The Insulated Conductor continued. One afternoon, after all the other candidates had handed in their quiz sheets, I was getting my coat, when I noticed this doll, still at her desk. It was already knocking-off time yet, stone the crows!, she'd only responded to half the pointless puzzles. Her big brown minces seduced me. Against my better judgement I leaned forward, oggling her cleavage, and whispered the correct answers in her ear. She was hardly going to be London Transport material - even by their slack standards. In writing that was barely legible, she still managed to copy two of them wrong but Laura's love-making skills were in a class of their own. On my mother's life! They moved me upstairs after that. My new job title was something they conjured up at short notice and escapes me now, but I was still with Revenue. Sod them! I thought, and argued another pay rise. To put it simply, they wanted me to watch the watchers: like those conductors whose takings never seemed to square with their hours on duty. In the run-up to privatisation, the public sector was coming to grips with that alien word 'profit' and the X Files idea of 'worker evaluation' as well. From the heap of stats they buried me under, I selected Gina for my first case study. OK, she looked great, even in the passport size personnel mugshot, but that aside she had, over the year, paid in only about half what was average, for a conductor on that route. The challenge had the adrenaline rushing through me like a psyched-up sprinter. She worked the 159s; Thornton Heath to West Hampstead. Based at Streatham Hill Garage, she lived near Tooting Bec Common, which, even then, was a classy address. On Monday I went to the garage and had a butcher's hook at her recent waybills and returns. Her daily pay-ins would barely cover the expense of the bus, herself, and the driver, but her paperwork was kosher and accurate to the last penny. Her time-keeping record was flawless and her vehicle was hardly ever the victim of mechanical failure, a popular crew-induced malady, favoured by those who milked the system. Copying Gina's duty schedule and bus running numbers, for the rest of the week, I opted for an early night, fancying my chances in what promised to be a genuine challenge. At Nine, on the Brixton Town Hall clock, next morning I was at the bus stop, in my commuter suit, holding my commuter newspaper, with my commuter briefcase containing my commuter sandwich. OK, I'd been fantasising over what this chick would look like, and how I'd handle it, when I'd figured what she was up to. Yeah, OK, and what was in it for me! She was better than my best dream image, so help me. More leggy than lanky, she made that normally-tatty uniform look like the suits those slinky city-girls wear. Then she had this friendly, but firm, voice; like a tour guide as she ushered the punters aboard, pressed the bell and straight away started punching out tickets as if on piece-work - or self-employed, more like!. On top of that, she had this your-bed-or-mine quizzical smile which I tried hard to ignore, to protect my cover. God it was hard! I bought a ticket for Trafalgar Square, then tried to watch her every move, on the lower deck, without looking like a prawn. She was so efficient and courteous it was like watching an LT promotional video. She even pointed out tourist landmarks as we passed them. The Japanese and Yanks, with their cameras, lapped it up. I went back to my office but no way could I concentrate on any work. I caught her bus again for the return journey but noticed nothing dodgy. I went home and 'phoned the garage manager later, to check on her returns for the duty. Figures accurate, money spot on, takings like a miners' whip-round for Margaret Thatcher. Well, a thousand times better than that, naturally, but still about fifty per cent light for the shift. If there's one thing worse than being a driver, or a conductor, on a Routemaster bus, it's being a passenger, especially in the rush hour. I stuck it out for the rest of the week but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, about Gina's routine. By Friday I had to admit defeat - and it hurt. So I decided on the cards-on-the-table approach. Anyway, I fancied her so much, that every time I looked at her my brain went walkies. She was ahead of me. "Can I ask you a question, sir?" The bus was stuck in traffic near Brixton Station and I had moved to the entrance, ready to get off when we reached the kerb. In the milling of bodies I found myself pressed against her, on the rear platform, acutely aware of her firm figure and her body scent. "Do what love?" I said, waiting for the grey matter to function. "Revenue or stalker?" Matter-of-fact, as if I was a disorientated punter - which I was for a minute. "Well both, as it happens." You don't lose it for long do you? I was relieved, almost euphoric. Which one would she prefer I wondered? "One of you keeps watching me, when he thinks I'm not looking. Is that the jobsworth or the voyeur?" "The Revenue Inspector thinks you're in big trouble, but the other fella wants to take you for a drink." The red bus spewed out most of its passengers at the station, while I clung on to chrome rail, breathing deeply from the crushing effect of stampeding bodies, and the thrill of her closeness. When the last one had gone, I nodded for her to bell the driver. As the old workhorse picked up speed, we shared a rear seat. She crossed her slender, model-length legs, and I became aware of all my London Transport ethics vanishing through the small sliding window.   Continue Copyrights reserved by the author. If in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' for details.

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