Bexhill-on-Sea. A place to retire to, especially after service to the British Empire. The saying goes "Dover for the Continent, Bexhill for the Incontinent."

Yesterday I decided to go to Bexhill to see an art exhibition. On the train Bexhill is a hop and a skip round the corner - three stops, 50 minutes and a nice view of the sea and the Downs.

But when we got to Eastbourne, the train guard cheerily announced there were cattle on the track ahead of us at a place called Norman Bay - not on the railway map but endlessly repeated as if we should know.

After a lot of confusion, a bus arrived an hour later with a grumpy driver and instructions to seeek out and visit all the minor stations that my train had been scheduled to zoom through.

The driver appeared to be annoyed when, arriving by a winding road at the first station, no one wanted to get out. More annoyed at the second station when the same thing happened. At last, the dim driver's brain wheeled into action. "Anyone want (the third station)?" Somebody did. Another, middle aged, palintive voice said they wanted Bexhill. The driver, who I was begiining to realise was a woman, snapped like a hopeless teacher facing bad discipline in class: "You can jolly well wait your turn."

A man got off at the third station, and driver asked about the fourth. Yes, someone at the back wanted it, and soon he moves forward to get off. But madam driver doesn't drive past station four, arrives at Bexhill (it's taken over an hour, instead of less than 20 minutes on the train) snaps at the unfortunate man whose staion has been missed ("why didn't you speak up?") and - for nor driving reason - slams on the brakes hard, so that several elderly passengers, readying to get out almost fall over in the aisle.

At last one long suffering member of the southern British Middle Class has had enough and tells the driver not to take it out on us. All the time I've been keeping my grumbling sotto voce, but say something in agreement.

Then, as we file out the bus, one man turns to the driver and says something like: "you've done a marvellous job. Never in my life have I come across a group of people so aggressive and disagreeable as the passengers on this bus."

Is this guy mad? Where was the jeering, the rotten apples and eggs - or even the singing of a mildly rebellious song?

I can't resist. As I pass the driver I tell her, softly, that she is a creep. And outside say something about her to the Southern Railways guy in charge. Later I'm told someone else had made an official complaint.

...And Bexhill-on-Sea? The art exhibition? Perhaps I'll tell you another time.