I am standing in Bradford Interchange, watching the digital display above my bus rank slowly marking up the time with the inevitable fatalism of someone who just knows deep inside that his bus is not coming.

There is snow on the ground. The schools have issued a "we're closing early - save yourselves!" message. People have taken to driving at seven miles an hour. Obviously, the bus timetables have gone up the Swannee.

The hour of my bus's supposed departure time approaches. I can feel the tension in the knot of people gathered about the stand. It's like High Noon. On the chill air drifts the refrain from Do Not Forsake Me, O My Darlin'.

It's almost a relief when the time ticks on and there's no bus. At least now we know. But hark! What's that pulling into the Interchange? It's our bus!

Everyone smiles and digs in their pockets for their tickets, passes and money. Just as the bus whistles along the concourse and turns into the dark oblivion where buses go when they're sneakily having their numbers changed and diverted on to other routes. Everyone slumps.

The digital display is updated and the next bus is not in 40 minutes, as is usual, but in more than an hour. I suspect that the timetable has not only gone up the Swannee but has met a nice girl, settled down in a little log cabin, and is whittling sticks and fishing, never to return.

So, the snow still coming down, I take an executive decision to jump on a different bus that takes me within about a mile and a half of home. It will mean trudging through the snow for an interminable amount of time but the alternative is to awful to consider: sticking around in the Interchange for another hour and no bus turning up.

Because of the snow, the alternative bus isn't actually sticking to its planned route either, but that's OK as it'll get me to my drop off point a bit quicker. Not OK for all those people who want to get off on the bits that are being missed out, obviously, but hey. It's snowing. It's dog eat dog out there.

I get off on an eerily quiet road that's normally bumper-to-bumper with cars. The road has a sheen of slush, and the few cars that do negotiate the hill do so gingerly, their drivers hunched over the steering wheel, concentrating on rapidly disappearing carriageway markings.

It's actually quite a pleasant walk up the hill. The snow crunches satisfyingly underfoot. I stop and make a big snowball, and throw it at a tree. I look out over the fields, glowing white with untouched snowfall, and imagine mysterious black dogs padding across them.

It's lonely on the walk home, but peaceful. I am actually enjoying this, strangely. By the time I get home my cheeks are ruddy from the cold and the exercise.

However, I hope my bus comes tonight. This is a novelty I imagine would soon wear off.