Carole had to catch the bus today because Norman (which is, obviously, the name of our car) was playing silly buggers this morning. Partly because he was frozen solid, and partly because Carole accidentally flooded the engine yesterday. But we don’t talk about that.

So she had to get the bus. Carole is a public transport snob. Like a massive public transport snob. She won’t get a bus unless she absolutely has to, and then she approaches it in the same way someone would, say, stick their head in a lion’s mouth. With trepidation and the slight belief they may not survive the day.

What I enjoyed the most about this bus excursion this morning is that I was treated to a plethora of texts from Carole about bus travel. All things I am very aware of because I do bus travel every day, but all things that were new to her.

She was amazed that no matter how people arrange themselves at bus stops, there is always the remembered order in which they arrived. And that this order will be upheld. I mean, I’m slightly amazed by that. That does not hold water on many, many occasions. But, generally, buses are more civilised when it comes to boarding that, say, trains where people would walk over your dead and putrefying corpse if it got them onboard quicker.

You can tell, though, that she was an infrequent bus user. For starters she went for the most expensive option, bus-wise, choosing to pay a whole five pounds to get to and from home verses the still-expensive-but-way-better-than-that £3.20 that I pay on my bus. Her reason? She doesn’t like the bus I catch because undesirables catch it. Which is a fair and valid point. But then, you can’t expect miracles for just over three quid. My bus does pass through most of the areas that, if you were to look at a crime map, would be coloured in red. But you can’t think of it like that. You just have to think of it as, erm, local colour or something.

And also keep your valuables in sight at all times. You know, just in case.

Norman’s fine now, though. The AA came and checked him out, got him started and everything’s fine and dandy. Carole can go back to driving to work tomorrow, free from the drudgeries of the peasant wagon and with no need for her to come through the door when she gets in and, rather than a jolly “I’m home!” saying, “I hate public transport. I can’t do it…” in a really whiny voice.

Meanwhile I will be going to and from work on the bus tomorrow, as per normal. Valuables clutched tightly in my hands.

I don’t see what’s not to like…