f you’ve ever held a conversation with an elderly person who is EXTREMELY hard of hearing, you’ll know it’s less of a conversation and more of a yelling match. This is what I get paid to do for eight hours at a time. Yes, I am the person on the other end of: “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?” By the end of the shift, I’m usually tired of my own voice and ready to rip my hair out. Can you blame me for wanting to get out of there as fast as possible?

So when the clock ticks over from 22:59 to 23:00, I am ready to kick down doors and run for the hills. Seven minutes: that’s how long I’ve got to get from the office to the bus stop. This is no seven minutes in heaven. It’s seven minutes of hellish anticipation and nervous jitters because missing that golden first bus means standing on a practically deserted street with darkened houses behind me and some horror movie bush ahead.