Trial Run: The Stansted Flyer

No one from Ongar left Ongar that day. Perhaps ever. I was the only passenger on the X3 to Stansted. And with the driver yelling desperately, Polish-ly, into his hands free phone whilst hurtling round corners, tyres squealing, it felt like I was in an action film: A hapless stow-away in a madman's escape, or a defenseless citizen that the maverick hero recklessly delivers from the battelfield. Whatever it was, I made it to Stansted shaken but alive.

Just like all those maverick heroes, the Polish driver had a hot-headed, jobsworth of a boss. Here at Stansted the X3 now became the next bus I was to take, the X5 to Ipswich. This was the boss's ride. He stood in front of the queue of weary travellers - all tired from RyanAir incompetence, itching to board the bus - and told everyone to 'Just wait 'til I'm ready, please.' Then, in an extraordinary display of exhibitionism, he dressed himself for driving, with self-satisfactory slowness, right in front of us. He eased his day-glo jerkin off his shoulders, letting it slide down his arms; he pulled fingerless driving gloves over his stubby fingers, raising his hands high in the air, then fixed the velcro straps tightly around his wrists. I expected this top heavy wedge of a man a secret Drag Queen.

He still wasn't ready. He checked the bus inside and out. This, I imagine, is protocol. But he made a meal of it. He walked round the bus with a disdainful sniff, fingering the scratched paint work and chipped wing mirror purposelessly, labouring the point that he wasn't ready yet. The Polish driver returned and the boss launched into his scripted tirade about careful driving etc, again he seemed to be doing this for our 'benefit', his reluctant audience.

Finally on board, I flashed my Freedom Pass. 'That doesn't allow you free travel on here, mate,' said the boss. 'Eleven quid, please.' It may be that it's not a designated bus route, even though Traveline seemed to think it was, or maybe he was just flexing his muscle, but he wasn't very personable. I didn't pay. I got off and waited for a different bus. The whole point is that I use my pass. At the risk of sounding precious, my disability is my payment. Or rather, free bus travel is my rebate.

The bus I finally took was operated by a man who walked like he was not much more than a host for a serious case of haemorrhoids. But he was much more friendly. He even asked how I was as I entered. Due to the stubbornness of the X5 driver, I now had to take 3 buses where one would've done. First stop: Braintree.