Let me paint you a scene. You’re sitting quietly on the bus, earbuds in, volume at a modest 12% because your autistic brain is sensitive to sound, and suddenly…
“YEAH BABE, I TOLD ‘IM, I SAID ‘YOU’RE A MUG!’”
Cue: a jump scare that would make Hitchcock proud.
Welcome to Gloucestershire — where public transport isn’t a means of peaceful travel, but an immersive theatre production in Shouting: The Musical. I swear, if the decibel level were any higher, it’d require a noise pollution permit.
And it’s not just shouting. No, no — that would be too merciful. We’ve also entered the Age of the Loudspeaker Phone Call. Because apparently, private conversations are a relic of the past. Who needs headphones when your phone’s speaker can rival the sound system at Glastonbury?
“Oh my god, did you see what Cheryl posted?”
Yes, Karen, we all did. You’ve now made the 41 bus part of Cheryl’s digital shame spiral.
It’s like people have collectively decided:
“Silence? That’s suspicious. Better fill it with a one-woman soap opera starring me, my baby daddy, and three of my loudest friends.”
And then there’s the music. Oh, the music. There’s a special place in hell for tinny phone speakers blasting drill music at 10am on a Tuesday. Or worse, someone using their phone to sing with the music. It’s a mashup of X-Factor rejection and demonic possession.
As someone who’s neurodivergent, I can’t tell you how deeply this affects daily life. What’s meant to be a simple trip to Tesco turns into a full-scale sensory ambush. My amygdala has started doing cardio. I’m considering a GoFundMe to invest in noise-cancelling force fields.
Which brings me to Japan. Ah, Japan. The promised land of public transport etiquette. No one talks. No one shouts. Phones are muted. It’s a zen garden on wheels. If someone accidentally coughs, they apologise, write a haiku, and self-exile to the next carriage.
Meanwhile in Gloucestershire, I once saw a guy take a video call in the quiet carriage of a train while eating crisps and singing. I’m still recovering.
So here’s a humble plea to my fellow Gloucestrians:
- Use headphones.
- Whisper like you’re in a library run by monks.
- Consider that not everyone wants to know your beef with Darren.
- And maybe — just maybe — let’s make public spaces a bit more neurodivergent-friendly.
Because while your conversation might be hot tea, some of us are just trying to get to Cheltenham without feeling like we’ve entered an episode of EastEnders.
Peace, love, and please, put your damn phone on silent.
— A tired, overstimulated introvert
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