Reasons why Fran now checks her watch every two minutes in the mornings

Last year, my teaching timetable went like this: in school every day by 8.20 except for Wednesday, my day off.

This year, it's:

Monday: start at 9.55

Tuesday: start at 10.55

Wednesday: start at 10.55

Thursday: start at 8.45

Friday: start at 9.55

Those times indicate 'start teaching' so usually I'm there at least half an hour before lessons to give the photocopier chance to run out of paper, the coffee machine chance to give me hot water with milk in it, and the computer a chance to give me nothing at all except error messages and the urge to whup its screen with a HAMMER.

*calms down*

Anyway, as you can imagine, with all those erratic start times, there's room for confusion.

And that's why I was sitting on my sofa, in pyjamas, one day last week, slurping a second cup of tea and wiping toast crumbs from my lips, convinced I had acres of time before I needed to be in school.  I'd even filled in a couple of crossword clues.  

'I'll check my timetable once more, though,' I thought, 'just in case.'

I think that was the prodding of the Timetable Angel.

My stomach went 'flip-flup-flip'. 9.55. Not 10.55. 

I don't often regret giving up driving. I did then.

I had fifty minutes to transform from 'pyjama-clad crumby-lipped woman in house' to 'formally-clad fully-prepared teacher of brand new class at front of classroom two miles away'.  My husband said to me that evening: 'I knew something had gone amiss. You don't normally strew your pyjamas on the floor of the bedroom and leave half a mug of tea in the hall.'

My choices, once dressed? Power-walk for 35 minutes with a rucksack full of books and a September sun sizzling my forehead, or catch a bus. 

Because I knew it would help me get fitter, I power-walked.

I caught the bus.

I'm a big fan of buses. I deliberately ride to work on the one that goes the circuitous route so I can be on it for longer, reading my current book (I love you, Simon Armitage, writer of 'Walking Away'), looking out of the windows at angry people in cars, or furtively adding snippets of people's private conversations in a notebook. 

My passion for the lazy bus ride is because I believe rushing is of the devil and am never, if I can help it, in a hurry. As a result, neither am I ever in a little black dress. You pays your money. You takes your choice.

That day was different. I had to rush.

But.

The bus stopped at every. single. stop. Everyone in the West Midlands had their cars at the garage for an MOT, a sudden onset of arthritis in the knees, and no money for taxis, but still wanted to get to Warwick town centre.  

The driver knew several alighting passengers personally and they exchanged extended autobiographical life experiences with him before they sat down. 

He stopped for an elderly lady called Maisie who'd not yet reached the bus stop but who waved him down.  They were great friends too. I suspect she delivered him from his mother's womb in 1952 and had been round for tea every Sunday since then. 

He stopped at three junctions to wave other vehicles through first, in front of him, including two trucks each the length of the M6 motorway. 

Every traffic light, spotting my bus as it approached, turned against me with a personal, deep spite, and went red with joy as our driver braked. 

By the time we came near the final stop, all seats were taken, many by octogenarians and mothers with fourteen children. I knew if I waited for the rest of the passengers to disembark, I'd arrive at my lesson in time to say, 'Okay, pack up your books now,' So I edged my way to the front of the bus to be first in line. As it was, there was another traffic light delay before the bus juddered to a halt, so I stood there for at least two minutes, awkwardly near the driver as though trying to start a long-term relationship, and with everyone behind me thinking, 'She looks desperate to get off. Probably didn't do her pelvic floor exercises after the births of her children.'

I ran, my rucksack banging against my back like a rock, and my body heating up to Gas Mark 8. I had five minutes to do the ten minutes needed to get into school, sign in, grab my teaching materials, and dash across a road, into a separate building, and up two flights of stairs.

But on the way I careered round a corner and had to brake suddenly for a bent old lady of about ninety with a walking frame and legs as thin as sticks. 'Excuse me, dear,' she said, only she said it like this: 'Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee deeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaar.' I waited, my heart going BOOM, BOOM against my chest wall like a hammer drill.  'Cooooooould youuuuuuuuuuuu telllllllllll meeeeeeee wheeeeere theeeeeeeeeeeeeere's a haaaaaardwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaare stooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrre.'  

Perhaps it was a good thing someone had stopped me. I was five seconds away from a stroke. She probably saved my life.  

I didn't know where there was a hardware store so apologised and moved on, trying not to rush past her in case the sudden breeze blew her down. 

It was just as well I couldn't help. When I give directions to people, I spend much of the time saying 'No, I mean left. No, I mean right. No, I mean straight on,' while they listen politely having a we-have-asked-an-idiot epiphany.

How did this all end?

I arrived thirty seconds after the pupils did. They had lined themselves up neatly,on the staircase like the welcoming staff in Downton Abbey. So I had to pass all twenty-five in order to open the classroom door, my hair stuck to my forehead and the back of my neck, sweat dripping from me as though I'd trekked the Andes, and my lungs screaming 'Stop while we regroup, for heaven's sake!' 

Meanwhile the pupil's innocent faces gazed at this vision of Exhausted, Puffing Woman who was to be their English teacher for the year. 

'I'm sorry I'm late,' I said. 'Bus trouble.'

They looked puzzled. I think some thought I'd said 'bust trouble' but I didn't have breath to explain. 

Please make sure you write the date, underline the title and write neatly. I have very high standards.

You probably won't believe me if I tell you that, on the bus home that evening, the driver was a Jenson Button wannabe who hurtled us from Warwick to Leamington like a maniac at the wheel. But it's true.