5.00pm. Well, the bus didn't come _early_. That's okay. Though it is a bit nippy.

5.10pm. No bus. "Rush hour", I think to myself, wisely. Though it is noticeable that the other buses that serve this stop are appearing in large numbers. If you want to go to St Albans, or even Garston Bus Garage, there's a horde of buses eager to take you there. But my bus must be sulking somewhere.

5.20pm There is a sad moment when I give up on the 5.00pm bus, and decide to put my faith in the 5.30pm instead. It is like letting go of a dream. I dance from foot to foot because it is cold. Rain falls. I've now identified the little band of us hardy ones who are waiting for my bus, while other fly-by-nights, interested in St Albans, or Garston Bus Garage, come and go. The chief of our hardy band announces that "some kid" has told him our bus has broken down at Croxley Green. My mind fills with questions - -what kid? Why Croxley Green? But that way madness lies. One has to retain a certain detachment.

5.30pm. I have lost my detachment. I am murmuring to myself "Please, 5.30 bus, please come." The mind plays tricks now, Every bus that rounds the corner is ours. It must be, surely. But it isn't. I can imagine, so vividly, a warm bus and a seat. It must be about to happen, it _must_. But it's not. I think about car drivers, who are spared this drip-drip-drip torture of buses that don't show. It is unique to buses: they advertise the cancellation and delay of trains and planes, after all. But with buses, there is no news. Just absence.

5.40pm There is a horrible moment when I wonder if I'm ever getting home. What if the whole route has been wiped out, by strikers or terrorists? What if I don't get home till 9? Or 11? I once missed the last train from London, and slept at Euston station. I remember the cleaning staff, insanely early, peering at me in the morning. What if I have to sleep in the High Street? But of course a bus _will_ come.

5.50pm Will it? I formally give up hope in the 5.30pm. I have entered a whole new plane of existence, a Zen state where --

5.55pm Our bus arrives. Some people have waited 90 minutes in the December cold (on a route that's meant to be half-hourly). But no-one in my ear-shot grumbles. The driver says the North Watford traffic is solid, and shakes his head as if he'd met a force of nature. I want to ask him which bus he is meant to be -- the 5.30? the long lost 5.00? a bus from weeks ago?-- because I'm curious. But now it is here the issue is past. We head home. The traffic's fine. Maybe there's a Bermuda Triangle earlier on the route, where buses just dematerialise. Maybe --

But the knack is to let it go, to save it is a war story, and concentrate on the important things ahead. Like the wonderful fact that at 7.00pm, I'll be home, and the kettle will be on.