My desperate prayer for a 370 was answered.

It's just turned the corner. Great time to turn into the nearby cafe and grab your strong soy flattie.

You finish the final cold drops. It pulls in, finishing up the last of the 10 metres with geriatric grunting, scraping the front wheel against the curb.

Angry Jerry on his 14th hour won't open the doors. He saw you texting and is already pissed you didn't signal him down. You're toeing the footpath, wondering how many years this game with continue. The deathrattle of Jerry's ego forces him to tease the brake. He smirks, his eyes; malevolent candles of darkness.

"You bastard, Jerry", I mouth to him... with my eyes.

He winks. A crust of last night's sleep gentle falls like snow down his polo front.

The 370 spurts, and cruises a smooth moon crescent against the bus stop rank... and slides back onto Epsom Road.

I pull up Uber on my phone and request a pickup.

Connecting with your driver...

LBJ-367 - Datsun 120Y - (Jerry 1.3 Stars).

On the map Jerry appeared to be doing a doughie a block away, and the distant squeal of tyres confirmed it. The cyclone of tyre smoke spun ever closer, until finally Jerry's smirk of a fucking face emerged from the smoke monster his Datsun had become.

The driver has cancelled your trip.

I'm sorry I didn't like your poetry, Jerry, learn to take notes. Fucking hell.

Experiences Corner: Today, the 370 was raining - Michael, 34.