I WAS second in the bus queue from Pear Tree park and ride. It was unlikely the woman in pole position, visibly unsteady on her feet, would go upstairs.

For weeks I had waited for this, a front seat to re-live those long-gone days when I would head for the smoke-filled upper deck of a bus where my imagination would take over. I was captain of the Queen Mary, the pilot of a Lancaster bomber, or a member of a cup-winning team enjoying an open-top tour of town to the cheer of adoring fans.

Today I could use the vantage point to see if those gardens behind high walls or fences in Woodstock Road were as tidy as we of lesser postcodes might believe.

I could also watch the world as we approached, rather than catch fleeting glances as we flashed by.

The bus filled. Directly behind was a chap phoning everyone to say he was ‘running late’. Another with a blood-curdling cough sat further back, while half a dozen boys and girls headed for the rear where the lasses giggled at the lads’ puberty-charged comments.

The front seats across the aisle were taken by two Canadian tourists with cameras at the ready and guide books open. The bus was ready to move off.

THEN it happened. “Somebody’s there, Mum,” bemoaned a little chap – no more than five or six years old.

“Then we’ll have to go back downstairs,” said Mum.

“But you promised Davy,” he said mournfully. “He’s only little.”

I turned. Wee Davy caught my eye. There was disappointment and condemnation in equal measure. He might have been a tot, but he knew how to play the guilt card.

It was all too much. How could I live with myself if...? I’m still no wiser about those Woodstock Road gardens. An aisle seat on the lower deck offers only restricted viewing.

l “Is that your dog, Sir?” This from a community support officer, pointing to a bedraggled brown and white mutt tethered to a pole in High Street.

His question was understandable, because the dog was wagging its tail and looking expectantly in my direction. But as far as I knew our paths had never crossed.

The officer said the dog had been there for some time. It whimpered confirmation.

I denied ownership, but he didn’t seem convinced. It wasn’t helped by the animal continuing to wag its tail and leap at me as much as the lead would allow.

It couldn’t be left there said the officer. The dog warden would have to be called and getting a pooch out of hock was an expensive business – this probably added to test my reaction.

Just then an unkempt chap came from Turl Street. He coughed, spat, untied the lead and the two walked off without a word or a bark. The officer and I looked at each other, he with an apologetic expression, me with the words “told you so” unspoken yet etched across my forehead.