I'd love a happy ending.

So, I have a long running feud with a certain bus route. Its the 159 and I just don't understand it. The route it self is lovely and it takes me right in to work past some good sites of interest. The Wheel at Waterloo, Big Ben and the houses of Parliament, Whitehall (ah there's Downing St) and all the way to Marble Arch.

What always gets to me is the general service, OK?
If the schedule says they are every 6 minutes I would say I'm fine with 10 but if I get to the bus stop in weather Chuck Norris would loose his nuts in and there isn't a bus for more than 15 minutes I am going be annoyed, especially when the bastards are parked in the garage in three's.
I board the bus, driven by some one who's only interest is making sure I know they hate my guts and head upstairs and YES!! No heating. The driver is warm, I can feel it, but the bus at 6:10am is like the inside of a brass monkeys nuts after they've fallen off. My option is to go back downstairs and ask if they can turn the heat on, to which I am assaulted by Huh!? Whar?! Nah!
I consider dragging the driver out of the safety of the cab and making them respond to me by pulling his or her (equality is every thing) hair from their face but I'm late for work so off I go like a true non complaining Brit back to my own personal -2.
To sooth my nerves I always have at least two of three things, my mp3 player, a book and or my laptop which will serve as both, because I know what's coming next. Its the Ayrton Senner style of start, stop that I have seen used in such tactics as "throw granny to the front of the bus" or "Shes got a pram and two kids, lets play Waltzers" or my personal favourite "Lets play slave ship in rough seas". This is bearable because I can get in to work faster and do not have to harbour excessive thoughts of maiming the driver or the guy at the back with his crappy leaky headphones, and that's if he uses them the farker.
The other style of driving is one where the drives has obviously dropped some money along the route and must check every inch of road. This one will surely have me banged up longer that Moira Hindley or the bent Krays because I will be at my wits end by the time we reach Brixton two miles away. Let me assure you, there is a trickle of traffic at that time of the morning so you can easily do 20 miles an hour and get in to central London with more time to spare than Dale Wintons wife. So usually I am planning on stabbing every one who doesn't agree that the driver is making this personal.
I've tried complaining to the bus inspectors at Streatham Hill but I forget that these guys are the equivalent of rat droppings and the only reason their not driving is because they don't have the foot coordination of a dead gorilla. They don't want to know! They have their florescent jackets and woolly hats with the company logo. They have free transport to and from their house and can even get off where mere mortals cannot, so they don't want to rock the boat.
I'm looking at other options of travel, like a bike or a scooter or the chariot from Ben Hur (driven through the bus garage of course) but that means that I'd have to be awake when I'm travelling and I want to be slowly brought in to the world so that I can enjoy waking up as me.
On many journeys home I often feel like apologising to the driver for what I'm feeling, but then they make an unscheduled stop outside the bus garage and make me get off and wait for another because they want to go home to their bastard families. What about me???
I want to get home and see my wife and my daughters. I want to get home and wash work out of my skin, I want not to have to argue with that bus bastard that I didn't see that he was only going to Streatham Hill when he obviously wasn't at the time and that the robot lady on board agreed with me because she said the last destination was Streatham.
I suppose what I am aiming for is for them to do the job they are offering. My dad was a bus driver so I know they get grief, but and here's the point. I didn't become a bus driver because I know the crap that you would have to go through. I didn't become a bus driver because I heard all the tricks you could pull, like parking up in a side street so that you can sleep a few pints off or baby sitting your kids on the route for four hours so that your bastard Mrs can go get her weave renewed or have her "Poverty and Loving it!" tattoo spell checked.
I didn't do it because I don't hate people and they do.

Chairman Silent Running signing off.

'Bill Foster: I am not a vigilante. I am just trying to get home to my little girl's birthday party and if everyone will just stay out of my way, nobody will get hurt.'