I was, and overall remain, an optimist. Even in these troubling, turbulent times.

Sure, ample people do bad things constantly. But the scientist in me always considers this against the fact that the global population is rapidly approaching 8 billion. And if the majority of 8 billion people were inherently bad, we’d never have made it this far.

The fact that this small number of bad people seem to be running much of global society is a whole other matter. I have a book in the works about this, so stay tuned for that.

But anyway, while admit to being an optimist, given my career and interests, I’d also describe myself as a realist. It’s an odd combo, which usually means my mindset is usually “I hope for, maybe even expect, a positive outcome, but, lacking overwhelming evidence,, I would never guarantee one”.

And for better or worse, this is how I view our species. I expect us to survive. Thrive, even. But am I 100% sure it’ll happen? No.

I used to be far more upbeat, certain that a Star Trek-esque future was our locked-on destiny. But over time, this positivity naivety was diminished. And there’s one particular incident that broke through the comforting delusion of our manifest destiny.

And wasn’t something grand-scale or profound, like climate change, or those in charge of the UK getting bladdered on a regular basis during a global pandemic. No, the brain, my own included, is fundamentally an egocentric organ, so the most impactful experiences will be personal, and specific to you.

For me, the point where I began to genuinely question the survival of human civilisation happened on a bus. A bus that followed a reliable route around central Cardiff. And given that it was how I commuted to my place of work at the time, it was a bus I’d been riding every day, for months.

And it was quite a ‘new’ bus at the time. It was a notorious bendy bus, since withdrawn from use in the Welsh Capital, presumably because they seem to annoy a lot of people, for some reason.

However, this was the early mid-aughts, and the buses were brand spanking new. And, as a result, were regularly being tweaked and updated.

And that’s where the issue arises.

Basically, when I first started using the bus, on the window by the entrance door, there were various signs and symbols stuck on. Like the no smoking sign, and the name of the bus company. SOP, really.

There was also this symbol.

Now, to me this meant ‘no food or drink’. Which, again, standard practice. A lot of publicly accessible vehicles and places don’t allow you to bring your own food or beverages while within them. The potential for mess and spills is considerable, particularly if you’re on a bus that’s constantly in motion and stopping and starting etc.

I’m not sure how rigorously the ‘no food or drink’ policies would or could be enforced, but they make sense at least, on a practical level. So, after the briefest of glances while paying the driver for a ticket, I thought no more about this.

Cut to several weeks later, I’m doing my usual commute, and while waiting to board, my attention wanders, and I realise the signage has been adjusted. Now it looks like this.

I saw this, and chuckled for a moment. Because it amused me to think… what else could that symbol mean? Why was this clarification necessary? To the point where it involved employing the services of a presumed professional who can work in the medium of sticky vinyl on glass?

But the more I pondered, the more I felt bad about my reflexive chuckle. After all, just because the symbol