Buses in Bristol - don't get me started!!!

Right, I have decided to take action about the dire state of the buses in Bristol. I'm so affronted by the sheer crass awfulness of the First Bus Group that I have decided to make a stand. Am I not a journalist? Can I not make a difference through words? Well, I'm certainly going to have a good crack at it. I will be kicking myself if I don't.
So why the harsh thoughts directed at the pitiful bus service in Bristol?
Well my story starts last week (it goes back further than that but my brain is a bit fuzzy today and besides I'm riled from a week of tormented commutes to work so that is when my evidence was collated).
Let's start on Monday. OK, not the best day in the week as we all know, still, I wasn't dreading work, just a bit indifferent to it. All the same, I was tired and breakfast was a rushed affair. Off I trot to the bus stop. Bus is meant to arrive at 8.10. At 8.30 still no buses had passed only a little tootler of a bus that is sooo slow that you would probably be quicker travelling by pogo stick in stilettos. Still, I digress. There is a fair crowd gathering by this time which adds to the pressure 'will i get on? Will they push in and I'll be left looking like a mug? Will it even stop if the driver spots our bus conga?' Well, it was the latter. Old drive takes one look at us, and whizzes past, all the passengers cloudy-looking and packed in like sardines. Another bus whizzes past. And a third. I think sod this, and start walking towards the centre. The bus I was going to get stops just before I get to the next stop, its little indicator eye winks at me teasingly as it pulls out, me breathless and unkempt behind, running as fast as my little legs can carry me. I draw pitiful looks off my ex bus queue associates who are now warm on the bus, flicking open their copies of the Metro. Dammit. No 7 comes past thankfully and I manage to get on. So the rest of the journey is OK and when it gets to the time to swap buses, luck is on my side as the 8 is waiting patiently for me. However, something doesn't feel right. The driver looks perturbed. Scratching his head. Passengers start to exchange worried glances. Bus conks out. We are chivvied onto another bus which thankfully gets me to work nearly an hour late.
Tuesday. Similar to above except we wait at the traffic lights for 25 minutes. Word is there's been an accident. I later learn that there was roadworks. At rushour. Roadworks? Rushour? Who okayed that one? Anyway. Late again, but only by 20 mins.
Wednesday - get lift off the boyfriend and I get to work early!!
Thursday. Now this was the worst. Two buses neglect to stop. Third does and breaks down. Bus number two breaks down too. Then I go and get on the wrong bus (I blame the stress of the journey) and end up on White Ladies Rd, about half hour's walk from work. I'm late again.
Now the return journey on Thursday was a j-o-k-e. For some reason they stop running my bus at around 7pm so after a trip to the gym for a swim, I miss my allotted bus-catching time by about a minute. I walk to the centre where several buses should be. I'm wrong. Silly me! Thinking that the bus will turn up on time. Finally the 45 swings around. We all look hopefully at the driver. He, however, is in no rush and makes us wait half an hour before he drags his sorry ass onto the bus and begrudgingly drives us home. The journey was extra jerky and I spilled the contents of my bag everywhere. I think he did it on purpose.
Friday. Accident. Stress. Traffic jam. Frantic texts to work to pave the way for my tardy entrance. I don't recall much about the journey other than I remember watching the traffic lights turn from red to green 12 times without the bus going anywhere. Now it's the weekend and I'll be damned if I'm getting on one of those godforsaken buses. I'm gathering my evidence. I might get a petition together. I mean this isn't normal is it? I am paying for my ticket right? I do deserve so level of service? Well, I have plenty more to say on the subject and I have yet to tell you about the train. That's something to look forward to now, isn't it.

Inspiration comes....finally!

Wow, they say a holiday is as good as a change, or a haircut or something. Whatever the adage is, I have just got back from two glorious weeks in Cyprus and boy do I feel better for it! I was actually excited about coming home as I had so many ideas for things I want to do when I got back.
OK, so you expect that first flush of inspiration to wane slightly when the reality hits home that the UK has not had a summer, is not hot and lovely like Cyprus, is not full of friendly faces and is not, I repeat not somewhere that I can kick back, laze on the beach or by the pool and sip mojitos. In short, it is back to reality and reality bites!
Having said that, for some unknown reason, I am still on the holiday high. I have been swimming at the gym, I have been helping out with the local community (yes indeed!) and I have made sure that every night, me and the old fella sit down at the table to eat (a la Cyprus and most Euro families - it really is just us coach potato Brits who lounge in front of Eastenders gawping while our pie and chips grown cold) and amazingly, we have also managed to squeeze in a salad with every meal. Not bad.
I was wondering what was the source of my inspiration? What kicked my hiney into action? Then I realised. I had spend a good deal of my hol with my nose in a raft of women's mags. I now know the best 10 ways to keep my man from straying, how to perfect Cat Deely's skincare routine and get that LA glow. Bah!
It's all lies...How can I maintain this perfection? How can one as flustery and spontaneous as me - someone who cannot decide on anything and when I do, I instantly regret said decision - ever keep up such a facade?
So now, as I talk myself out of my inspired mood, and the lettuce grows floppy in the fridge, I realise, in that moment. I'm British, not Cypriot. Not a Euro lovely. Sod it, I'm off to put my pie in the oven.