With the toss of her shoulder length honey coloured hair over her dark blue sports coat and long sleeved business shirt; adjustment of D&G sunglasses; measured entrance to her seat to her piloting position; a brush to her dark long trousers; an initial pre-tour instrument check; I knew I would have ultimate faith in our new bus driver.

What I wasn't so secure about was her four inch platform heels. But driving is a personal thing: relax, drive, survive. And in her case, get paid.

The previous driver had driven any ideas of safety from my travellers' mind. He applied the "Left Hand Rule" when driving. No matter what the terrain, number of bends or what you were passing or overtaking, rest your right hand on the door to the driving area and let the power steering reign with your left hand.

Did I forget answering calls on the mobile? Right handed of course.

Mountainous rocky passes, eucalyptus, acacia, pine, vines and olive groves; road winding like tinsel on a Christmas tree, the beauty of our bus trip from Cagliari was scotched.

We motor out of our small village driver change over point.

My saviour at the wheel. Two hands with painted nails gripping the steering wheel, eyes and head moving in unison like Fangio.

Parking lot cleared, open road ahead.

This is easy driving, she takes a handful of Tic-Tacs from the giant economy pack at her side, swallows a handful and down to business.

I feel fine.

Within a kilometre more Tic-Tacs by the handful. And worse- now they are devoured she moves her right hand,slowly, inexorably to the door of the driving compartment.

I utter a few good words to the Madonna.

But we are moving and safely. But now she does the unexpected, the uncalled for. Where is her allegiance to driver training? For she removes her left hand from the wheel and commences to make small circles with her honey hair, casual, absent-minded, fresh-breathed, right hand on the wheel.

Mobile rings. Left Hand Rule.