used the phrase “government conspiracy to stop old people enjoying themselves” more than was quite necessary. 

But, more than a month after my 60th birthday, I am now the proud owner of what is officially called the National Entitlement Card.

It’s also called the Saltire Card. The design is shocking, as if it was done by an old person let loose on Canva wearing the wrong strength of supermarket reading glasses.

OK boomer, we thought you would appreciate some random logos

I can only assume this name was the work of of a gen z drone who thought it would be hilarious to stick it to the boomers. (Although the joke is about to age out - the baby boom officially ended in 1964. Next year, the first of gen x will receive bus passes.)

Don’t love the name, absolutely adore the free travel. Here in Glasgow the under-60s pay dearly for the privilege of breathing the scent of damp anorak as the long-suffering driver navigates another huge diversion at Charing X. I now sit smug in the knowledge that I’ve saved £2.80 and that I will get where I’m going. Or near enough. Eventually.

It is, for someone used to driving and zipping about by train, with the odd emergency Uber, humbling to become dependent on the whims of the 6A. Like all the city’s fleet, it has to navigate the many roadworks currently tearing up the tarmac. And be driven by a human who may be working a double shift and forget where the bus stop is. This happened to me in September.

I am getting used to the waits, the unexpected changes of route, the idiots who let their slobbering bulldogs sit up on the seats. It’s almost nostalgic.

Buses were the transport of my teens. Growing up in north-west Glasgow, before the train line reopened in 1993, the 61 took me to the city centre spots where I misspent my youth.

Not pictured, 14-year-old Anna clutching a Listen carrier bag

It never occurred to me to walk anywhere. In the 1970s and early 1980s walking was like drinking water. People simply didn’t do it. Along a beach or up a hill, yes. Along Maryhill Road to get into town, just no.

Later on, working in newspapers, I developed a dangerous taxi habit. Trains were useful for longer journeys but, for everything else, there was a black cab. This shockingly profligate behaviour was largely enabled by magical pieces of paper known as taxi chits.

What a time to be alive, when one’s employer had books of magic tickets lying around the office, just waiting to be exchanged for a free journey to, well, pretty much wherever. Taxi chit abuse was as much a feature of newspapers at the end of the last century as blatant sexism and drinking heavily during working hours.

I kind of forgot that other modes of transport were available. It dawned on me how ridiculous this had become when I was en route to visit my mother one day. I rang to inform her I was inbound on a 61.

She paused in astonishment before inquiring: “Are the taxi drivers on strike?”

It pleases me greatly that the 61 is still going strong although I no longer require its services. Every time I see one, I remember putting on eyeliner under its dim lights, or waiting anxiously around 11pm on a Saturday night.

Instead I am learning to navigate by numbers. To help I have the First Bus app. It is both opaque and capricious, designed to remind me that I am an old person every time I try to use it.

This gives me the fear

There are also digital displays at some Glasgow bus stops. These seem pretty accurate. And if the 15 does not arrive in the promised four minutes, well what did we expect? But when it is two minutes early, that’s free dopamine right there.

Crossing the central belt by bus is a whole new adventure. I have travelled home surrounded by metalheads on their way to a gig. They were polite and well behaved. The young man sitting beside me, wearing more makeup than the lassies on Love Island, read a book, picked up my dropped phone and lifted my coat down from the shelf.

Students on their way to Edinburgh’s nightclubs were less of a delight with their clanking carry-out, discussion of the comparative calorific values of different Polish lagers and live commentary on a YouTube cooking video. 

Thrillingly, one double decker coach heading east along Princes Street was unaware of a major diversion and had to do a three point turn at the junction with Lothian Road. 

The view from the top seats on a sunny autumn afternoon is fascinating and so much more expansive than the one from behind the steering wheel of a car.

And when the annoying detour around Eurocentral grates, I just work out how much money I’m saving.

An off-peak day return from Anniesland to Edinburgh, with a 50+ railcard, costs £15.35. A single is £16.20 - shrug emoji - while a peak day return is £34.20.

Suddenly juddering through Ballieston does not seem so bad after all.

It’s not all a magical mystery tour. Kilmarnock bus station was challenging. There were buses, there were lots of passengers, just no signs telling any of us what bus we might require. A kind driver took pity on me and directed me to the longest queue. The man actually driving my bus did his best to help but I still managed to get off at the wrong stop. The on-board digital display stopped working on the outskirts of Galston. Turns out Ayrshire all looks the same in the dark.

This has not put me off and this weekend I am braving the X77 to Ayr. Who says the over-60s don’t know how to have fun?