Having moved to my marvellously isolated cottage on Romney Marsh, I decided to go by bus to the nearest market town which was the up-and-coming Ashford. I walked along the lane in the drizzling rain for about half a mile to the nearest bus stop.

At last it came, just an hour late,
I was wet, dishevelled and cold.
That hapless driver I did berate,
for being off-hand with the old.

I paid my fare, and sitting down,
continued to grumble at him.
Trips from my house, to Ashford Town,
began to look quite grim.

He stopped the bus with an awful glare,
and showed me his route to see.
"On time guv", with again that stare,
tinged with sardonic glee.

"What time will we get there,"
I say in a quiet dismay.
"Can't say," he said with a lofty air,
"You’re going the opposite way"!