We have all heard anecdotes about long queues at the bus stops and the frustrations of using public transport – but how true are they?

Stuck in Sliema without a car on Wednesday, I confidently set off to get to Mrieħel by bus, whistling cheerfully, just after 10.15am.

It started badly when a bus sailed by while I was still waiting to cross the road, leaving people at the bus stop fuming, and I hopped onto the next one that went by, bound for the Marsa Park and Ride, thinking I would at least get to the Ferries, where the chances of getting on a bus would be marginally better than those of an Azeri bank getting a licence.

Alas, the Ferries bus stop had dozens of people fuming. A tourist sidled up behind the crowd and with a left-right-left manoeuvre worthy of a Manchester United dribbler got to the door of the next bus that pulled up. The crowd muttered ominously but there was an audible “Ha!” of less than Christian scorn when the bus let a few people off and drove away without taking anyone on.

One couple had just walked all the way from Manoel Island hoping that they could beat the queues. They were oh-so wrong. With an empty bus in the layby that was stubbornly ‘out of service’ – not as ‘sorry’ as I was - and after another two buses drove past full up, I decided to see how the situation was at the other end of the Strand.

It was not a pretty picture. There were over a dozen people at each stop – and yes, they were also fuming. By the time I had walked to Gżira Gardens, there were only five at the bus-stop. The chances of getting on were getting now considerably better than winning the Super Five, I thought to myself. Except that no one gets off there, so no one gets on. Two of the people there told me they had been waiting for half an hour.

Determined not to let the system beat me, I plodded off up Abate Rigord Street in Ta’ Xbiex, by which time eight buses to Valletta had passed me by, all full up.

An elderly woman there was not looking at all worried. She had it all sussed out: buses from Savoy turned across Ta’Xbiex and were not as busy as those coming from St Julians.

My heart soared. I even messaged my colleagues to tell them that I was finally going to be on my way.

The bus drew up, the door opened, the driver said: “Only one person. Full up.”
I have to admit that my bottom lip wobbled. I was just about to curl up a fist and shake it at my off-duty guardian angel, when the woman pleaded with the bus driver to let me on.

“I’m only little, barely over 5 feet tall! You’ll hardly notice I’m there!” I wailed pitifully.

He caved in and, within minutes, I was striding purposefully through the subway at Porte des Bombes. I checked the timetable, checked the time. Finally, Someone Up There had got bored of tormenting me. A Rabat bus was due in minutes.

No, no, no! Surely not the Rabat bus too? Yes, and the Dingli one a few minutes later. I cursed myself for having got off there and not going all the way in to Valletta. I cursed myself for not having walked back to Spinola to start with. I cursed myself for having got out of bed that morning.

The next bus to Rabat was due a quarter of an hour later. With a manic look in my eye, I jumped onto a bus to Ċirkewwa (don’t even think about commenting …) and within minutes, I was at Fleur de Lys, facing a 15-minute walk to the office.

I arrived 2 hours and 10 minutes after I had set off, having spent a total of 10 minutes on a bus, 45 minutes at bus-stops and 1 hour and 15 minutes walking.

It only took me 2 hours and 30 minutes to jog all the way from Mdina to Spinola in the road race two years ago. Perhaps I should have just walked all the way…