I walk past the bus stop twice a day. Once on my way to work. Once on my way home.

I've been doing that every day for almost six months. Every day something different happens at the Bus Stop. Here in London, the bus stop is like a small cosmos all on its own. For some people, their day starts by sitting at a bus stop or a train station waiting for their day to start. The huge monstrous red buses shudder to a halt and then groan into movement once again. The self-loading cargo now standing inside, holding onto the stabilising poles, surfing the movements of the huge bus. Double decker buses so big you think they'd be too heavy for the roads.

They are, in fact, too heavy for the roads. Some bus stops have two ruts on the roads in front of them. Two great tracks where the big red buses are constantly driving. They're slowly wearing their way through the tarmac and into the dirt. The way the buses lurch and sway as they drive out of the ruts looks alarming until you realise that these are London buses designed to withstand all types of collisions and abuse. They simply rock back and forth, and then carry on as normal. The people inside move with the bus and stay on their feet.

On my way home from work the other night, I watched a handful of kids marking the bus stop with their name. With silver spray paint, they redecorated the plain bus stop in the theme of a war zone. The street light above them flickered. It looked like a scene from a movie.

The day after that the glass had been shattered, leaving small diamonds of broken glass all over the pavement. Nobody bothered to sweep it up. It just got kicked out of the way, under the bench or onto the road. Three days later, the glass had been replaced. There was already a small scratch where somebody had left their mark. Sitting there waiting for their transport, they'd probably grabbed their keys and scratched across the perfect surface.

This morning, there was a pool of dried blood under the bus stop bench. On the bench, the suited business people sat there looking bored. I walked past, trying not to think of the history behind the puddle of red. It was clear that nobody else really cared about it. The blood and broken glass was under the bench, out of sight, out of mind.

Next week, I'm buying a car. I'm going to be adding to the terrible traffic congestion on London roads. After next week, I won’t see that bus stop very often. I can’t really say I'll be disappointed, either.