I don't mind trains, but buses are a different matter.
When I were but a lad or about nine or ten years old I was attempting to get the bus home from the swimming baths. I wasn't sure what number bus I wanted, but did know which stand it went from, so went to that stand where a bus was waiting, got on board and asked for a single to my destination. The driver tutted and said that it had gone up from 5p to 7p, but that he'd let me on anyway - "Thanks, Mister!" - and I settled down for the short journey from the baths to home - only a couple of miles, won't take long.

Hmm.

This bus normally turns down that street, but I expect it will double back shortly.

Hmm.

This bus doesn't normally go through that village, but I expect it will double back soon.

Hmm.

This bus doesn't normally speed along the A19 for an hour. But I expect it will double back in a minute.

Hmm.

This bus doesn't normally stop at some barren bus station with the driver shouting "That's it, all change!" and everyone getting off. I am beginning to suspect that there will be no doubling back of any kind *at all*.

So there I was, with no money in my pocket, miles away from home and no real idea of where I was, with my 5p bus ticket crumpled in my hand, the driver calling "You have to get off here, lad", and the tears starting to trickle down my face.

I've never felt so lost.

Of course the driver spotted that I didn't appear to be particularly happy with the state of affairs, and took me in hand. He checked my ticket - "oh dear!" - and I was ushered into an office. A phone call home to reassure my parents - who had called the police by this time - a free cup of hot chocolate and a bag of crisps from the canteen, and I was soon on the bus back home (somebody competent chose that one).

It left me with a deep suspicion of buses, I don't mind telling you.

And it lasts to this day.

A year or two back on holiday in Sydney, I had to get a bus into the city centre. That was easy enough, since my friend made sure I got on the right bus and knew where to get off, but getting back saw me left to my own devices. I found the correct bus (Yay!) but when I asked the driver for a single to Castle Hill he fixed me with a rheumy gaze and said, in that laconic Aussie manner, "Yeah?" and indicated that more information was required.

A memory of my inadvertent sojourn to Sunderland bus station flashed back; I could practically smell the chlorine coming from my bag. I briefly considered fleeing and getting a taxi, but managed the tentative suggestion of "Castle Hill... Centre?", which seemed to do the trick since he grunted and rang up the $6.50 fare.

Mind you the driver probably wished I *had* got the taxi, since I then attempted to pay for my ticket with a $50 note. Bloody Poms, eh?
(richardm, Thu 29 May 2008, 15:39, Reply)