Bristol Bus saga - Part deux

Following on from my last rant, I must say, things have quietened down on the old bus front - well fractionally.
For example, this week has been relatively hitch-free - by that I still mean that the buses were late/over crowded/stuck in horrendous traffic - but at least they weren't quite as bad as last week.
Apart from today....(there had to be a but!)
So, this morning. I was up bright and early and even missed breakie to make sure I got down to the bus on time. Made it there for 7.50. There were only a scattering of queuers waiting which was a relief as sometimes you can be a bit apprehensive about getting on the bus if there are too many folks waiting. All seemed A-OK. Along tootles the bus - thankfully, it's the one I want (41) and take my place in the queue behind the people who were there first (apart from a couple of loiterers who could just be there by default.) Being the sweetheart I am, I let this beefy lady on before me. The queue goes down painfully slowly as people faff about for change. Finally, just as I am about to step on the bus (the step of safety I call it cuz once you are on there, you are guaranteed to be able to stay on!) divine intervention as usual prohibits me from alighting the bus. Of course, God wouldn't want me to actually be ON TIME for work now would he?
"Sorry. Full up" grunts the driver and with the flick of his sausage finger, the door 'Schhoooops' in my face and the bus scoots off. I was the only person left in the queue (apart from the aforementioned loiterers ). I am left smarting and feeling personally insulted.
Fortunately, another bus is soon along and I finally get underway.

But my luck doesn't last for long. For some unfathomable reason, the bus corporation is loathed to put on a extra bus and as a result the number 8 to Clifton is so jam-packed that I fear we may be breaching some kind of human rights standard. With the elbows of the perfectly coiffured beauty therapist students who each have to lug the equivalent of a small elephant of kit with them, firmly jabbed in my ribs , we chug off. The bends and hills of the terrain, coupled with the driver's propensity for driving like he's at SilverStone, helps the bruises on my ribs to form nicely. Finally the door wheezes open (or is is the cumulative exhalation of the entire busload of sardined passengers?) and I am spat out into the daylight like some unholy creature of the night. Aching and sore, I stumble off to work. It is now 9am.
We'll see what the journey home has in store for me...
More later...