Public transport comes in for a terrible lashing in this town.
Surveys are sent out, humans sound-bitten by the media in the main street, councillors quizzed at length.
Actually councillors lie in their teeth when quizzed at length.
They are asked when they were last on a bus and they all say, well, not for a month or so.
Liars.
I live on public transport all over the city and I have never seen a city councillor on a bus in my entire life.
So yes, the answer is always Public Transport Has To Be Fixed, it should be like Wellington or Melbourne, buses bursting at the seams with punters from all socio-economic groups, everybody rides on a bus in these cities, even city councillors.
What is Dunedin doing wrong?
Dunedin is doing nothing wrong.
It's just a small town peopled by people with no money, or an unwillingness to spend the money they have.
I am one of those rare citizens who just flings money into the wind, buying anything that isn't bolted down.
Very few buses in my experience are bolted down.
Besides, I travel on buses free with a gold card.
But I revere public transport for another reason - 96% of the columns I have written grew out of conversations on a bus.
Take last Wednesday as one of a thousand examples.
I sit down in as vacant a position as I can find because I am shyer than a bird trapped inside a shop, as birds were occasionally trapped in my shop Records Records and I gave a free CD to anyone in the shop who could get them outside, so I know what a shy bird trapped inside a shop is like, very shy, and suddenly comes a tap on my shoulder.
A woman asks if I write that column in the ODT on Tuesdays.
My cheeks redden with modesty, or trepidation, I am not yet sure which, and I run to the far end of the bus because I am shyer than a bird trapped inside a shop.
She follows me.
She relates similar experiences to mind, where she too has been confused and dazed.
She says I make her chuckle. I like chucklers, me.
So I go right out on a limb.
''I am writing next week's column when I get home,'' I say matter-of-factly.
''You have one minute to give me a topic.''
''Oh, I don't know if I can do THAT,'' she demurs.
Outside, rays of sunlight are dancing off the upper halves of many absorbingly interesting Dunedin buildings.
Us locals do underrate our own buildings, probably because we never look up.
Overseas, we always look up.
What pretty buildings there are here in Venice, we will say, look at those parapets.
If I looked up in Dunedin I would stumble crazily and mash my face against a lamp-post.
The bus halts at the Stafford-Princes St crossroads.
A man could write a novel waiting at these lights.
Can't the council do something about this?
Five phases of traffic?
Does the council not realise how short the life of a gold card-holder is?
We may be struck down at any second.
I am wondering if my new friend has thought up a column topic yet, there is only 30 seconds to go.
''30 seconds,'' I say.
''Cruise ships?'' she asks.
''Hacked them to pieces when doing a Bear Grylls satire eating passionfruit in the wilds of Purakaunui. January 28,'' I reply, sorely insulted she did not remember this.
''Oh,'' she says.
The remaining time is racing away like mercury across a glass table.
My bus stop looms.
Rays of sunlight are dancing off the little box thing people stand in, forgotten the name, oh yes, bus shelter.
You don't have to look up to see a bus shelter.
The council should make all our buildings bus shelters so we can compete with Venice.
''Thank you,'' I say to my new friend.
And I get off the bus.
I love public transport.
• Roy Colbert is a Dunedin writer.
