Hello, HSD.

They changed my bus route to work so they could avoid as many passengers as possible, I think. But it now goes over a couple of the steepest speed ramps in Ireland.

The commuters on the upper deck throw their hands up into the air and shout: "Wha-hey!" every time it goes over one. Anyone caught unawares has to suddenly grab the handhold on the seat in front and try to keep their breakfast down.

The bus also now goes parallel to the road on which Herself's Second Daughter and family have their house.

"Hello, HSD!" I shouted on the first day, head stuck through the letterbox size window, as the 49 rolled on by.
"What are you up to?" the chap in the seat behind me asked.
"Over that wall," I explained, "Is where Herself's Second Daughter and family live."
He peered over the wall, examining all the gardens that usually rested in quiet privacy, unmolested by passing double-decker busses of morning commuters.
"I think we could do better than that!" he said. "Check with me in the morning."

Next day he had a rolled up banner on two short poles. As the 49 lurched through the lights at the top of the road he unfurled it, telling me to grab one of the poles. It read:

"49 says HI to HSDAF!"

We stretched it out across the glass until the bus turned for The Square.

The following day he had a friend with him and a pantomime horse.

"Are you sure you can take the weight?" I asked, climbing up on the front seat and throwing my leg over.

"No problem" the muffled reply came from the back end. "I carry sacks of cement for a living."

"Yee-ha!" I shouted, as the bus passed HSDAF's house. We trotted up and down the bus, ignored by people reading freebie Metro newspapers.

"It's a bit stuffy, though," they said, when they unzipped the horse's belly and got out. "Maybe we should try something less enclosed next time."

On Wednesday, seven people brought fezes and sombreros and one had a pair of maracas. We made a conga line and "Hey-ed!" up and down until we were out of sight.

Thursday, fifteen members of a marching band and 25 baton twirlers crammed into the top deck, playing and twirling to a spirited rendition of T-Rex's, "Metal Guru."

Yesterday, I texted HSD and asked her if she'd been amused by us, sailing by on a double-decker 49 bus at a quarter to nine of a weekday morning.

"IN WORK @ 8 ALL WEEK. SRY. DIDNT C U."

Ah, crap.