Guide

He steps aboard the bus, a modern Moses Slouch hat in the Aussie fashion, shades an eye Blue, collarless shirt, red braces on parade Chinos with pockets, septugenarian, tries to espouse modernity Designer stubble or a lazy shaver His mouth opens, a breached dam Speaking us through the info-maze that's Cambridge We drown in knowledge, far too out, not waving Then his brain gives way, a rotten hayloft We learn he's a Govan boy He wanders off to the bad lands of nostalgia Ten minutes on, he remembers he's a guide His function to inform, to aid the driver ‘Oh dear, ' he reflects, ‘I appear to have missed your turn off' The driver's knuckles whiten A hiss of sighs issues between clenched teeth We hurtle down the motorway to Stanstead Forty five minutes late, we reach our destination. Our guide steps off, waving his hat with a smile. ‘We'll ditch the guide in future',growls the driver With barely enough time left for WCs