8.55am every icy morning, five to ten people wait for bus 55 at the stop nearest my appartment. There's one girl I recognize, but everyone else varies. A hospital is close by, and many of the people waiting are elderly, or wearing those pale blue nurses pants with big jackets and bleary eyes, they must be going home to bed, post-nightshift. All the people going to work are running late. Everyone is impatient. Anxiously checking the time, bus tickets ready in ungloved hands. Bus 55 is so irregular, often two or three will arrive in a row, and then none for 25 minutes. At last, way off on the horizen... a blurry little bus! Every one perks up, jostling to curb. Then the number of the bus comes into sight, at the last minute, just as stress is melting away. 129. One of the old men snorts. We all want bus 55, everyone always wants 55. I wonder how the 129 bus driver feels, turning excitement and relief to bitter disappointment where ever he goes. Does he even notice?