conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled The busconductor Hines about Times, Literary, Supplement with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 'A remarkable book... intelligent, exploratory and sometimes very touching.' -- Times Literary Supplement
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The busconductor Hines
  Hines could be that inventor. The Good Lord knows he needs the money. This week's wages for last week's workings amount to well nigh fuck all; and next week's wages for this week's workings is a ludicrous example of the parsnip. In the name of christ. And yet certain possibilities concerning future weeks are not, however, absent. Rumours of overtime being enjoyed by those and such as those continue to proliferate despite persistent denials from the crawling bastards in receipt of same. With maximum luck one could be netting a fortune. A week of back-shift beginning at 1600 hours would allow some 11 extra working hours daily. If one were to be granted another shift in the morning hours one could be earning double wages – in fact it would be more than double wages since overtime rates must operate. 5 extra shifts per week would throw a minimum of 40 hours onto the basic plus ½ this extra 40 for the overtime time and a half rate. A round 100 hours of a wage. Plus if 2 of the days fell at the weekend there would be additional cash since to work a Sunday even as an ordinary day will throw time and a half. And the same applies to Saturdays after 1300 hours – which gives an extra 12 to be tacking onto the 100, plus of course the additional possibility of getting working both days-off, which at time and a half equals another 24 onto the 112 making 136 in all plus if the days-off chanced to be a Saturday by christ and it was after 1300 hours then the rate gets doubled to treble time which is 24 for working 8, throwing another 12 onto the 136 so what is that for fuck sake must be near about 148 hours, a hundred and forty-eight hours, of a wage, all rolled nice and tidy into the 1 week's wage-packet, the future being more than darkly.
  Hines had slowed down; his pace now increased. Forces were pushing him. The uniformed employees and mechanics, the black-squad – even the office fuckers; they were all in unspoken league, edging him onto the brink and beyond. Having recognised the futility of certain methods of advance they had now chosen him as representative – leader was to go far too far. He was to represent them. By struggling ahead with life he would be showing the way. Could this be true. Did he have something they didnt. At an early age he had sucked in the ultimates. He had revealed a marked ability to steer clear of a special type of conventional motion. Nothing was, it would seem, being left to chance. Even the circumstances surrounding nowadays were part and parcel of the whole. All went to force the point's arrival, hence departure; and speculations concerning the when were irrelevant. That kind of stuff can be stowed away. There can be no settled moment, rather a mass of moments; because of this a great deal can be taken as granted.
  That it has been revealed to Mr Hines that his son is the representative is fine, fine; but what about his own wee boy, Paul, what about him.
  Just a son, just a son; another tomorrow, He could even have a more strenuous time of it, since Hines wouldnt be getting beyond the moment; by his not getting beyond the moment Paul would be obliged to account for much of what is to follow – although Sandra would see him through. It is down to her to show him the road. While what will she be doing. She will be getting ahead with things. What things. She will ascertain that which is to be done and go ahead and fucking do it. Fine. Not fine at all. At times like the present 1 or 2 items cannot be dwelt upon. Especially when cutting through from Y to D because of the route taking one to the outer skirts of High Amenity Zone K. He could have walked 20 minutes out his way to gaze in his parents-in-law's living room window. That would've been a fine how-d'ye-do. Pardon me, is that the nose of one's daughter's spouse pressed against the glass. Fuck off.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Campbell. Hines inhaled and exhaled. He was eating a roll as he came over, not glancing in the direction of Hines, not acknowledging that this was Hines which was fine really because they disliked each other very greatly. He pulled out a drawer, humming to himself, bringing out a slip of paper; then he brought out another slip of paper which he laid near to Hines. Sign there conductor, he said; they want to see you at Head Office directly.
  Aye I know but I'm no actually being employed the day I mean so... Paul was beside him, trying to edge his way in between Hines and the counter.
  After a moment Campbell said, Either it's the day or you've got a 10 o'clock for tomorrow morning: suit yourself.
  What're you bloody on about! Campbell had whispered this; but the anger was apparent even to Paul and he was gripping Hines' hand. Hines inhaled and exhaled, he patted the boy's head. Naw, he said, it's just eh... I dont see how I can go to Head Office the day. And it's my day-off the morrow. Then next week I'm backshift so how can I get a 10 o'clock line for then, unless it's a 10 o'clock at night line.
  I mean as far as I can see I'll no be able to go for another week at least – no unless they agree to see me in civvies. But even then, it means I'll be going when I'm no actually working
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hines swivelled on the seat and raised his boots onto the back of the seat in front; he closed his eyelids.
  I dont want to fucking hear it then. Does it concern irate punters at Bridgeton Cross? a certain Old Firm game on New Year's Day? because if so, if so...
  Ten minutes! Ten minutes! what d'you mean ten minutes ya cunt ye it was ten minutes a half a fucking hour ago!
  It's no too early at all man I mean the... Hines sniffed, and after a moment he sat up, brought out his tin and prised off the lid. When he was tapping the tobacco down the length of the cigarette paper Reilly took out a packet of tipped cigarettes and extracted one. He waited for Hines to finish rolling his before striking a light. Then Hines said, How was the game on Saturday?
  Murder; no opposition – we could've put out the fucking reserves... He yawned and got up from the seat; he sat down again.