I waited until the day was waning. There were fewer people about and, as I got on the bus to Newcastle, there was a huge moon low in the sky, already brilliant in its fullness.
"Gateshead, please," I said. Why did I do that? My mind must have been on other things and now, here I was with a ticket to Gateshead Interchange, when I had intended to go directly to Newcastle.
At the Interchange, I got off and when the next bus came along, I got on that one.
In Newcastle, I realised I had no particular reason for being there.
I wandered round town, looking in the Waterstones Twins, where I found a BBC CD of Betjeman reading some of his own poetry. I decided to come back and look at it some other time. In W H Smith's, I flicked idly through the pages of Mojo, toyed briefly with the idea of using my fingernail to slit open one of the other sealed music magazines, but eventually found I hadn't sufficient interest. I lingered a while in Fenwick's deli, but couldn't see anything to tempt me for dinner.
I was definitely in full flaneur mode.
When the novelty had worn off, I got the bus home. "Black Horse, please." That's in the next fare zone, I reminded myself.
Last week I would have paid £3.50 for my travelling. Today it cost me nothing at all.
I have made my first journey using my Concessionary Travel Card. I am sixty.