The return of the innocent "Sardine Dozen" will not be able to describe how dangerously full the elongated tin box really was. And it was made even more precarious as we wobble on ancient axles through pot holes that would make "Cheech and Chong" green with envy.
It was so bumpy that possessions held in the luggage racks above, were being severely jostled around (even more vigorously than the human occupants) and at one point, a motorcycle crash helmet became dislodged and landed on a granny's head who was sitting on a kids plastic stool in the aisle next to me. The sharp crack to the cranium was heard above even the din of the looping horn.
Now imagine this occurring in the UK and you'd be hearing phrases such as "sued", "damages" and "compensation" (we'll take whiplash as read, OK?)- instead all you heard after a quick rub on the noggin was her laughing (along with the majority of the passengers who had witnessed the accident) her bumped head off.
How refreshing is that?
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