137. 10pm. Top deck, on the left, near the front.

The man next to me was wearing a smart black coat and a slick haircut. His leather laptop bag was wedged between us. He was flicking through news stories on a smartphone with the thumb of his right hand while holding a BlackBerry to his ear with his left hand. He was bantering with what I guessed was a male friend.

‘Right. Look up to the row of balconies…

‘Where are you looking, you fool?

‘Yes you’re there! You’re looking at the end of the street, right?

‘Look up! It’s the third window along – is the light on?

‘OK good.

‘No, it’s not my room, it’s Kyle’s…’

He gave me a few moments to try to work out why on earth his friend was searching for Kyle’s room (on some street somewhere else in Clapham) while he deftly switched over on his smartphone from the news stories to a football game app.

‘Yup, so… are you going to order me a drink? I’ll be there in seven minutes.

‘Ha. Can you order me a lager that’s as close to 4% as possible? I think they do an Amstell in there.

‘Shut your mouth!’ His eyes were twinkling. ‘If you do I’ll throw it in your face.’

There’s something peculiarly loving about the way men verbally abuse their friends. The players in the miniature football game were standing around waiting for an instruction.

‘Look, I’ve had more drinks since you’ve been away than… I just have to rein it in if I’m going to get to bed before midnight.

‘Well it doesn’t matter anyway.’

He smiled warmly. ‘I may have had a cigarette. I’ll see you in a minute.’

He let in a goal, switched off the app and got off the bus at Clapham Junction.

I did slightly wonder whether this was an illicit rendezvous that Kyle was not supposed to know about. So I’ve changed his name, I hope that’s OK.

59. 9.30am. Top deck, about halfway down on the left.

‘Over there, look. The way the roots are coming up through the pavement. And there, in that garden, that’s a banana tree. Did you know bananas grow on trees?’

A tanned and broad-shouldered man was talking to his tiny son in the row in front of me. The son looked around five, and was so small I could barely see him over the seat. He had tousled brown hair, and he was curling his body towards the window, glancing listlessly at the things his father was pointing out in the world outside the bus.

‘The bananas are like the flowers of the trees.’

The boy piped up: ‘Bananas are lellow.’

‘Yes,’ the father confirmed, ‘bananas are yellow.’

The boy squirmed a little. ‘Like lellow signs.’

‘What? Uh, yes, that’s right.’

After a short pause: ‘Daddy I want to build things.’

‘Hmm, that’s interesting. Like houses?’

Curling up even smaller: ‘I want to build walls.’

This kid was deep.

The father bent his face down to gaze lovingly at his son. ‘So you don’t want to be a fireman any more then?’

‘A fire fighter.’

This got me in my gut. I love that children are now learning gender-neutral profession titles as a matter of course. Anyway, it soon became apparent why the boy was being so floppy and unenthusiastic.

‘I think I want to go home.’

‘Hmm? But what about your friends at the nursery? Who are your friends, tell me.’

‘Daniel…’ and then in a whisper, ‘but he doesn’t want to play with me.’

The father, to my great admiration, didn’t miss a beat. With absolutely no hint of talking down to his son, he said, ‘Hmm. Well, he probably just wants his space. You know, everyone does once in a while. Don’t worry about it. Sometimes that happens to me too – people ask me to play and I’m busy because I might be seeing you, or someone else, and sometimes I ask people to play with me and they’re tired or have other things on. It’ll be OK, he’ll come and play when he’s ready to.’

The boy uncurled a little, but still looked anxious about going to nursery. When the bus arrived at their stop, father and son held hands and made their way to the stairs. As they descended, I heard the father say, still in a level, man-to-man voice, ‘It’ll be OK. But if you want me to stay a little while at the start I can, I have time.’

Swoon.

59. 10am. Top deck, halfway down on the left.

‘I’ll tell you something: my tolerance levels of eating have gone right down. Honestly speaking… Yes, water, I’ve been drinking a lot of water… I’ve eliminated fizzy drinks. Just juice – I love juice, you know me… but I know I’ve been drinking more because my toilet water is as clear as snow…’

Across from me a man was speaking loudly on his phone. His half of the conversation led me to believe he worked in something to do with the Premier League – selling tickets, or perhaps merchandise. At any rate something that required him to work most weekends. He wasn’t complaining, though: he was making hella overtime and counting every pound. He seemed to be one of life’s born statesmen, peppering his speech with oratorial flourishes such as ‘let me tell/ask you something’, ‘honestly speaking’ and ‘you know me’. He also didn’t seem to mind sharing his private life with everyone on the bus. Here is what he is up to in May:

‘Is that QPR? That’s time-and-a-half! I’ll be taking that, thanks very much! Thanks for reminding me. Anyway I’ve booked Amsterdam… Yeah, big guns, but on the Monday so by then she’ll be down about nothing happening so it’ll be like kaPOW. I saw a ring on Rings of London. £250 down to £60! You know me, I love a bargain. I don’t want to do a dinner or anything, it’s always the same. I want to take her to, you know the Shard? WHAT? You know, that new building by London Bridge, that big one, really new, glass, the NEW ONE man, where we used to work, seriously my friend, the SHARD, pointy, big, the SHARD [etc etc for about two minutes] … Yeah, anyway, it’s £25 per ticket. I want to take her for the latest view, for all the lights and what-not, and do it then. You know how she loves taking photos. I’ll take her to the theatre on the Saturday, and probably there won’t be time so Shard on Sunday. She’ll be quite down by then so, whoop there it is, big surprise… Then the flight at 6.20am on the Monday. You know me, I like those early flights… £37! To go all the way there! I was thinking of taking the coach but it takes twelve hours… No, no, you only live once, that’s what I say. So Monday is sightseeing, then Tuesday for any last bits and bobs. Just what will fit in hand luggage – I bought one hand luggage, one check-in, it didn’t seem worth it… change of clothes, toiletries, that’s it. You know me.’

I feel like I do now, friend! I hope she says yes.

172. 8.30pm. Bottom deck, back row.

The following is one half of a mobile phone conversation that I (and everyone else in the back row) couldn’t help but overhear. The man was around forty and had slightly thinning but well-combed hair. He was wearing a dark blue suit, and had gold rings on each of the fingers of his right hand, which was the hand brandishing his mobile phone.

‘It’s old. But the functionality is there. You don’t want to get rid of it, it represents value. However you do want…

‘I’ll send you the link-up so you can download it. There’s a discount code.

‘I can’t answer that, I’m afraid. You need to consult the budget holder.

‘I would have thought there would be 30% leeway in it.

‘It’s a question of filing. You’ll need to justify the expense somewhere along the line.

‘The thing is, remember – sorry to interrupt you – but you’ll get either the laptop or the iPad, not both. You have to be a Divisional Director to get both.’