And the correct answer is?

2:45pm. Board the no. 11 bus. The driver hardly seems to notice me and grunts what I think is a response to my cheery hello. (Although maybe it’s indigestion.) The bus is remarkably empty for the time of day. In fact there is no-one else on the lower deck. Great choice of seats. Notice that it is remarkably clean for a number 11. In fact it seems like the indigestion-laden driver had just driven the pristine vehicle out off an Alexander Bus showroom.

I love it when you’ve a choice of seats. I never sit in the same place twice, if I can help it. But given a choice, I do like to sit around the point of the rear axle. Too far back or too far forward is dangerous for a girl prone to travel sickness. You get thrown around like a rag doll.

A dishevelled elderly man boards clutching something that looks suspiciously like a whiskey bottle in a brown paper bag. I try not to make eye contact. Can’t tell if he is drunk or if his staggering is due to the driver’s erratic driving. (He probably has a packet of Rennies back at the depot.)(I mean the driver, of course. The drunk probably has a couple of bottles back at the depot.)

Like I was, the new passenger is spoiled for choice given the n-1 clean, new seats available He walks past every one. And sits far too close to me. Then suddenly and theatrically he gets up and in a boozy, strung out way asks if I mind he sits here?
Mmmm. Don’t you just hate that.