So … this column starts out, seriously, in a bus but by the end I suspect there’s going to be some hilarity and all of it will be in a car, or about a car. So … the morning bus is wending its way up the endless line of stops, halting at each to let passengers on because this is my suburb’s version of peak hour.

There are mothers with prams, prams with babies in them in various stages of discontent; there are school going children in various states of attire (ranging from smart/freshly ironed to utterly dishevelled/slept-in); and some of us senior citizens heading to the mall for nothing more than a coffee, a read of the papers and a chinwag. It’s one of the joys of being retired, footloose and fancy free. This is a crowded trip and on crowded trips travellers are likely to be a tad short on patience.

So … given all that, any parent with a two-year-old would figure out that this is not that trip on which to teach the child how to be independent. So … the bus is halfway on its crawl to its destination. Bear in mind that at this destination is the railway station and 80 per cent of those on the bus are heading exactly there, to get a connection. So … if this bus is delayed too much longer the connection isn’t going to hang around wondering.

So … the stress levels build. And into this mix, someone presses the button for the bus to stop. It is the youngish mother. The bus grinds to a halt. ‘Come on darling, we’ve got to get off,’ she says. But darling is in no mood to de-bus. And mum isn’t exactly put out with her child’s obstinacy. She decides to address all the passengers generally, cheerfully, saying something like, ‘Isn’t she a handful? She’s just turned two. What am I going to do with her when she’s thirteen?’

Swiping the ticket

For myself, I think there’s a horror story waiting to be written. So … another two minutes tick by. And two minutes, when you’re stressed, can seem like two hours. The atmosphere is heavy inside. Someone’s going to crack soon. Anyway, the two-year-old demands that it be allowed to swipe the electronic ticket on the way out. Otherwise, she promises to keep sitting in her seat. She crosses her arms to signal her intention not to be swayed. So … the mum fishes out her swipe ticket. Hands it to the kid. Walks the kid down the aisle, the kid looking at everybody left, right, to see how it’s doing in this star performance; the mother already up at the front looking on with adoring eyes.

So … the child finally performs a swipe at the machine. The ticket doesn’t register. So the mum says, ‘Do it again.’ This time it works. Only, it’s become a game now for the little one. She wants to keep swiping away her mum’s money. Which is when the mum becomes active and bundles the brat out of the bus.

The exhalation that followed could have provided enough energy to blow the bus all the way to the station a lot faster than it was faring with petrol. At the mall, I meet my mate Barney already sipping his coffee and looking at his watch. I explain the delay. He says in return, ‘What’s with the Indian sense of humour? I just don’t get it sometimes.’ ‘I haven’t inadvertently cracked a joke, have I?’ I ask, and he shakes his head. ‘No, it was yesterday,’ he informs me. Then I remember. Barney was due to address a bunch of local car salesmen, having been one himself. ‘I was half way through my talk, focusing on different brands. All I was doing was listing them, adjectivally: Mercedes-made, Audi-made, Toyota-made, Mitsubishi-made. The moment I said Isuzu-made, the whole segment of Indian guys broke into laughter. Uncontrollably. And it totally derailed me.’ It takes me a good five minutes to make him see the joke and even then he sees it only dimly.

Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.