l'histoire de l'autobus (The Bus Story)

Yesterday was the day that I took the bus from the office to the Blancon's on my own for the first time. I was a little nervous, but not really. After all, the two things I feared most happening to me on a bus were an accident and a changing of the route so that I couldn't find my stop, and I had had an accident on a bus the last time I rode one. The chances of a route change were almost nil. What was there to fear?
I waited for the bus for about 15 minutes, which felt much longer, in a very painful hailstorm. I was inordinately grateful for my scarf, which I pulled up over my face like a stripy bandit's mask. I got on, casually dropped my token into the little thing like I had been doing it all my life, and took a seat. I was glad of a chance to get warm.
As we neared the apex of a hill, the bus began to slide backward. The whole bus went, "OoooooowOOOOaaaahhhh...." as we picked up speed and then stopped. And then slid backwards and then stopped. Finally, we managed to inch our way to the top of the hill, and then slid down in the dirty mush on the road. I let out my breath and thanked God profusely.
My trials were not over. We stopped at a corner so that the driver could talk to a man whose unintelligible babbling communicated that there had been an accident at the corner of Greene and Johson... O, that fated corner, where a car had been rammed into the back of my bus so many weeks previously. This caused the bus driver to... yes, that's right... CHANGE THE ROUTE.
I muddled my way through, asked questions, and walked a few blocks, and eventually showed up at the door of that dear carriage house. I was calm and collected, and did not panic nor did I cry or faint. A year ago, perhaps, I would not have been so cool in the face of adversity, but I think I did pretty well, under the circumstances.

So, everything has happened to me that I worried about... now what have I to fear?