Timing Points and Waiting Time

The hero of this little story is a bus driver. He is a big chap, short. cropped hair, broken nose, califlower ear, several ear and nose rings and the badge of the Torquay Chapter of the hell's angels tattoed on his arm. Get the picture.
Now the other night, a quiet night he was waiting time on Cary Parade. Waiting time is dull, usually you are only there for a minute or two. No time to have a cig or read the paper so you tend to lean forward and rest your arms on the steering wheel and stare out the window at nothing.
Your mind goes blank and plays funny tricks at this point and our hero had entered this blissful state of nirvana and some one got on the bus and asked what was the quickest way to get to the hospital. Our hero turned his head slowly and looked at the questioner. "You could try calling me a bastard. That usually works."

The person relating this story to me never actualy mention whether this speedy if painful method of getting to the hospital was taken up, or did the person catch the number 12 to Cadewell Lane and walk up the hill to the hospital.