To cut a long story short, I got my bags back from Virgin Atlantic Airways and was told to get a taxi to the Greyhound bus station in Orlando where I could travel on one of their buses to Cleveland. I got a right bloody shock when they told me at the bus station it would take a day and three hours to get there.
“It is over a thousand miles, sir,” the woman, nowhere near as nice as the one back at the airport, said.
“Okay, guess I’ve no choice then.”
I paid for my ticket, which used up most of the spending money I had left from what the tinned fruit company had given me. Though I’d not liked it at the time, I was glad now that during the holiday Will hadn’t let me pay for many things.
I had to wait for more than an hour for my bus, though it seemed like a bloody sight longer. When the
