A fragment of a play set in a bus that winds its lonely way through a small hidden suburb that's just off the highway and border's a bonsai national park, so much so that you can still hear the Kookaburras laughing like hyaenas, and occasionally squabbling with the rowdy cockatoo flocks.
The Whistling Driver. He's dressed in shorts and football style stockings, and always whistles the same tune no matter what's playing on the radio
The little red-haired old Lady who's always confused which route the bus is going to take, which is perfectly understandable, because out here, buses with the same number may take different routes depending on the time. I once spent two hours waiting for a bus, that I naively assumed would come back the same way it had gone.
The group of energetic Old Ladies, who're always chattering with the driver, and who know all the names of the drivers, and who seem to be the only ones paying attention to the news reports on the radio, because they always exclaim when something particularly entertaining is reported.
The Panama-hatted Man, who always goes" Hello , Ladies" to the aforementioned women.