This morning I got on to the number 13 bus with an armful of stuff. I was moving office.

I was laden with files, documents, paper folders, staplers, pens, scissors and — of course — a regulation office wall clock ensconced at the top of the pile.

I staggered on to the bus. I fished for my bus card (without the use of my hands). I caused a delay. I fumbled. I balanced my mountain of office stuff on one knee. Then I counter-balanced the same mountain on my other knee (as it all started sliding east).

I looked like a flamingo with one foot in the air.

Using my chin as a third hand, I prised my right hand free and angled a hip to produce a wallet. I fumbled some more and somehow managed to pay for my ride while changing feet (as the pile slid west).

It was Monday morning. It was 9 o'clock. It was rush hour. It was busy. I had delayed everyone. The people of the bus were late and grumpy in equal measure.

Social convention #37 states that you ought not to move office during rush hour and thereby keep a busload of the city's workforce waiting.

I saw a vacant seat in the front row. Perfect. If I slink into it I don't have to do the walk of shame past all the people of the bus. I began my skulk towards the chair.

"Very nice clock!" chimed a cheerful voice. It was unexpectedly full of happiness.

"Must be very 'spensive. Good clock!"

It was the bus driver. He was beaming from ear to ear. Even his eyes were smiling. No one had told him that he had to be impatient and irritable on a Monday. His email must be down.

"Thank you, sir," I returned. "Sorry about all that," I mumbled.

He laughed. It was the laugh of mirth.

He could have been upset. But he was not. He had laughed. And smiled. Both, effortlessly.

"Nice morning, isn't it?" I continued.

"Very nice clock."

He had chosen to ignore the delay caused by the man doing the magic flamingo dance.

"Don't forget wind clock. Look good on wall. Very nice clock." He was either a clock lover or a very friendly, happy guy who values making other people feel valued.

You shouldn't find happiness on the number 13 bus on a Monday morning. But I did.

Giving and receiving happiness

Happiness is gratuitous. It is free. It is easily given and yet so difficult to give. No one is deserving of it, yet you feel so worthy when you receive it. It is contagious. When you give it away you get more of it for yourself.

Happiness keeps no class, obeys no social strata, belongs to no level of affluence or skill. It can make you feel like a million bucks, and you can make someone else feel like a million bucks. Rich people aren't necessarily happy; poor people aren't necessarily unhappy.

Heroes of a city exist in many places. To my hero-of-the-city it wasn't just about driving a bus. It's how you drive the bus, after all.

How many thousands of passengers he must have helped without so much of a "thank-you, sir" or a "well driven today, Mr Bus Driver" or a "gosh, my life would be seriously worse off without your service"?

How many thousands have walked past him without a greeting or an acknowledgement? A dollar can buy you the right to be haughty.

Dignified in his job, happy in his place of work, content in being himself - the driver of the number 13 wasn't going to miss a chance to be friendly and improve someone else's day.

As I got off the bus, I managed to juggle my stuff one last time to give him a slap on the back by way of hearty thanks.

"Well done to you, sir." I'll look out for your number 13 in the future.

Next time it'll be my turn to make your day.