Rules of the Road

So we come to a halt as a line of non-bus traffic streams up Tallaght Village. The bus driver sits there looking at the "Republic & Northern Ireland" delivery van with its indicator on wishing to turn into the grounds of the Institute of Technology. We wait. The van driver waits. The sensors in the road detect the weight of the bus and turn the traffic light green. We continue to wait.

"You'll have to reverse!" one of the drivers waiting illegally in the traffic shouts out.

"Who'll have to reverse?" asks the bus driver through the open window. "I'm in a bus lane."

We wait. Someone honks a car horn.

"Frank," says the bus driver into his radio. "You'll have to get down here. The whole bus plug is filled up."

The traffic moves up a little in the opposite direction. The dog-faced delivery van driver peers solemnly at the bus passengers glaring out at him. He keeps his indicator on.

At the other end, a line of cars followed by a bus approaches and stops at the red light. To the left, a long line of traffic trying to exit the I.T. is stuck because our bus is stuck on the road across the gate.

A man gets out of an unseen vehicle and walks around the front of the bus. He walks up to the van driver and says something to him, waving the van off. The van driver looks at him impassively. Finally, after a ten minute stand off, there's enough room to move off and we make a run for Tallaght Village.

"Frank, you'll have to get the guards to go up there. I don't know what's going on."

Bad driving, that's what's going on.

I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for a guard to arrive on a Friday evening either.

Escaped traffic lights recaptured

A herd of traffic lights which had made a sensational escape from a depot of South Dublin County Council overnight were recaptured and corralled in Firhouse this morning.

Under cover of darkness, the eight-feet high lights had sneaked out a hole in a fence and scattered across parkland into nearby estates.

Local resident, Eilish Okimbawano, told our reporter: "I came out to pick up the milk and there was one standing in my garden, eating the top off my Clematis campaniflora.

"I got it in Woodies in the 50% off sale," she added.

This is not the first time there has been a problem in South Dublin with roadside structures. In 2005, one-hundred directional signs disappeared along the M50. It is thought they migrated to Southern Italy for the winter.

The escaped traffic lights were rounded up by Roads Department staff on overtime this morning and corralled in a temporary compound off the Firhouse Road. A spokesman said:

"We think we got them all back, but it's hard to tell. They're pretty frightened at the moment and will probably just mill about for a few hours before settling down. Once they get used to the new surroundings they should all start pointing the same way."

Reports this afternoon from the Dodder Valley Park area of sightings of two more traffic lights hiding in shrubbery near Firhouse Weir are being investigated.

In the meantime, member of the public are asked to be vigilant and to report any suspicious traffic lights to their local Garda station.

The Black Cat met a Purple Person

"Four years," the taxi driver says to me, holding up four Sri Lankan fingers. "Four years I worked for Domino's Pizza. I was top driver. I know all the local places."

I had mildly wondered to myself when he was going to ask me where exactly he was bringing me. I had told him the address when we started out.... about ten Euro ago.... and he had repeated it before setting off in the right direction. I supposed that like other taxi drivers he would know where Firhouse was, then ask me where the destination was nearer to home. But no. He knew it already.

"I have friends in all the stations," he said. "Stations"appeared to mean Domino's Pizza shops. I didn't know whether this was the official Domino's term or the Sri Lankan equivalent. My African neighbour complimented me once on tidying up my compound, which I found out meant my garden. Perhaps there was something of this going on.

"I got a fare once," my driver remarked. "He sat right there in the front..." He slapped the front passenger seat, in case I thought the passenger had been sitting on the driver's lap. "And he was amazed that I knew where Cill Cais was. Four years in Domino's Pizza."

He held up the same four fingers and peered at me over his shoulder and a pair of small, square-rimmed glasses. We were stuck in the same immobile traffic I would be stuck in had I not missed the bus by a whisker. With the tip, it cost me the best part of €20 to get home from The Square.

"I'm walking," I announced the next afternoon in work. "There is no way I'm spending another hour and a quarter on a bus journey, or paying €20 for a taxi."

So I found myself in a lather of sweat on the Old Bawn Road at half-past five -- empty buses passing by in the scant traffic (of course!) -- yesterday evening, marching determinedly home. At Killakee I took a shortcut that added ten minutes to the journey. I ended up crossing through the field opposite the house, knuckles dragging through the freshly cut grass, thankful that the front door wasn't another ten yards away because I probably wouldn't have made it.

"Hello, Black Cat," I gasped at himself, and he sitting upright on the garden wall.

Black Cat looked at me in terror. Who was this brow-drenched, purple faced person shambling ominously towards him from this unexpected direction? How did the terrible monster speak with the food monkey's voice? How did the monster's tongue loll out of its mouth so far? Black Cat flattened himself on the wall so only his ears and ever-widening eyes looked over the gate. Then as the stranger showed no signs of turning from his vaguely zig-zagging course towards the front door, Black Cat's nerve went entirely and he fled.

I sat for twenty minutes in an armchair without saying a word. Eventually, the red mist before my eyes lifted. In time -- a long time -- I could move one of my feet.

I hate commuting.

Tonight, I announced I may buy a bicycle.

The cat will only love that one...

Serving the Community

Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Gobble-ee-umph-umph-rattle...!

The bus stalled. A girl laughed out loud upstairs.

Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Er-ree-ree-ree-ree-ree..! REEEEEE...!

The driver started the engine again. We were one stop from The Square on the 49, heading for town, and the driver was not impressed. I wondered if we'd make the whole journey.

Passengers got on. The traffic light went red.

Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Gobble-ee-umph-umph-rattle...!

It cut out again. The girl upstairs shrieked laughter.

Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Er-ree-ree-ree-ree-ree..! REEEEEE...!

We limped along from stop to stop. Each time the engine had to idle in the stationery traffic the engine worked for a while then died. The driver called the controller on his radio.

"I had dis boss YES-ter-day and it was cutting owt. I put in a docket. I was told it was fixed. It is still cutting owt. It has cut owt six time maybe from The Square to Old Bonn."

The heavily accented Dublin voice of the controller came back.

"Errrr....!"

Aggrieved, the driver waved to an oncoming bus which stopped alongside. He said:

"Tell them I had dis boss YES-ter-day and it was cutting owt. I put in a docket. I was told it was fixed. It is still cutting owt."

At the Old Bawn junction, the bus went "Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Chugg! Gobble-ee-umph-umph-rattle..!" and the engine stopped again. An orgasmic wail erupted from the upper saloon.

At The Old Mill pub, the driver had had enough. He had repeated his speech another time to the controller. The public address intercom then said:

"Everybody off da boss."

So we got off da boss and walked. I don't think the girl upstairs could have taken any more anyway.

Hail fellow...

"Is that an MP4 player?"

"Yeah."

"What's the memory?"

"Dunno. 2,000 CDs, or something."

"How much was it?"

"I don't know. It's my sister's. €180 or something."

"You paid €180 for 2,000 CDs worth? That's good."

"I don't know. My sister got it. It might have cost more."

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

"You might have seen me around Jobstown."

A pause.

"Cloverhill?"

"D-wing?"

"Yeah!"

"Have you got a smoke?"

"Yeah. Here. Something better."

"You have some."

"No. I don't want any. You have it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

The conversation turned to who knew who and who had prayer meetings every Wednesday because they were Born Again Christians. And getting out of jail.

"I spent three days in a bed and breakfast. And two days on someone's sofa. And two days in a hotel. And I went to them and said 'I need a place because I've spent three days in a B&B and two days sleeping rough and two days in a hotel.'"

"Yeah."

"What's your phone number?"

I just wanted the traffic to move so the bus could take me home.

I only have an ordinary music player. I've only been in a B&B on holiday. I've slept rough twice, because I chose to. To me, Cloverhill is on the way to Liffey Valley Shopping Centre on the back roads. Lucky.

Culture shock

The bus pulled in at the terminus at The Square and in keeping with tradition the passengers disembarked and the engine was switched off and somebody started to complain as the driver tried to go on his break.

"You're late!" the middle aged Dublin woman said to the African in the Dublin Bus uniform who was trying to wave her off the step so he could shut the door.

She stepped back down onto the pavement.

"I've been waiting here for hours and then you just go on a break!"

The driver calmly closed the door. He said:

"How many hours?"

There was a definite look of surprise on the woman's face. Not only was she, a native Irishwoman, being addressed by a black person, but also by a black person in a position of authority. It was evidently a shock to her system.

"How many hours have you been waiting?" he asked. "One hour? Two hours...?"

She looked at him in bewilderment.

"Half an hour!" he said. The bus arrives every thirty minutes or so.

She retreated to the relative safety of the bus shelter. No-one else joined in the argument on her side.

"That's right," she rallied. "You go on your break now and get your cup of coffee or whatever it is you're getting."

The driver spoke quietly to her and I couldn't make out what he said. But her reply must have included something along the lines of

"And what are you going to do about it?" because he then said, loud enough for all to hear:

"I can refuse to take you on this bus. All of these people can travel. You cannot."

He turned and walked off in into the Square.

Ten minutes later we boarded the bus. The complaining passenger politely proffered her fare and was given a ticket. A few stops on, a friend joined her. They spoke cheerfully abut the weather and about hospital appointments and stuff like that. Then after a quarter hour their voices lowered and they whispered together. I wonder what the subject was.

Nice one, driver. I think.

Boundin'

Alas, the Boundin' little lambikins is no longer available, so I've removed the movie window for now. It is available in German and in Spanish though over at You Tube. But as I speak neither German nor Spanish, I doubt I would enjoy the same level of charm as the original.

Today on the bus another little boundin' lambikins entertained us all the way from Tallaght as his minder -- Mom or sister, I do not know -- tried to figure out a way to keep him shut up. His feature performance was:

"Eeeeeeee-er eeeeeeeeeee-ek eeeeeee-eeeeeee-er..," in a thin, reedy voice which hardly met the basic standard for a two-year old's whine at all. I'm sure if there was another two-year old on the bus, it would have been embarrassed for him. Although... he had staying power. One had to admit.

Lovely little puddin' headed, ginger-haired boy.

Ah.

An elderly lady with an American accent got off the bus a few stops before mine and waved at him profusely. She turned around and looked me straight in the eye and grinned.

Now, was that a sarcastic Granny, or what?

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-er."

Buses, rain, and a red-haired girl with umbrella.

So, waiting once again for a 49 or a 75 on Thursday evening, I was standing near the relative shelter of... a bus shelter... on Level 3 of The Square in Tallaght, watching the rain going by from inside the relative rainproofing of my hood. Whenever something else went by that I wanted to look at, my head revolved inside the unmoving nylon such that one of the lenses of my spectacles disappeared momentarily. People had the impression, no doubt, of a one-eyed figure peering out from a cowl, or, if I had only an antenna to stick on top, of an irate Bender robot from the Futurama cartoon glaring out at them.

The arrival of several buses that dropped off passengers then rolled up their "Out of Service" sign did nothing to add to my humour. Then a red-haired girl arrived to join the maddening crowd. And as red-haired girls generally increase my good humour, I thought that things were looking up. She had a maroon-coloured umbrella and she stood to about my shoulder height. This, unfortunately, had the effect such that the wind-blown rain skidded right off the top of the umbrella and sprayed me directly in the face. Not deliberately, I'm sure. Just my late mother having fun at my expense.

There was comment on talk radio on Friday morning about the quantity of the extraordinary traffic on the roads of Dublin on Thursday evening. I don't know what the problem was other than rain, but I know I left my job at 5.30pm and didn't arrive home (a potential 45-minute walk if the rain wasn't skidding along horizontally at 30 miles per hour) until 7.45pm.

Bite my shiny metal ass indeed.

A little rain

I spent an hour getting from The Square in Tallaght to Firhouse today by bus because a little rain had fallen and so everybody had to pick someone up by car for fear of them getting wet. To be fair, it was really torrential "sideways rain", (as Mr Gump would have said) for quite a while, but Jaysus, lads: the traffic!

I was tired and not really listening to the students/office juniors/girls from Donegal who were chatting about staff structures in whatever place they were coming from. I had a vague notion they were student nurses, which wouldn't be impossible what with Tallaght Hospital nearby. As usual, I was mildly astonished by their lack of non-medical knowledge as one tried to explain where certain Middle Eastern countries were or would be on her plan for combining future work prospects with an interest in but fear of world travel. She spelled out "Quatar" for her friends. My mind was wandering far away from their conversation when a half-heard remark formed in my mind as "He's ten short of a packet of Major."

What a good expression, even if it never existed before!

Rain spattered me through an open window. The driver leaned out and flagged down a taxi coming in the other direction.

"Are there [traffic] lights broken or what?"

The taxi driver indicated he didn't think so.

"Fifty minutes to get as far as here!" the bus driver said. The taxi man waved his sympathy and drove away in the opposite direction, towards Tallaght.

A tall woman with short red hair was two seats ahead of me. Her hair was wet and small goosebumps rose on the sunburn across her shoulders. Her left hand had either a steel or white gold ring on the ring finger. Another had a fabric band aid. She had no coat.

When I stepped off the bus the rain had all but stopped.

You wait for ages for one Briggie and then a bunch of them come along at once

Don't get me wrong, I love those funky tunes of Stevie Wonder. My childhood 70s were liberally sprinkled with replays of 'Superstition' and 'You are the Sunshine of my Life' on our life-threatening wireless set, but man oh man his harmonica sets my teeth on edge!

I was sitting here this evening gazing blankly at the Blog when I heard 'Isn't She Lovely' as a background piece to some soap opera playing on the TV in the other room.

Yes she is lovely, Stevie, but please stop blowing on that thing for mercy's sake...

When Old Nick finally gets to poke me with the barbeque fork, I reckon he's gonna have our old shockin' and rockin' radio set tuned to eternal 12-inch versions of 'Isn't She Lovely'.

Okay. Rant over.

So anyway, I finished doing overtime a few Saturdays ago and had to walk around in the afternoon from work to the LUAS terminus (the LUAS is a tram) to meet up with Briggie, the love of my life, who had kindly offered to pick me up in the car when the morning's extra work figuring out end of year accounts was over.

"I'll probably just drive around," she'd said earlier, meaning that with the LUAS terminus nearby, and Tallaght Hospital, and the Civic Theatre, and the County Council building, that the car park attendants were buzzing about on Saturdays trying to ensure that customers for The Square (The Square is a local shopping mall) had spaces in which to park their cars. If you were planning a LUAS ride, or a visit to the Theatre, you were politely told to move along.

I took this to mean that she'd probably find a space on a double-yellow line, like usual. And I'd just have to open the car door and step inside, like usual.

Nope. This time she really was circling. Like a plane waiting to come into land.

I walked over from the LUAS terminus and there was the car shooting by in a steady stream of orbiting traffic, most people looking for a parking space in the busy car park. She hadn't seen me, because of the traffic and the need to concentrate on avoiding a fender bender. Brig was steadfastly looking at the car in front, and not at the waving, smiling, suddenly feeling foolish man in her life standing on the edge of things.

"Maybe she's going to park," I thought, clinging to the hope of a simple open door, step inside scenario. I was sadly mistaken. The car went clockwise around on the far side, pausing to allow another vehicle to move out.

I stopped to size up the options for an interception.

I could run madly straight ahead, hoping to catch her eye before she pulled out into the circle of traffic again, or I could switch to the right and head her off at the pedestrian crossing. She moved off again. I had to jink right.

I scuttled past startled pedestrians pushing shopping carts and dragging children in their wake and came to a skidding halt at the zebra crossing outside the North Entrance. A large 4 x 4 security patrol vehicle stopped. I looked at the driver, who seemed to be expecting something. He looked back, then waved me over the crossing into the centre.

"I don't want to cross!" I mouthed, waving at him to move on. He looked at me with a strange expression and jerked the jeep forwards. I wasn't sure if I caught a hand gesture out of the corner of my eye.

I trotted down the roadway, thinking as I did so that people were probably giving me strange looks for good reason. I wasn't exactly the typical jogger, in waxed jacket, woolly hat and combat boots. And the massive, swinging beer-belly and rapidly purpling face were atypical health-nut features too.

Then, at last, just as lines of dayglo wearing happy-people catchers from the security firm were starting to nonchalantly converge on the North Entrance, muttering "It's alright, sir. The nice men will be here from the hospital very shortly now," here came the car tootling towards me in the traffic. I caught the door handle in relief and hopped inside.

"Did you have a good morning?" she asked me.

"Not bad," I said. "Although it got a bit hectic there towards the end."

My Cherie Amor. I could listen to that now, if Stevie goes easy on the harmonica.