YOU know what I fear more than death? The weirdo who boards the bus and, using auto-pilot, makes a bee-line for the space next to me. It must happen at least once a year and, when it does, I swear I’ll walk or cycle in future.

But if the attentions of my Gollum-like persecutor aren’t bad enough, worse still – crippling in fact – is the knowledge that every other person on the bus is now spectating on my public humiliation.

Because, make no mistake, no matter how coolly or suavely you may think you’re handling Shrek, the truth is, you’re the ‘spectacle’.

Curiously, you rarely, if ever, get it on planes (someone may sit next to you who’s annoying, but that’s different), and rarely on trains. But buses seem to act like a magnet for individuals who just want to shout loudly, swear continuously, and aggressively bend your ear on whatever topic seems to be bothering them at the time.

In my experience, it has ranged from God and his wonders to perform, to conversations – if you can call them that – on dog mess, wiping your bottom, prostitutes (as in, ‘all women are...’), and Travis Bickle-style confrontations in which you’re asked “You lookin’ at me?”

Naturally, all any of us want to do when wedged in by someone whose eyes are slipping out of their sockets and staring straight into ours is run.

But instead, because we know all that will create is a ‘scene’, we smile.

A big, ‘hey we’re-you’re-best-friend’ smile.

And we laugh and answer every one of their questions with the kind of sincerity our loved ones doubtless dream we’d turn on them at least once in a while.

Indeed, at this precise point in our lives, we may even experience a brief religious conversion in order to ensure there won’t be a traffic jam ahead, that the driver will go faster than usual, and that our particular stop is only one or two ahead.

And, as we have all discovered, pretending to look fascinated by the passing tableau outside, a book in, or the song playing on our iPod will do no good.

So what do you do? Well, I’m no psychologist, but two things are certain: no-one will come to your aid, and your tormentor will not be pacified, no matter how fascinated and entertained you pretend to be.

Best advice then is simply to get off at the next stop.

It may prove inconvenient, and it may, momentarily, trigger low self-esteem, but anything’s got to be better than unintentionally screaming when he, or she, says out loud: “We can be friends!”.