Yesterday, I Quit My Job—No Resignation Letter, No Two Weeks’ Notice: I Set a Cake on the Table, Grabbed My Bag, and Walked Out of My Daughter’s House My “boss” was my own daughter—Caroline. For years, I thought my pay was love. But yesterday, I realized in our family’s economy, my love meant nothing next to a brand new tablet. My name is Anne, I’m 64. On paper I’m a retired nurse living on a modest pension in the suburbs, but in reality I’m a driver, cook, cleaner, home tutor, therapist, and on-call “paramedic” for my two grandsons: Max (9) and Daniel (7). I’m what they call “village”: Remember, “it takes a village to raise a child”? In modern Britain, that “village” is usually one tired granny fueled by tea, painkillers, and paracetamol. Caroline works in marketing, her husband Andrew in finance—nice people, or so I told myself. Always stressed, always rushing. Nursery’s pricey, after-school clubs are tricky. When Max was born, they looked at me like drowning people. “Mum, we can’t afford a nanny,” Caroline sobbed. “We trust only you.” So I agreed—I didn’t want to be a burden; I became the support. My day began at 5:45am—off to their house, making actual porridge (not instant, because Daniel won’t eat quick oats), packing the kids, driving to school, cleaning floors and loos I never used, back for pickups, clubs, homework, football, English lessons. I’m the “no” granny, the rule granny. And then there’s Linda—Andrew’s mum: sea-view flat, face-lifts, new car, holidays. She sees the boys twice a year. Doesn’t know Max’s allergies, can’t calm Daniel’s maths tantrums, never wiped sick off a car seat. She’s the “fun” granny. Yesterday was Max’s ninth birthday. With little money, I wanted a real gift—I spent three months knitting a weighted blanket in his favourite colours, baked a proper cake. At 4:15 the door rang—Linda breezed in: perfume, styling, shopping bags—”Where are my boys?!” My grandsons pushed past me to get to her. “Gran!” She pulled out branded bags—”Didn’t know what you liked, so I got the newest thing.” Two deluxe gaming tablets—no limits, she winked, “Today my rules!” Chaos. Cake forgotten. Guests ignored. Caroline and Andrew beamed. “Linda, you spoil them,” Andrew said, pouring wine. I stood with my blanket. “Max, I’ve a gift, and the cake…” He didn’t look up. “Not now, Gran—I’m levelling up.” “I spend all winter—” He sighed, “Gran, no one wants blankets. Linda got tablets. Why are you always boring? All you bring is food or clothes.” I looked to Caroline, hoping she’d step in. She laughed awkwardly. “Mum, don’t be upset. He’s a kid. Tablets are more fun. Linda’s the ‘fun granny.’ You’re our everyday granny.” Everyday granny—like everyday dishes, everyday traffic. Needed, but invisible. “I wish Linda lived here,” Daniel piped up. “She doesn’t force us to do homework.” Something snapped inside me. I folded the blanket, put it on the table, took off my apron. “Caroline, I’m done.” “Done with what? Slicing cake?” “No. Done.” I took my bag. “I’m not your home appliance. I’m your mother.” “Mum, where are you going?” she cried. “My big presentation tomorrow—who’ll take the kids?” “No idea. Sell a tablet, maybe. Or let ‘fun gran’ stay.” “Mum, we need you!” I stopped. “That’s the point. You need me—but you don’t see me.” I walked out. Today I woke at nine, made coffee, sat outside. For the first time in years, my back didn’t ache. I love my grandchildren. But I won’t live as unpaid help disguised as ‘family’ anymore. Love isn’t self-destruction—and Grandma isn’t a resource. If you want a rule granny, you respect the rules. For now…maybe I’ll take up dancing. They say that’s what ‘fun grannies’ do.

Author Walton MerrittReading 5 minViews 1

Yesterday, I quit.

No resignation letter. No two weeks notice.

I simply placed the platter holding the cake onto the kitchen table, picked up my handbag, and stepped out of my daughters house.

My employer was my own daughter Emily.

And the wage, or so Id imagined all these years, was supposed to be love.

But yesterday I realised, in the economy of our family, my love didnt quite compare to a brand-new tablet.

My name is Margaret. Im sixty-four.

Officially, Im a retired nurse living on a modest pension in the outskirts of Canterbury.

But in reality Im a chauffeur, chef, cleaner, home tutor, therapist and stand-by paramedic for two grandchildren: Matthew (9) and Daniel (7).

Im what youd call the village.

Remember the old saying, it takes a village to raise a child?

In todays world, that village is often one weary grandmother surviving on tea, lavender oil and painkillers.

Emily works in advertising.

Her husband, James, does finance.

Nice people, so I keep telling myself.

Always tired. Always rushing. Nursery too dear. School too tricky. Clubs a logistical nightmare. When Matthew was born, they looked at me as if I were a lifeboat.

Mum, we cant afford a nanny, Emily sobbed once. And we dont trust strangers. Only you.

So, of course, I agreed.

After all, I didnt want to be a burden.

So I became a pillar.

My day begins at 5:45am.

I drive over. Make porridge not just any, but the proper one, because Daniel refuses the instant stuff. Get the boys ready. Drive them to school. Return and mop floors I never dirtied, clean loos I never used. Then, its school runs, football, homework, clubs, English lessons.

I am the grandmother of routine.

The grandmother of no.

The grandmother of rules.

And then theres Susan.

Susan is James mother.

She owns a flat by the seafront. Facelifts, new car, holidays.

She sees the grandchildren twice a year.

Susan doesnt know Matthew has allergies.

She doesnt know how to soothe Daniel when he has a meltdown over long division.

She has never cleaned up sick from a booster seat.

Susan is the yes grandmother.

Yesterday was Matthews ninth birthday.

I had been preparing for weeks. Moneys tight, but I wanted to give him something real. I spent three months knitting him a heavy blanket, because he struggles to sleep. Picked his favourite colours. Put everything I had into it.

And baked a proper cake not from a packet.

At 4:15pm, the doorbell rang.

Susan breezed in, like a champagne storm perfume, blow-dry, glossy shopping bags.

Where are my boys?

The grandkids practically bowled me over to run into her arms.

Granny!

She perched on the sofa and pulled out a bag with a big shiny logo.

I didnt know what you liked, so I picked the newest thing, she declared.

Two gaming tablets. The fanciest kind.

No restrictions, she winked. Todays Susans rules!

The boys lost their heads. The cake forgotten. The guests ignored.

Emily and James glittered.

Mum, you spoil them too much… James said, pouring her wine. Youre ruining them.

I stood there, blanket in hand.

Matthew… I knitted you something too… and the cakes ready…

He didnt look up.

Not now, Granny. Im levelling up.

I spent all winter making this…

He sighed.

Granny, no one wants blankets. Susan got tablets. Why are you so boring? You just bring food and clothes.

I looked at my daughter.

Waiting for her to step in.

Emily forced a laugh.

Mum, dont be upset. Hes a kid. Of course, tablets are exciting. Susan is the fun granny. And you… well… youre the everyday one.

The everyday granny.

Like everyday plates. Everyday traffic. Needed but invisible.

I wish Susan lived here, Daniel chipped in. She never makes us do homework.

And something inside me snapped.

I folded the blanket. Set it on the table. Untied my apron.

Emily, Im finished.

What do you mean? Will you cut the cake?

No. Im done.

I picked up my bag.

I am not an appliance you can switch off. I am your mother.

Mum, where are you going? she yelled. Ive got a big meeting tomorrow! Wholl get the boys?

Ive no idea, I replied. Maybe sell the tablets. Or perhaps fun granny can move in.

Mum, we need you!

I stopped.

Thats exactly it. You need me. But you dont see me.

I walked out.

Today, I woke at nine.

Brewed fresh tea. Sat on the porch.

And, for the first time in years, my back didnt ache.

I love my grandchildren.

But I wont be free help in the guise of family anymore.

Love shouldnt mean annihilation.

And a grandmother isnt a spare part.

If they want a routine granny, theyd better respect the routine.

Meanwhile…

I think I might sign up for dancing lessons. Thats what fun grannies do, apparently.

Anna Peterson sat on a hospital bench in the garden, crying. Today was her 70th birthday, but neither her son nor her daughter visited or called to wish her well. Only her ward mate, Mrs. Eugenia Smith, remembered her and even gave her a small present, and the orderly, Mary, gifted her an apple for her birthday. The care home was decent, but the staff were mostly indifferent. Everyone knew it was a place where children sent their elderly parents when they became a burden. Anna’s son brought her here, claiming it was just for some rest and treatment, but in reality, she was simply in the way of his wife. The flat had belonged to Anna, but her son convinced her to sign it over to him, promising she’d still live at home. In fact, the whole family then moved in, and the arguments with her daughter-in-law began. At first, her son defended her, then he stopped and eventually started snapping at her himself. When he and his wife began whispering and fell silent when Anna entered the room, she sensed something was wrong. One morning, her son told her she needed a break and some medical care. Anna, looking him in the eye, bitterly asked, “You’re putting me in a care home, aren’t you?” Embarrassed, he insisted, “No, Mum, it’s just a nursing home for a month, then you’ll come back.” He dropped her off, hastily signed the forms, and left, promising to visit soon. He only came by once, bringing two apples and two oranges, asked how she was, and rushed off without listening. She’s now been here two years. A month after arriving, with no sign of her son, Anna called home, only to hear strangers’ voices—her son had sold the flat and vanished. Anna cried a few nights but resigned herself—she would never go home. The worst part was knowing she had pushed her daughter away in favour of her son. Anna had grown up and married in a village, where life was simple but content. The allure of city life, promised by a city neighbour, led Anna and her husband Peter to sell everything and move. At first things were good, but Peter died in a car accident, leaving Anna alone with two children. She scrubbed stairwells to make ends meet, hoping her children would help her one day. But life led her son astray, and she went into debt to keep him out of trouble. Her daughter, Dasha, married and had a child, but soon her son fell sick and required long hospital visits. Dasha’s husband left, and she later met a widower with a daughter who had the same illness. Anna had saved money for her son to buy a flat, and when Dasha asked for help for her stepdaughter’s operation, Anna refused, thinking her own son needed the money more. Dasha was devastated, told her mother not to come to her in times of need, and they never spoke again. Dasha managed to heal her stepson, and the family moved to the coast, leaving Anna alone for twenty years. If she could, Anna would choose differently, but the past can’t be changed. Rising from the bench, Anna heard, “Mum!” and turned to see Dasha, who caught her as she nearly collapsed from shock. “At last, I found you. Your brother wouldn’t give your address—he only cooperated after I threatened legal action over the flat. I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you for so long. I dreamed of you last week, lost and crying in the forest, and I knew I had to find you. My husband told me to make peace. Our house is by the sea, you’ll love it. Come home with me.” Anna clung to her daughter and cried, but this time they were tears of joy. “Honour your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you.”

That Morning, Michael James Felt Worse. He Was Struggling to Breathe. “Nicholas, I don’t need anything—none of your medicines, nothing. Just please, let me say goodbye to my Friend. I beg you. Unhook all of this from me…” He nodded to the IV drips. “I can’t go like this. You understand, I just can’t…” A tear traced down his cheek. Nicholas knew if he disconnected everything, Michael might not make it to the door. The men from the ward gathered around. “Nicholas, surely something can be done? It’s not right, this isn’t right…” “I know…I do. But this is a hospital—everything sterile, by the book.” “To hell with that…Look, the man can’t leave in peace.” Nicholas understood. But what could he do? He stood up. He could do anything. To hell with the rules, to hell with his father’s business. If they fire him, so be it. He abruptly turned, locking eyes with Anna. Admiration was written all over her face. Nicholas ran out to the street. “Friend, I’m asking you, be quiet—maybe no one will notice. Come on, let’s go see your master.” He’d just opened the door when Emma Edwards blocked his way. “And what is this?” “Emma Edwards…please, I’m begging you. Five minutes. Let them say goodbye. If you must, fire me after.” She was silent for a moment. Who knows what was going through her mind, but then she stepped aside. “Alright. Let them fire me too then.” “Friend, with me!” Nicholas raced down the hospital corridor, Friend beside him. Ahead, Anna opened the door. The dog, as if sensing something, bounded ahead—another leap and Friend was at Michael James’s bedside, front paws on the mattress. A hush fell over the ward. Michael opened his eyes, tried to raise a hand, but the IV lines tangled him. So he ripped them out with his other hand. “Friend! You came…” The dog laid his head on Michael’s chest. Michael petted him—once, twice. He smiled… the smile lingered on his lips. His hand slipped away. Someone said, “The dog’s crying…” Nicholas approached the bed. Friend truly was weeping. “That’s it. Let’s go…let’s go…” *** Nicholas perched on the garden wall, while Friend disappeared into the bushes to lie down. One of the ward mates—who’d once handed over his own dinner—came by, offering up a pack of cigarettes. Nicholas looked at him, meant to say he didn’t smoke, then changed his mind. He lit up. Anna sat beside him. Her eyes were red and her nose puffy. “Anna…today’s my last day.” “Why?” “You see, at first I was here as punishment, then to prove to Dad I could do it… He was going to give me the business. But it’s not about the business. I can’t do this. I’m going home. I’ll just tell him—your son’s no good. I’m sorry, Anna…” Nicholas left. He handed in his notice and packed his things. Anna watched from the window as he pulled up in his Mercedes, got out, opened the passenger door, and headed for the bushes. After saying something softly to Friend, he returned to the car and waited. The dog joined him five minutes later, staring into Nicholas’s eyes before leaping in. Anna wept again. “You’re not useless, Nicholas! You’re the best!” *** A few days later Anna saw a man, who looked an awful lot like Nicholas, walking with the chief doctor. She rushed down the stairs and out to the street. “Are you Nicholas’s dad?” The chief looked surprised. “Anna, what’s going on?” “Wait, Dr. Nicholas, you can fire me later! So are you his dad?” Vadim Oliver looked baffled by this petite girl with the lovely freckles. “I am.” “You mustn’t! Do you hear me? You mustn’t believe Nicholas is useless! He’s the best! He was the only one brave enough to help a dying man say goodbye to his friend! Nicholas has a heart and a soul!” Anna turned and marched back inside. Vadim Oliver smiled. “Did you see that?” The chief replied, “So what can you do? She’s a good kid, but always insists on the truth!” “That so bad?” “Not always good…” *** Three years passed. Out of a beautiful house came an entire family. Nicholas pushed the pram, while Anna held the lead of a magnificent dog. At the riverside, Anna let the dog run. “Friend, don’t wander too far!” The dog bounded to the river. In a couple of minutes, the child in the pram let out a cry. Friend raced back to the pram in two massive leaps. Anna laughed. “Nicholas, looks like we won’t need a nanny! What’s the matter? Oh, Sonya just lost her dummy.” The baby soon slept again. Friend peered into the pram, made sure all was well, and dashed off after a butterfly…

I Shouted Out the Window: “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” — She Turned, Waved Her Shovel in Greeting, and Called Back: “Doing My Best for You Lazybones.” — The Next Day, My Mum Was Gone… I Still Can’t Walk Past Our Old Garden Without Tears… Every Time I See That Footpath, My Heart Clenches Like Someone’s Grabbing It. It Was Me Who Took That Photo on January Second… I Was Just Passing By, Noticed Her Footprints in the Snow—And Stopped. I Snapped a Picture, Not Even Sure Why. Now, That Photo Is All I Have Left of Those Days… We Celebrated New Year’s Just Like Always, All Together. Mum Was Up Early on the 31st, and I Woke to the Smell of Frying Burgers and Her Voice from the Kitchen: “Darling, Get Up! Come Help Me Finish the Salads, or Your Dad Will Eat All the Ingredients Again While We’re Not Looking!” I Came Downstairs Still in My Pyjamas, Hair a Mess. She Was at the Stove in Her Favourite Peach-Print Apron—the One I Gave Her Back in School—Smiling, Cheeks Rosy from the Oven. “Mum, At Least Let Me Have My Coffee First,” I Groaned. “Coffee After! First, Chop the Veg—Small, the Way I Like. Not Like Last Time—Those Huge Cubes!” We Chopped and Chatted About Everything. She Reminisced About Her Childhood New Years—No Fancy Salads, Just Herring in a Fur Coat and the Oranges Her Dad Sneaked Home from Work. Then Dad Came In With the Tree—Absolutely Huge, Nearly Touching the Ceiling. “Alright Ladies, Accept This Beauty!” He Boomed. “Dad, Did You Bring Down the Whole Forest?” I Gasped. Mum Just Shook Her Head with a Smile: “It’s Lovely, But Where Will We Put It? Last Year’s Was Smaller.” Still, She Helped Decorate. My Little Sister and I Hung the Lights While Mum Dug Out the Old Glass Ornaments, Including a Tiny Angel She Said She’d Bought for My First New Year’s. “Remember This One?” She Asked Quietly. “I Do, Mum,” I Lied. Really, I Didn’t, But She Glowed from My Nod. My Brother Arrived Later, Loud as Ever—Arms Full of Presents and Bubbly. “Mum, I’ve Got Proper Champagne This Year! None of Last Year’s Cheap Stuff.” “Just Don’t Drink It All at Once,” She Laughed, Hugging Him. At Midnight, We All Went Out to the Garden. Dad and My Brother Set Off Fireworks, My Sister Screamed in Delight, and Mum Hugged Me Tight. “Look, Love, Isn’t It Beautiful? We’ve Got Such a Good Life…” I Hugged Her Back. “The Best Life, Mum.” We Drank Bubbly Straight from the Bottle, Laughed When a Rocket Nearly Hit the Neighbour’s Shed. A Bit Tipsy, Mum Danced in Her Wellies to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”, and Dad Swept Her Up in His Arms. We Laughed Until We Cried. On New Year’s Day We Laid About; Mum Cooked Again—Now Dumplings and Aspic. “Mum, Enough, We’re Bursting!” I Complained. “Nonsense, You’ll Finish It Off. It’s New Year’s, It Lasts a Week,” She Brushed Me Off. January Second, She Was Up Early as Always. I Heard the Door Bang, Saw Her in the Garden With the Shovel—Clearing the Path in Her Old Parka and Scarf. She Did It So Carefully: A Narrow, Neat Path from the Gate to the Porch, Sweeping Snow Just the Way She Liked. I Shouted: “Mum, Why So Early? You’ll Catch a Chill!” She Looked Back, Waved Her Shovel: “Or Would You Lot Rather Trudge Through Drifts TIll Spring? Put the Kettle On, Will You?” I Grinned and Headed to the Kitchen. She Came Back in Half an Hour, Cheeks Glowing, Eyes Bright. “All Done, It Looks Lovely, Doesn’t It?” “Lovely, Mum. Thank You.” That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Cheerful Voice. On the Morning of the Third, She Whispered: “Girls, I’m Getting a Sharp Pain in My Chest. Not Bad, Just Annoying.” I Panicked: “Mum, Let’s Call an Ambulance?” “Oh Stop, Love. Just Overdid It, That’s All. I’ll Lie Down A Bit, It’ll Pass.” She Lay on the Sofa, My Sister and I Sitting With Her. Dad Went for Medicine. She Still Joked: “Don’t Look So Gloomy—I’ll Outlive the Lot of You.” But Then Her Face Went Pale. She Clutched Her Chest. “Oh… I Don’t Feel Well…” We Called the Paramedics. I Held Her Hand. Whispered: “Mummy, Hold On, They’re Coming, It’ll Be Alright…” She Looked at Me and Murmured: “Sweetheart… I Love You All So Much… I Don’t Want to Say Goodbye.” The Ambulance Came Quick, But… Nothing Could Be Done. Massive Heart Attack. It Happened So Fast. I Sat on the Hall Floor, Wailing. Couldn’t Believe It. Yesterday She Was Dancing, Laughing—Today She Was Gone. Barely Steady, I Went Out to the Garden. Soft Snow. Her Footprints, So Small and Neat, Were Still There—from the Gate to the Porch and Back. I Stood and Stared for the Longest Time. Asked God How It Was Possible: Yesterday, She Walked Here, Left Her Prints—Now She Was Gone. The Tracks Were There, but She Wasn’t. Maybe She Really Did Step Out That Last Time Just to Leave Us a Clear Path—So We Could Walk On After Her. I Didn’t Clear the Tracks, and Asked Everyone Else Not To. Let them Stay Until the Snow Takes Them Naturally. That Was the Last Thing Mum Did for Us—Looking After Us Even When She Was Gone. A Week Later, Heavy Snow Fell. I Keep That Photo with Her Last Footprints. Every January Third, I Look at It—and Then at the Now-Empty Path by Our House. It Hurts So Much Knowing Her Last Steps Are Still Somewhere Under That Snow. Those Are the Steps I Still Try to Follow…

Midnight Express The doors of the night bus folded like concertinas, sending waves of warm air billowing into the cool London night. Five rowdy lads tumbled aboard, scuffing their muddy trainers on every surface they could find: steps, poles, and the unlucky ankles of fellow passengers. No one among the disparate group of lone night travellers—united by this single late-night route—dared challenge the boisterous, tipsy group, their eyes wild as they loudly debated the many places and occasions for their supposed amorous exploits. Everyone tried to out-shout the others, boasting about whom, where, and what for, their raucous laughter punctuated by toasts and the clinking of bottles. They turned the back of the bus into an off-license drinks counter, bashing bottle bottoms together after each burst of laughter. The engine grumbled, the doors hissed, the concertina snapped straight, and the old Routemaster pulled away from the station-like stop. Aside from the newcomers, there were about ten souls in the dim carriage, including the conductor—a weary woman whose spectacles looked old enough to have seen the Blitz. “Tickets, lads,” she intoned, voice braced for trouble, clutching her roll of tickets. “Got a travelcard,” belched one. “Me too!” “Same here!” The last, barely eighteen—peach fuzz, awkward movements, uncertain eyes—put on the loudest show, confident in the safety of numbers. “Let’s see them, then,” said the woman, unimpressed. “Show us yours first!” jeered the broadest, spitting beer foam as he spoke. “I’m the conductor,” she replied flatly. “And I’m an electrician! So should I get free leccy then?” retorted the lad with the bottomless beer bottle, sticky beer running down his jacket, its stale waft filling the bus. “Either pay up or get off,” she countered. As if cued, the bus stopped; the rest of the passengers silently filed out at the next stop. “We told you, we’ve got travelcards,” insisted the youngest, chest puffed. “Take us back to the depot, Val,” the conductor called to the unseen driver. “Yeah, Val, take us to the depot,” the lads mocked, feigning tears. The doors clattered shut and the bus reversed course. The boys laughed for ten seconds, but as the Routemaster picked up speed, one finally noticed, half-sober, “How did the bus turn in the road if it’s electric and runs on wires?” The others shrugged—it didn’t matter. The bus went faster, overtaking cars, its bulbs fading to black. Only the flickering streetlights and neon signs cut through the gloom inside. The conductor sat still, gaze fixed ahead, and the stops vanished. “Oi! Where are you taking us?” one called out. Silence. “Driver! Stop! Let us off!” Their voices faltered, panic overtaking bravado. The conductor didn’t move. They left the city, slipping onto a rural lane; the only light ahead flickered in the driver’s cabin. Their phones showed no signal, no internet. Desperate, one lad stood over the conductor, spitting threats. “You know where I work? If I’m not at my desk tomorrow, your pension’s gone!” The headlights died. “Please, let us out—I need to revise for A-Levels!” the awkward youth squeaked. The bus tore through the night, engine howling. The bravado was gone; memories stirred of hostage survival guides, desperate hands tried smashing windows with beer bottles or prying open doors, but nothing worked. Finally, someone offered cash. “Here, keep the change! Just take us back! Please!” But the conductor sat frozen, unmoved by pleas, guilt trips or tears. The bus hurtled on, until it reached a huge, dark lake. “Where are we?” the lads whispered. “They’re going to drown us,” sobbed the youngest. “Serge, you know how to drive a bus? Think we can rush them?” someone mumbled hopefully, but Serge just shook his head. At last, the front door opened, and the conductor stepped onto the verge. In the moonlight, she rummaged in the driver’s cabin—returning with a long object. “That’s it—this is it—they’ll shoot us… dump us in the lake…” Even the electrician was speechless, eyes puffy with tears. Suddenly, the lights flared. The conductor strode in, thunked down a mop and a bucket at their trembling feet, and smiled: “When you’re done washing the walls, I’ll give you cloths for the seats and floors. Then you’ll go home. Any objections?” The five shook their heads in unison. Night stretched on. Two fetched water, one swapped out cloths, two emptied buckets into some mysterious barrel—this bus had clearly made this run before. They finished at dawn; the Routemaster gleamed, glass sparkling. The lads, sober and subdued, worked quietly, in step. When it was finished, the conductor clipped their tickets and the bus rolled back to the city. The midnight rebels were dropped at stops along the way, and the old double-decker set off again—to greet the new day and new passengers.