Merry Christmas all. Have a good one and thanks for reading. See you in the New Year. I have a lot of catching up to do in 2010.

Buses queue at Terminal 5

Routes 111, 490 (2 hours 8 minutes)

Silent film script proposal:

In which our hero is striding purposefully through Kingston town centre. The sky is blue, the early morning air crisp. Animal Collective beats through his headphones. Spirits are high ahead of a marathon day on London’s buses.

Our hero, the buskateer, arrives at Brook Street. It is here he is to pick up the 65, his first bus of the day to take him to Ealing Broadway. He is alone at the bus stop. A mother arrives with her young son. He is wearing a deerstalker against the chill wind. She holds his hand to prevent him from straying too close to the road as buses come and go. None of them are the 65. The 71, 281, K3 all hiss to a standstill, load and unload before wheezing off. There is no 65.

It is 8.44am. Our hero has been standing at the bus stop for 30 minutes.

Fourteen minutes later and finally, in the distance, a 65 looms into view. Our hero holds his position, determined not to be beaten upstairs by the phalanx of impatient schoolchildren, commuters and pensioners who now surround him. But wait, the front of the bus says Brentford, not Ealing Broadway. Surely not. The Buskateer boards and checks with the driver.

He shakes his head.

The other passengers smirk as our hero alights the bus. They do not care.

Our hero trudges away from the bus stop, his plans in tatters. His bid to complete nine or ten routes in a day is reliant on at least the first one turning up within an hour. The doleful lamentations of Noah and the Whale seep into his tired brain, reflecting his morose mood as he trudges back through Kingston. The Gods, whoever they are, are conspiring against him, it would seem.

He must improvise. This will not be the Titanic Tuesday he had hoped, but in the absense of the 65, he decides to lance the Heathrow boil. Eight routes begin and end there after all. The 111 shall rescue his day and he is soon upon it. He rubs his coat against the steamy windows and is treated to a glorious view as the bus crosses Kingston Bridge towards Hampton, the low sun reflecting off the water and causing the town to glisten. The bus tracks the river south, past the grounds of Hampton Court Palace, through the picturesque village of Hampton itself and on through Hanworth and Whitton towards Hounslow.

Endless, identical suburban streets drift past but after Hounslow, the houses become smaller, the shops more grubby. Heston and Harlington pass as the 111 zig-zags across the A4 and industrial estates with low, flat buildings start to dominate the view. The incoming planes are now incredibly low, almost within touching distance. Heathrow is close. Then it is through a tunnel and out into the airport. The radar rotates obediently, keeping thousands of people thousands of feet in the air and out of the way of each other.

The Heathrow Central Bus Station is the centre of a giant roundabout. Once deposited, our hero descends in a lift to catch the express train to Terminal 5, the much-maligned new terminal.

Waiting for the Heathrow Express

The station is futuristically sparse and clean and for a while he is the only one on the platform. He imagines any number of science-fiction possibilities down here and waits for the hordes of zombies to emerge from the tunnel. But they do not arrive. Instead, the Heathrow Express swooshes into view and whisks him on his four-minute journey to Terminal 5. The journey, like the station, is futuristic and somewhat disconcerting. There is an in-journey video on the plasma screens in each carriage, much like those found on planes. A man stands in an art gallery and talks about some classical artist. But this journey is only four minutes and it seems something of an extravagance.

However, once inside Terminal 5, our buskateeer meanders, taking photos and looking as suspicious as possible. He feels out-of-place, a fraud, wandering around this voyaging cathedral without purpose, with nowhere to go. (The alternative ending, to be found on the DVD and at selected cinemas, sees our hero book a flight to New York on his credit card, spend a life-changing week in the Big Apple in the company of some brilliant individuals and returns with such a new sense of purpose and enlightenment that his wife and child forgive his truancy.) In reality, he is thwarted only by a lack of passport and the burden of responsibility and compromise that 30-something life brings. He is grateful for the burden. Imagine not having an excuse to not hop on the next flight.

Finally, with any number of security cameras surely trained on him, our hero’s nerve fails him and he treks back outside to search for the start of the 490, a single decker to Richmond. The journey takes him through Hatton Cross, Feltham and Twickenham and is remarkable only in its mundanity. Pity the poor first-time visitor to these shores, who, searching for our green and pleasant land, is immediately presented with the grim reality of desolate west London dual-carriageways, flanked by endless uninspired terraced housing.

Our hero then spots an H in the sky.

Hampton, Hounslow, Heston, Hanworth, Harlington, Heathrow, Hatton Cross. There is only one thing for it. Home.

And it was still better than that Hanks shite.

This update is brought to you courtesy of the iphone as I lie in bed. Full update to follow on Friday. I was out on Tuesday although it did not go exactly to plan. We have sold the flat and bought a house so its been somewhat busy this week and the next few weeks could be interesting. Roger and out.

Marathon Monday was something of a non-starter. TDR was ill, so the day was spent in the company of Chuggington, the Waybuloos and Peppa Pig. In other words, more sense than would have been spoken on London’s buses today. However, I’m off for a week next week so will hit the routes hard then, his nibs permitting.

OK, I’m slipping too far behind, so this Monday has now been rebranded ‘Marathon Monday’, to be spoken in the manner of an over-excited Sky Sports continuity announcer. I’m going to head out early Monday morning and keep going until either my eyes or ears start bleeding. It’s an even bet as to which succumbs first.

Planning is at the early stages, but I’m trying to work out a loop that would see me touch all the corners of the London compass.

• Routes 127, 412, 312, 130 (2 hours 18 minutes)

The temptation is to put my return off for another couple of days. Winter has snapped into action, the big coat has been forced out of the wardrobe and the prospect of four buses through south London and Kent holds limited appeal. But this can’t go on. I aimed to have 100 routes done by the end of the year – at this rate I’ll do well to reach 80.

I press on to the station. That day in West Hampstead, in the searing heat, feels like it was, well, four months ago, but I must banish thoughts of those glory days and forget the sun for a few months. The hard graft starts here.

I am to start on the 127, which runs between Tooting and Purley, a well-heeled suburb south of Croydon, but it’s a minor battle to get on in Tooting, where several mothers are having their Daily Huddle and I have a flotilla of buggies to avoid before getting on. The driver almost fails to notice me battling through them and would have pulled off without me but for a slightly desperate, faintly pathetic shout.

Safely ensconsed upstairs, I must admit to a certain frisson at being back on the road after such a long enforced absence, despite Tooting turning into Mitcham and Mitcham turning into Carshalton without alarm or note. Indeed, much of the early part of the journey is dominated by a view of the back of the 333 – a pleasure I am yet to experience. It eventually tails off on its merry way though and Carshalton, which sits between the dual charms of Sutton and Croydon, is heralded by a small bridge that divides a lake filled with ducks and such like. Carshalton is very picturesque, almost village in feel, with a cracking aforementioned lake to feed the ducks and a couple of lovely pubs to feed yourself afterwards.

I ignore the increasing chill on the draughty bus as the driver takes us through the secluded lanes of Wodecote, lined by enormous houses and we are soon descending into Purley, where I am deposited next to a large busy roundabout opposite a large Tesco. It’s no warmer outside than when I started and the bleak landscape does little to warm me, but luckily the 412, which is to hop north to Croydon, is around the corner before Lupe Fiasco can warble Superstar to scoop me up and wheeze up the steepest hill encountered so far on any of my treks.

This is rolling land around here and on any other day the view would be stunning. Kellie and I would come here when we lived in Sutton and had time to kill before Thomas arrived. But today, Sanderstead is blanketed in fog – a veritable mountain outpost compared to the rest of my travels around the capital.

More large houses remind me I have also been here before for work, my first job out of University. I was sent up here to doorstep Thatcher’s old press monkey Sir Bernard Ingham who was in trouble for going batshit crazy at his neighbour over a hedge or something equally suburban. Allegedly. Not wanting his boot through my arse, I pretended to knock on his door, went to the pub for an hour and then told my editor he wasn’t there. Classic journalist behaviour surely. I should have gone far.

Anyway, we are soon descending and out of the gloom emerges Croydon. Croydon’s reputation is not good and largely with good reason. It’s difficult to find positives about the place. There are many nicer places to shop, live, relax, avoid being stabbed within five miles of the city wannabe. Still, I have a long walk to South Croydon bus station to catch the 312 and I’m glad of the exercise to defrost my feet. It’s going to get a lot colder than this, but then I won’t always be in Croydon.

The 312, a bustling little single-decker that runs up to Norwood Junction, is busy and I am forced to take one of those seats that face inwards near the front. It’s a soulless ride back through Croydon and Addiscombe but mercifully short and we are there within half-an-hour. Norwood is derived from the ancient forest that used to stretch north of Croydon, which suggests it was once quite an appealing place to visit. A lot can happen in 800 years. My desire for further investigation is low. Today is about knocking off four routes with as little fuss as possible and getting the venture back on its wheels.

To that end, my fourth bus of the day – the 130 – is to evacuate me from Norwood and take me to the PleasureDome that is Addington, another suburb of Croydon that also sits high on a hill, but is entirely less salubrious than Purley. The journey begins ominously, with a young lady to my left ranting insufferably on her mobile about being suspended from college. She doesn’t seem to see what she has done wrong, but has warned her friend that she is going to show whoever ‘done her wrong’ what she is really capable of. When the Encyclopaedia of Modern Hell is compiled, moments such as this will feature heavily.  Happily, once The Girl With The Hooped Earrings has stropped off, things are far more tolerable and it is merely a case of navigating the bleak color coded estates of Addington.

I have been to Addington twice before. Once to interview a man appealing for information about the whereabouts of his missing girlfriend. A week later they found her body upstairs. I thought he was a bit of a wrong-un at the time but you can’t very well say that when the apparent love of his life is missing. The other time was to interview a man who had decked his entire house in Christmas lights and set up his front room as Santa’s Grotto for the local kids to visit. The sort of man who treads a very fine line. One day, on page 7 of The Sun, smiling in front of his house. Next day, on the front page of The Sun as the reviled as the physical embodiment of Paedogeddon.

No such excitement today though. Addington looks deserted, save for a few stragglers meandering the streets aimlessly, eyes shifting suspiciously. I keep my head down and am saved by the tram, which pulls up just as the 130 reaches its destination. It’s a long way home, but it’s good to be back.

Route 44 (56 minutes)

It’s just one bus today, but that at least is one more than has been possible lately. Blame the rota man at work, but this is my first outing for a while and I’m now behind the run-rate if I wish to finish by May 1 2012.

My return is on the 44, a double-decker from Tooting to Victoria, where I am then to navigate the officialdom and security of the passport office to apply for a new one. It’s expired you see and while I’m not going abroad any time soon, tedious solicitors want to see it prove I am who I am ahead of any proposed house move. Christ, that might be the dullest sentence I’ve ever typed.

That is not an invitation to find better examples.

Anyway, look, it’s not summer anymore. Gone are the halcyon days of summer 09, when I was in the first flush of exuberance, the days were long and warm and the Australians were getting a beating. Now, at 2.30pm, the sun is already sliding down, casting an odd, amber light upon the city, which throws up long, ominous shadows of its own.

Still, winter should bring some new sights, with perhaps even a nice sunset or two.

The 44 would normally be full of schoolkids at this time as it wanders through Earlsfield towards Wandsworth, but this is half-term so instead I have five terribly, terribly lovely university students for company around me, discussing raves and skiing and horses, all of which are apparently insane. There is talk about a ritual involving setting fire to childrens’ backs and I’m not sure if they are talking about they’re private lives or Harry Potter.

They leave somewhere near Battersea, to be replaced by the matriarch from Hell, who lumbers up the stairs with her five petrified kids.

She instructs the youngest – I estimate about five years old – to sit next to me and he looks up at me with sad, nervous eyes. I smile back but am suitably chastened by the mother who glares at me as though I should be on the register. The kids daren’t move and look straight ahead as they sit in silence, all the fun in the world sucked from their young lives.

Two girls, who are sat slightly further back, then start ‘chattin’ shit’. They appear to be talking to someone on the other end of the phone.

‘She’s chattin’ shit mate. She loves you,’ says Whiny.

‘I ain’t chattin’ shit. It’s over,’ replies Screechy.

“She is chattin’ shit’

‘I ain’t chattin’ shit’

‘You are so chattin’ shit it ain’t true’

‘Man, that’s shit. I ain’t chattin’ shit.’

This continues for some time. To paraphrase Malcolm Tucker, ‘they are so dense that light bends around them’.

My third set of neighbours join me just before crossing Chelsea Bridge. They are three kids for whom the world remains a wonderful adventure.

‘We’re higher than that traffic light’, says one.

‘Yeah, but do you think we’re higher than that building?’ replies her sister.

‘Just shut up for a minute will you,’ interjects the mother.

It’s true, they should make it easier to give birth but harder to conceive. Either that or insist on some sort of entrance exam for parents. Still, it’s been enlightening and we are soon in Victoria.

I hop off and head straight for the passport office. In a shocking turn of events I have filled out all of the forms correctly and have the correct documents in my possession. Even more surprising, the man behind the desk is both helpful and polite and my faith in humanity, shaken after the last hour or so, is dutifully restored.

A gentle re-introduction to the buses then; three more to come on Tuesday.

I’m starting to forget what the inside of a bus looks like, it’s been so long. To cut a long explanation short, Mondays Tuesdays and Wednesdays are the only days I can get out, but for the last six weeks or so, my rota at work has fallen so that I’ve worked virtually every Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Hence, the slowdown. There is an end to my exile - I have next Wednesday off – so will be out again then. I have some catching up to do. May 1 2012 is the arbitary, self-imposed deadline for this venture and I have fallen behind the run-rate.

I suppose I just wanted to let you know I was still alive. If you care…

• Route 337 (54 minutes)

It’s an unexpected return to bus action, suggested indeed by Kel, who is apparently keen to see what the fuss is all about and is at a loss for anything else to do on a slow Sunday. TDR was never going to complain. He can’t talk and loves buses.

In the end, the 337 is the obvious choice. It is the bus that features in the wedding photograph that hangs in our living room and runs from Clapham to Richmond.

The talk of three unfeasibly trendy fashion students dominates the carriage on the train to Clapham Junction. I am sat opposite the male – let’s call him ‘Amazing’ - with a tired TDR in my arms as he holds court. His two female friends – ‘Brilliant’ and ‘Wicked’ – gush about someone called Grace. She is a genius, apparently.

‘I bought a book the other day,’ says Brilliant.

‘Oh well done,’ beams Amazing, without a trace of irony.

‘Yeah, it was from a pound shop.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah, it’s called ‘Juno and Juliet’, and yes I only bought it because it had Juno in the title.’

Amazing proceeds to outline the plot and I ponder if anyone will notice if I start pounding my head against the glass until blood starts to drip. In any case, as Clapham Junction comes into view, TDR has had enough and has fallen asleep so we leave the fasionistas to their fluffy little world and under sunny skies make our way up St John’s Road to the start of the 337, which arrives promptly and we take our seats downstairs.

Within a few minutes, the nature of this quest seems to have dawned on Kellie, who is struggling with the pointlessness of it all and is expressing her feelings in the way she knows best – ridicule and baleful derision – and her barbed comments begin to cut deep before we have even reached the bottom of East Hill into Wandsworth.

Nothing like support from your family.

It doesn’t help that progress is funereal, but once we are through Wandsworth, the pace picks up along the unofficial south circular, which, unlike the North Circular, which is double carriageway for the most part and therefore earns capitalisation in my book, the version south of the river is simply a series of linked High Streets and rarely offers serene progress.

Today we are relatively lucky though and it dawns on me that we are in effect travelling through all the areas in south-west London where we cannot afford to move to. Putney, Barnes, Sheen all drift pass.I suggest to Kel that she might enjoy it more if she joined me on a route she doesn’t know. This is all familiar turf. She agrees, but insists she is pleased to have come.

Still, she is even happier to see Richmond arrive in under an hour and Thomas wakes up just as we alight. he has missed the entire ‘adventure’.

His immediate irritation at this prevents me from getting a photo in front of the bus, so I shall have to return. Kellie makes it plain that she will have no part in such a return and is thinking of only one thing. Lunch.

We eat on a bench by the river and then, on the 371 back to Kingston, Thomas vomits all over me. Twice. His feelings are now clear.

So nice to have the support of your family. Still, one more down.

I’ve been off the buses for a couple of weeks. The first was a break with the family but the second has seen me bogged down in flat stuff as we prepare to put it on the market.

To that end, we are looking at houses today, only TDR’s car seat is bust so the 131 and 213 shall be coming to the rescue. I’ve already done both routes but shall think of it as a refresher course ahead of a return to action next week.