I T WAS a wise person who first pointed out we are not aware of what's on our own doorsteps. Take, for instance, what goes on in the Market Place of a Tuesday and Wednesday when, come rain or shine, there's a major exercise akin to a military operation.

I suppose we do take it for granted that the market stalls are put up and then removed, but seeing the precision-like way it is done prompts me to compliment all concerned.

The clatter, bang, crash of the metal poles being stacked grabbed my attention on Wednesday night and I was impressed by the noble manner by which the atrocious amount of litter was swiftly eradicated. It was worthy of praise.

Would that everything was thus.

The following day was wheelie bin collection for the east side of town. Those folk who drive the huge monster trucks in our narrow car-strewn thoroughfares generally do a great job, and I must admit their task of collecting and emptying the bins is not one I would relish.

In the main I don't think we can complain about how they go about their undertaking, which – again – can be likened to a military exercise, but I do fear that in the haste to meet enforced deadlines things can, occasionally, go wrong.

One elderly and infirm couple later opened the front door of their terraced home to be confronted with two of their neighbours' wheelie bins, plus their own.

They had been deposited there after being emptied. It proved an unwelcome effort for them to remove them so they could shuffle out.

An oversight I am sure, but one that should not happen.

Everyone's in a hurry, and none more so than a bus pilot (sorry, I should have said driver) I had the misfortune to be flown by one that same day.

I don't often use the bus service, and now I know why.

I have now also determined why there are so many people who would prefer to drive their own cars rather than be bus passengers.

My own vehicle is in dock and won't be returned for a while yet thanks to the pontificating and procrastination of the AA who very kindly supplied me with a warranty for the vehicle. But that's another story.

Being the proud owner of a Staffordshire Moorlands bus pass I used it in order to get to my beloved allotment, so I duly boarded Flight 18 that had landed at Leek airport.

It took off and we met turbulence as we flew on to Ashbourne Road.

Then we experienced the G-force as we engaged Warp Factor One.

A lady screamed as we were lurched forward and halted two millimetres from the rear of a lorry; a young mother clung tightly hold of her offspring in a pushchair and a man swore as we were swung from side to side.

The driver/pilot appeared to have but one objective – to get there as fast as possible.

I reckon he was behind schedule and had to make up for lost time. Either that or he could not care less for his passengers. Perhaps both.