I do like the roominess of that seat immediately behind the driver, but their head spoils my view. I need to get an uninterrupted vista to ensure I count the mileage posts accurately.
Some councils put the distance markers on the left. This means I need a left-hand seat, towards the very front of the bus. But I notice that some regional bus routes have the signage on the right, some even alternate, between left and right. I must secure the whole back seat to cope with this scenario.
I’m at the head of the queue as my bus pulls into the depot. I am ready, but inexplicably, it parks in the next bay. I admit surprise but am quickly forging my way towards the front of that queue. An old biddy grumbles as I kick her bag. I glare at her; she drops her gaze and my expression leaves her in no doubt about the dangers of the trip hazard her bag creates.
There is a soft, pneumatic hiss as the narrow double doors open. The girl with the baby slung on her chest moves towards the handrail. I deftly manoeuvre my hand under hers and take a proprietary grip on the rail, heaving myself up. She retreats and bleats a softly-spoken “sorry” to my back. I swipe my Myki and survey the nearly empty interior.
The mileage counters won’t start until we take the exit, in 6.8 kilometres – and they will be on the left. I will need a left-hander: perfect, as I slide into the second row. I have my yellow notepad and pencil out. I will use the Freeway’s linear swathe to make any necessary adjustments to my seating. The young mum throws a withering scowl and the aged biddy follows suit, as they both sidestep past me up the aisle. Bugger both of em, I think.
There are a couple of asthmatic wheezes as the bus exits the depot and moves out into the traffic. I hear the ticking of his indicator as he moves across into the middle lane. We rumble along, all sweet and predictable but my senses are tweaked as I hear the indicator again. We are moving into the extreme right-hand lane. Hang on – you’re making a mistake! We’ll miss our exit. Hey, get back into the centre, you bloody fool!
He ignores my silent protests and before I can alert him, he climbs into a right-hand overpass and exits the freeway. This is madness. There’s a marker, E 16. No, no. I look around and spy a right-hand seat towards the back. I grab my bag and hurriedly move. A second distance marker whizzes past.
I note the two markers on my pad and breathlessly start to consider what is happening. The driver is obviously lost. I will alert him to his mistake.
My day is in tatters. I reassess things. Am I missing any counters? Oh my God, is that a marker? Bugger, now I am totally, absolutely flummoxed!