IT’S 10am and I’m on the bus to Boscombe. Why? Because buses are one of the places where pandemic flu could be spread easily.

There are seven of us on this one and at least one passenger is in the grip of what appears to be a nasty cold. The lady has a red nose and sneezes twice before we’ve even got to the Lansdowne.

But does she use a tissue? Does she hell.

She dabs her nose on the back of her hand and then grabs the rail in front, one of those hard surfaces which the Department of Health tells us can harbour flu germs “for hours”.

Earlier I’d heard reports of train commuters arriving in Bournemouth from London wearing face masks. But Boscombe-ites are made of sterner stuff. Some aren’t even wearing a coat.

The precinct is pretty lively, with shoppers bustling around the market. I listen out for sneezes and watch for signs of public panic but there are none.

If anywhere is likely to be besieged by hypochondriacs, I decide, Boots is the place. Except it’s not.

More people are interested in the store’s new mega-wrinkle cream than in flu remedies.

The pharmacist is moving at a leisurely pace and there’s no one queuing at the till.

Have people been asking about the flu pandemic, I ask? The assistant looks at me as if my brain has gone funny. “No.”

What, no run on surgical face masks? “No”.

In T J Hughes I eavesdrop on a pair of pensioners who are both snuffling. But they don’t talk about flu; the price of towels is what interests them.

As I move outside, a young woman clutching a can of Carlsberg lurches along.

She coughs abominably, heaves up a load of mucus and – sorry about this – spits it right on to the pavement in front of the store. Ewwww...

Around me people are slurping takeaway coffee and puffing on fags. I decide there is only one thing for it and head where I know the biggest crowd will be – in the queue at Primark.

Browsing around, I stalk a woman who has coughed a few times on the bracelets. No hankie, no tissue. And no one batting an eyelid, either.

In the changing room, even though I don’t have a cold, I cough violently to see what happens. Lots of times. But again, no one notices.

In the queue I decide it’s time to up the ante, and start coughing with Dickensian ferocity.

Won’t someone tell me off? On cue, an assistant coughs too. No tissue or hankie but then how’s she supposed to, when she needs her hands to deal with the cards and goods and customers?

I cough again. Right on to the woman in front of me. No reaction, not even a flicker. I fill my lungs for a giant hack.

For good measure I wipe my nose on the back of my hand, expecting to be hounded from the store. What would my mum say? But no one even stares.

Finally, it’s my turn to be served. The assistant coughs into her hand. I brace myself and, like the horrible Little Britain “Computer Says No” woman, cough in the direction of her face.

She looks a bit cross. “What a lot of coughing,” laughs another assistant. “You’re supposed to do that into a tissue.”

Back outside I hear the words “pig flu” and rush towards the speaker, a cheerful chap running the Brookside Country Meats stall.

He’s obviously cracked a joke as the crowd buy their black pudding, pork chops and rashers.

I go back for the bus; it’s full and a few passengers are coughing. I cough too, to see what will happen. Nothing. No one even looks disgusted at my tissue-less condition.

Going by what I witnessed, if the Department of Health is banking on the Great British public using good hygiene to suppress this pandemic, they had better think again.

But – just to show that the problem is universal – I see people in my own office coughing cheerfully onto their keyboards and how many of us have sneezed before we’ve got a tissue out?

Judging by what I saw yesterday I’d say most people are at far more risk of lung cancer caused by smoking than any strange, foreign flu.