APOLOGIES for the involuntary shudder but yesterday I had to get to work on a bus. I’m still recovering from the experience. I keep getting flashbacks.

Generally, I hate using public transport with a passion and buses are its most Satanic form.

It’s not that buses incubate germs or that you have to sit next to someone who is clearly dying of bubonic plague that puts me off. It’s not the ungodly odours which cling to the seats so pervasively, redolent perhaps of a working men’s club in the north of England or a mortuary in high summer.

It’s not even the grumpy drivers or the epic pointlessness of Worcester’s empty bus lanes.

No. The most irritating thing about buses is the circuitous route they always take. They start. They stop.

They start again. They lumber like ponderous Minotaurs through a maze of streets you never knew existed and had no burning desire to ever visit.

“Driver, the city centre is that way!” my heart cries out in despair as we pass yet another sign.

No wonder some poor soul is always sick on a bus. Buses always get you where you want to go eventually.

But only after they’ve taken you everywhere else first.

I know buses are lifelines to communities, particularly in a rural county like Worcestershire and a great asset to people who don’t have a car or can’t drive, but please, give me a car any day.

I would rather drive a third-hand Nissan Micra, or take a taxi than have to get on a bus. The car is great. It gets me exactly where I want to go at a time that suits me and by the most direct route possible.

I don’t have to speak to anyone or listen while anyone but myself breaks wind. I know it costs me thousands of pounds to keep her on the road each year by the time I’ve paid for petrol, insurance, tax and maintenance, but it’s worth every penny if I never have to set foot on a bus again.

But I have an sneaking admiration for the stoic patience of people who use our public transport system day in and day out.

These brave souls continue to turn up at freezing cold bus stops or stand on windy platforms waiting for trains which may or may not deign to turn up, paying on average 4.1 per cent more in January.

And the trains still don’t run any faster or feel any more luxurious. I know some people don’t have a choice and I’m honestly not trying to rub it in.

If public transport was quicker and more comfortable perhaps I would start worrying about my carbon footprint.