Originally published in The Clifton Courier, July 22, 2018

Well, I’m definitely going to get hit by a bus one day.

Partly because my small-town upbringing apparently makes me reckless about crossing the road, but mostly because I’ve just experienced more good bus luck than anyone could expect in one lifetime.

It started the other day. I could see my bus approaching, but I was a good three-minute powerwalk from the stop. Fortuitously, the driver took a wrong turn and had to go around the block to get back on the route. By the time it was back on the right track, I was waiting at the bus stop and smugly stepped aboard.

About two days later, I was running towards a bus stop as my bus rocked up. Again, I was too far from the stop for my stumpy little legs to get me there in time, but I continued to run dramatically. And just when I’d lost hope, the bus driver pulled right up beside me, which was a bit cheeky considering they’re not allowed to just pull up willy nilly like that. I was feeling pretty darn lucky.

But my most recent bus story just takes things to a new level.

I was heading to Newcastle and stuffed a little suitcase with the necessary supplies for a weekend with a friend who likes to drink wine and watch The Nanny: track pants, baggy hoodies and sturdy, practical underwear. But, because I like to be prepared for anything, I’d packed my sneakers and my makeup. I’d also packed my laptop, because I was facing a three-hour train ride and thought I’d get some work done en route.

I was leaving at 4pm, so brought my suitcase with me on the bus to work. I walked on, placed the bag in the storage hold up the front and took the empty seat right up the back. I told myself that I could sit and watch my bag from that high vantage point, to ensure no one was going to nick off with my gear.

But then I got distracted. By the silhouettes of the trees. By the crook of a man’s broken nose. By some graffiti that was calling someone a pompous… four-letter rude word.

And by the time I reached my stop, I was too preoccupied by trying to work out exactly who was being called a pompous you-know-what and why to remember to grab my suitcase. So I stepped off the bus like it was any other morning.

About two minutes later it dawned on me; I almost had a panic prolapse in the middle of the street.

The bus was gone. The suitcase was gone. The faded, thinning free t-shirt that I sleep in was gone.

I left a message with the bus company. I sent them an email. I even tweeted them. I did my best to be productive while worst-case scenarios ran through my head.  I envisaged an opportunistic suitcase thief riffling through my things. Judging me for my boring underwear choices. Letting their cat deliver a litter of kittens on my jumper. Using my graduation t-shirt to wipe a dipstick to check their car’s oil.

And I thought of all the expensive things I’d have to replace: every bit of makeup I owned; my joggers; my laptop.

I eventually went to the main depot and nearly had a breakdown in front of the lost property guy. The bag wasn’t there, and probably wouldn’t be until Monday because lost items from the smaller stations only made turned up there at the end of the day. I must have looked super pathetic, because the kind soul called the smaller station, using all his influence to get the staff to find my bag at lunchtime on a Friday. Then he drew me a map, told me to “ask for Brian” and sent me on my way.

From what I gathered, this station didn’t usually help people out like this, but I went with high hopes. And, after being buzzed through the locked gates, my bag was waiting for me. Everything was there: my laptop, my hoodie, my sensible knickers.

Overjoyed, I practically skipped to the nearest bus stop to get back to work. The timetable said I’d missed the bus but about 10 minutes, and I nearly ordered a taxi. But I hesitated for a second, then turned around and saw the bus barrelling towards me. The door opened and, you wouldn’t believe it, but the same bus driver from that morning was behind the wheel. He was like, “oh good, you found it”, I called him a hero and we had a good laugh.

Given all this – plus that time someone retuned my lost phone that slipped into bus seat – I think I’ve used up all my luck.

So this leads me to believe I’m owed a bit of bad bus luck. I deserve to just miss a bus, to be seated next to someone smelly or sit in a mysteriously-damp seat. It only seems fair.

That saying about wearing clean underwear in case you’re hit by a bus rings in the back of my head. Because if I do get hit by a bus, my lucky streak means I’ll probably be wearing clean, sensible underwear.