Dear 389,

I like to make an example out of things. I’m not going to deny it.

The 389, as you are colloquially known is a public transport route that runs from somewhere past Bondi to the city. You wind past Westfield Bondi Junction (WBJ to some, an unfortunate acronym at best) through the back streets of Woollahra, then through Paddington, where you make my acquaintance, then onward to the city. The route is fine. I have no issues with your route. I do take issue, however, with the following facts which I believe bleed over into all forms of public transport in Australia (we could learn a lot from Japan).

Firstly, you are never on time. You are either early or late, whichever is more inconvenient for me. I’m sorry to be self-centred about this, but unfortunately it’s true. You like making my life hell. It is the only explanation. So if I arrive at my bus stop at say 8.30am and there is nothing but a proverbial tumbleweed waiting for me, I’ll check the timetable to see you are due to come at 8.31am and 8.41am. Invariably, your 8.31am variety will have been early. And your 8.41am variety will be late. Leaving me in a lurch. A frustrated lurch.

While in this lurch, I like to recite a mantra that another kindly soul has inscribed upon the telegraph pole; ‘when do the fucking buses come here?’. Indeed, 389, when DO they come?

Which brings me to my second irritating fact. You like to travel in packs. Preferably, it seems, in packs of three or more. I cannot fathom the reason for this. Cannot fathom it in the slightest. I would appreciate some feedback from you regarding this actually. You can reach me here.

I would very much like to hurl gauntlets through your windshields but I’m afraid of causing further insubordination in you. Which is ridiculous and deserves a gauntlet all of its own. Instead I will avoid you like some sort of widespread disease, which unfortunately is more difficult than I first thought.

Adrik