Rush Hour

Just gone half eight and I’m sitting at the Ardmillan traffic lights, heading back home from a rain-cancelled game of golf, fresh croissants bought as some consolation even though I’ve already had breakfast, hardly a car or pedestrian in sight but a 44 bus bearing down ominously. When I first joined the golf club I was living just along from here in Dalry and the 44 would drop me off right outside the course, handy as I’d no locker and was humphing my clubs around with me. Fast forward and the bus is still plying that route, though with only a handful of passengers, and my clubs are living in the back of my car as the clubhouse is off limits. Progress?