'Have I told you to leave me alone? Have I? Have I? Yes I f*@kin' have, haven't I. Haven't I? So f*@k off, all right. F*@K OFF.'

The blonde woman shouted the words into her mobile phone as the number 41 bus rumbled through Rusholme. Her fellow passengers gazed out the window, attempting to distract themselves from the woman's rantings by watching pedestrians on the busy street and the early diners eating in Rusholme's numerous curry houses.

However it was impossible not to hear the woman. She moved an over-sized gold hoop earring so she could continue yelling into the phone as her pursuer rang back.

'I'll tell you f*@kin' why, Josh, I'll tell you f*@kin' why, because you are never there for me. Never f**kin' there for me.

'When I collapsed in the house where was yer? Eh? Eh? Down the f*@kin' pub with yer f*@kin' mates getting f*@kin' pissed. Your f*@kin no use to me, no. No, so you can f*@k off. Do you hear me? Do you?

'Exactly what part of "f*@k off" do you not understand? F*@K OFF!'

She snapped the phone shut and shook her head, her heavily lacquered helmet unruffled. I had become fascinated with her hairline by then, where odd hairs were making an escape bid from her scrunchy. Her phone rang again.

'No I'm not telling you where I'm going. No I'm not. And you can chase round after me mates in Sale all you like but I won't be f*@kin there. None of them are going to be smackin yer, if anyone smacks you one it's gonna be me, YOU KNOB.'

The volume at which these final two words were shouted was so loud it genuinely hurt to listen. Could she rival Motorhead for volume? Possibly. She certainly didn't need the phone. If she had just stood in the street and yelled Josh and everyone else in south Manchester would have heard.

We were Withington now. A frail old man hailed the bus which pulled sharply to a halt. The bus driver gave him a fighting chance of getting to a seat before he careered off again up Palatine Road. The old man held grimly onto the rail and levered himself into the seat opposite the woman.

Josh called again. As soon as she started the old man turned to stare with incredulity. Me and what was left of the bus passengers cringed with embarrassment as she started again.

'Send f*@kin' Happy round to talk to me, I don't f*@kin care he's not going to get anywhere. It's finished. over. No I'm not f*@kin' interested. Got that? yes I bet you are but it's too f**kin late. Too f*@kin' late. And no I am not tellin' you.

'Look, where do you think I'm going, I'm eight-and-a-half-months pregnant.'

It was about this point we reached Northenden and I got up. As I passed her, she was, indeed heavily pregnant.

And as I got off I heard her say to the old man 'I do apologise about my language'.