I'm Henry the Eighth, I am

The Aucklander's view of public transportation is much the same as a Texan's. Public transportation here seems only for the old, the infirm, the poor, and the dim-witted. I do not know which category(ies) I fit, but I nevertheless found myself taking the bus yesterday.

Wednesday heralds the week's most anticipated event for Mindy and I. Lacking friends and social acquaintances as of yet, we seek the company of others every Wednesday night at the Green Bay Auction. The plan was for me to take the bus from Titirangi Village to New Lynn and meet Mindy there for the auction. I was giddy with excitement.

I made my way up the steep hill to the village. It was so early that I would have many hours to kill in New Lynn while waiting for Mindy to get off work. However, the excitement of the auction and of a different town (Merkel as compared to Trent) was too much to bear.

By Act of Divinty, I had time to grab a long black at the Hardware and still make it to the bus stop with time to spare. There was only one other person waiting in the Plexiglas structure. Little did I know that I was in the presence of royal blood and a Princess at that.

I asked the lady what time the bus arrived. She looked nervously to either side as if to confirm that I was speaking to her. After a pause she answered that the time was posted outside the structure. I guess my blank look prompted more of a response. She arranged the layers of material and plastic sacks of various sizes on the bench next to her and went to check the sign. She came back, reporting that the bus was due to arrive in five minutes.

In an attempt to strike up conversation, I asked her whether she rode the bus often. It was apparent that she fit into one, if not all, of the above categories. She answered that she had lost her license again. "I am unlucky while driving," she stated, then went on to describe how she had been taken to court eight times to answer charges that she was a poor driver and face the possibility of losing her license. It seems that the eighth time was a charm. Judging from what I've seen on the roadways here, I assumed that anyone was allowed to drive.

As if my invitation to converse had opened the floodgate of a resovoir of word soup, she continued with her family history. She is of a rural people, she claimed with no argument from me, and her family farmed. She spoke in the past tense, remembering childhood, as if nothing relevant had happened since. I think she said she grew up on the South Island outside Dunedin, but I can't be sure.

Almost in passing she stated that her father had died at age 94 and that she and her family found out only afterward that he was King George VI. Apparently he had kept the secret from them in order to protect them -- choosing to live a simple, provincial life of farming. I asked whether that would make her a princess. She answered indirectly by stating that she is the same age as Princess Ann.

About that time the bus arrived. Apparently she was waiting for another bus -- or for something more mysterious -- but she did not board the bus when I did. My final glance confirmed that, despite the bag-lady clothes and the noticeable tic, there was something decidedly royal in her features. After paying twelve pence, I sat on the bus like a peasant reflecting on my encounter with a princess in a Titirangi bus stop.