Riding the buses

It's been 97 days since a nice man came to my Thorndon apartment to give me a cheque for the Rav 4.

Even though it blew out far too many candles at its last birthday, was covered in dog hair and smelled like an old sock, the green jeep was a faithful servant for many years.

Making the transition from being independently mobile to an active consumer of public transport has had its positives: I now understand how smug greenies feel, knowing that my daily activities aren't contributing to greenhouse gas emissions, traffic congestion or the end of civilisation as we know it. Plus it's kinder on the wallet.

Not surprisingly, the other side of the ledger has filled up just as quickly. There was, for example:

• the bus driver who wasn't aware that the middle pedal was the brake
• the driver who made us all wait while he urinated in the bushes. The fact that we could see him didn't make it any less uncomfortable
• the collection of odd-balls who tried to engage me in conversation. Don't tell me to smile, that it might never happen because it already has – you're sitting next to me, loser
• the teenager with an extensive vocabulary of swear words who told one passenger she “needed to f----n get out more often” after the passenger admitted she didn't know the fare as she didn't usually catch the bus. Cue shouting match while mother of potty mouthed teenager provided the laughter soundtrack.

Having dipped our toes in the mobile world when Husband's parents visited recently, we realised just how much we missed having a car. The result is that Husband is now making noises about ditching the Vespa and buying a Mini.

It won't win me any brownie points with the eco warriors but I don't care – bring on a new car.