French Connection produce the perfect party frock... Almost.

Himself's 30th birthday is coming up, and I was full sure that I had found the perfect party dress for the occassion.

This here is French Connection's "Samantha" frock. It's covered in sequins, which obviously thrills my magpie instincts, and its full back and long sleeves nicely offset the super short length, making it appropriate for dinner and drinks and dancing. They also mean that it's warmer than other sparkly offerings (ideal for wintertime bling), and can cover a multitude (pasty skin that I couldn't be arsed to tan, bingo wings that I can't be arsed to tone up).

Available in black or this midnight blue, I tried both colours on yesterday and the blue was only bleedin' gorgeous. If I do say so myself. 

However, those gorgeous sequins added inches and the draped wrap front of the dress was actually mega unflattering: even the most concave of stomach would look like they had a proper pot belly going on in this dress. You can kind of see in the picture below how the model's waist has been damn near completely oblitorated by the cut of the dress, and she's slinky out.

If I'm totally honest, it was way outside my budget anyway but that doesn't help much with the disappointment. Blub.

Ooooooh / How do you like my ruuug?

If the title of this blog post didn't run to the tune of More More More in your head, Rachel Stevens and I are very disappointed in you.

Now, to business. This is the rug in question:

The super observant among you may be thinking that this looks rather more like 15 sheets of 8'x4' plyboard than a rug. You'd be right: it does. It is. 

Which might lead you to wonder why there is there enough plyboard in my sitting room to carpet every house on my road.

Well, we are going to floor the attic with the stuff, but someone (*cough* Himself *cough*) accidentally ordered the wrong size sheets (they should have been 8'x2'), and the bloke in the hardware place miscalculated how much of it we need (the attic is teeny). So that's why there's so much of it.

Why is it in my sitting room? Ah. The hardware place was closed by the time Himself realised what had happened, and the chap who craned the plyboard into the back garden off the back of a lorry told me it couldn't be left outside for more than an hour or two. So in we carted the sheets one by one for fear they'd warp if left out overnight.

I really hope they agree to change them. There's only so much rustic chic a girl can cope with, y'know?

Rap Safety Authority get down with the youngsters.

via the RSA website

I see that the Road Safety Authority are getting hip to the kids, yo, with their current Safe Cross Code campaign. It features six creepy looking animated childer who put me in mind of zombie children, rapping the SCC. 

Cher Lloyd, eat your heart out.

There's a dance (how modern!), and a forcefield that blocks the road unless you invoke the code (ooh, futuristic), but all I can think when I see the ads is that I miss Judge from Wanderly Wagon. And the amazingly catchy song. If you're of a certain vintage, I bet you remember every single word of it - is that rap really going to stick in kid's heads in the same way? 

I seriously doubt it.
 

The original & best, via dinadangdong on YouTube

Won't somebody PLEASE think of the children!

I will no doubt be hunted down and shot or lynched or creatively done away with for positing this, but there seems to me to be more than a hint of The Simpsons' Helen Lovejoy about the Penneys padded bikini top debacle that has been raging this week.

Incase you've been living under a large rock of late, Primark in the UK have decided to withdraw a line of padded bikini tops for pre-teens which sparked an outcry from child protection agencies, who were concerned that this represented the sexualisation of young girls and would encourage unwelcome adult attention from paedophiles. The items were not available for sale in Irish stores.

Now lookit, it's not that I think the sale of these products was appropriate. But er could parents not just refuse to buy these bikini tops for their 10-year-old daughters if they felt they were unsuitable?

That would suggest that the onus is on parents to be responsible for or, y'know, raise their kids right, I guess, a notion which is maybe un-PC or a bit unfashionable. And no doubt there would be parents who'd be happy to stick their pre-pubescent daughter in a padded bikini top. Sure it'd look well for the swimsuit section of the pageant. (These people do exist. No, not just in Crazy Backwater Hicksville, USA.)

Anyways, speaking of some parents being complete loons or deciding to get technology to raise the kids (why not just nominate the XBox as the child's godmother and the telly as its godfather from birth and have done with it? I suppose then the Nintendo DS would feel left out) and what not, I have a story for you.

On Wednesday, I noticed a child of about 2 ½ years of age wandering around the car park of Lidl in Portarlington. I assumed she was just lagging behind her mother en route to the car, but when I got out of my own motor there was no-one around. An older lady was trotting towards her saying "Hi pet, where's your Mammy? Are you lost?" while another woman called across that she'd go into the shop and get them to announce a lost child. When I got into Lidl, the message was relayed between cashiers across the checkouts, and eventually a woman with her shopping up on the conyveyor belt looked around for an age and seemed, after a long while, to notice she was missing a small blonde.

Out she legged it, while a small boy who I presume was her son, himself maybe 3 or 3 ½, ran unheeded out after her and straight out into the middle of the carpark. If there had been a car coming he would have been killed stone dead. While Mammy ran off towards her daughter, who at this stage was trying to climb into a jeep with a man and his kids while the first woman cajoled her to stay with her and wait for her ma, the second woman called the little chap back onto the footpath.

Mammy scooped up her daughter, who started roaring crying about not being allowed to go with the strangers, and didn't say a word of thanks to the two women who had likely saved her kids from death by bumper or abduction.

At this stage you might be charitably thinking, as I was, that she was probably just mortified, and that it'd be tough to be out your own like that, trying to juggle doing the weekly shop with minding two small children.

Yeh. Next thing who puts in an appearance only the Da, who has apparently decided to meander out of the shop to see what the craic is.

Listen, I'm sure it's hard work for two grown adults to handle two small kids while doing the shopping (*cough*), but it was pretty clear that these children had been allowed to run riot, unsupervised, while Ma and Da got on with filling the trolley. I mean, they hadn't even missed their daughter, who had been AWOL for a while given that she'd managed to get a very long way from the front door of the shop at a slow, rolling pace.

Of course, I don't have kids so what would I know etc, and no doubt the suggestions I'm about to make will run the gamut from radical to ridiculous, but...

If your kids are likely to wander, well, maybe you should make use of the child seats in the trolley. Or use those bungee bracelet things, or those body harnesses, if they want to be on their feet. Yeh, they look a bit stupid, but at least your kid's less likely to end up under the wheels of an SUV with them than if they're free range.

Or (kompletely kerazeee idea alert) maybe one of you should stay home with them while the other half does the shopping if they're really out of control.

And hey, while you're at it, maybe try a spot of reading or painting or mála moulding or something rather than just plonking them in front of the telly or handing them the DS Light...

Bankers.

I have just managed to lodge a cheque in AIB Portarlington! And it only took me three tries.

Sure what else have I to be doing with myself other than spending my days driving up and down to the bank in hopes that I might catch it off-guard at an open moment, ha?

I first tried to lodge my cheque yesterday. I pulled into the first parking spot I came across, paid my 20c for a parking ticket (yes, you have to pay for street parking in Portarlington nowadays. Oh, I'm sure the takings will be spent wisely) and headed over to the bank.

Where I was met with closed AIB blurple double doors. I checked the time. It was 12.47. "Fuck's sake" I thought crossly to myself, reckoning that they'd shut up shop early for a 1 o'clock lunch.

That kind of carry-on is not ok in a small country branch where I've never had more than three customers ahead of me at any given time, I fumed, especially when each of those has taken about 30 seconds to serve.

The second attempt came early this afternoon, and before I set off I hopped onto the AIB website to check their opening times. Helpfully, it told me that the branch is open "10.30 am to 3.00 pm (excluding lunch)" on Wednesdays. Maybe lunch is a moveable feast? Maybe it's like a fun little challenge for customers? "Ah go on, have a guess what time we'll be shut for lunch at!"

I was taking no chances, so I drove by the bank to make sure those blurple doors were thrown open. Yes! They were! I parked right around the corner, raced to the parking machine, threw a ticket up on the dash and sprinted back to the bank.

Closed.

At 12.29.

I swear to God it was like one of them was keeping sketch and they closed the doors for the laugh just as I rounded the corner.

I rang Himself and effed and blinded about the whole thing, giving out about them not even having the opening hours (including lunch) up in the window so that customers might know when to try again. As it is, they're just short of hanging out the windows and shouting "better luck next time, suckers!"

Well, just before 3 o'clock today, I Quick Lodged my cheque and located the branch opening times (turns out lunch is 12.30 - 1.30, FYI). They're conveniently stuck up on a glass door inside the foyer.

A door which is not visible to those without x-ray vision when the main exterior blurple doors are closed.

Complete genius.

No, no I still haven't found my phone.

Source

I've been putting it off for almost a fortnight now, but it's looking like I'm finally going to have to cave and buy a new phone. This is killing me for a couple of reasons, not least of which is the fact that I'm convinced my own misplaced mobile is actually in the house somewhere. I remember exactly where and when I saw it last - the dining table at 11.30pm on Friday 15th January, Garda - but despite retracing my steps and pleading with St. Anthony and searching for it in all sorts of improbable places like in the oven and under the boot liner of my car, it refuses to be found.

I also happen to really like the phone, a Sony Ericsson w890i. Slim and silver with a damn good camera and an FM radio to boot, I looked forward to owning one since before its launch. I've had it for just over 18 months and it was still in fairly good nick, although it had started turning itself off and then back on again in the middle of phone calls which was starting to properly get on my wick.

And I fecking know that as soon as I get a new one, the old one will surface again. Which would be good, in a way, because at least then I would have all my contact numbers and all the photos of nights out and fancy doors and trees laden with snow and the like that are stored on it. And I could agonise over whether to hoard it for nostalgia and old time's sake, or to try and make a few quid by selling it, or to salve my conscience by donating it to the likes of The Jack & Jill Foundation, which would keep me occupied for days - weeks, maybe. But it's not very green to buy a new phone and then find the old one and I think the eco worrier in me might implode with guilt if that were to happen.

Better just go and look in the couch... again.

Thirtieth time's the charm, right?

RANT.

I am not having a good day.

Sure, my nails look lovely (Bourjois So Laque Ultra Shine nail varnish in shade #31, Bleu Violet, filched from the little sis) and the mob of starlings that have been hogging the bird feeders have shagged off out of the back garden for a while, so it's cute little finches and tits a go-go (insert own joke about fizzy orange and boobs here.)

But then I had to go and spoil it all by doing something stupid like bringing the dog for a walk.

I thought I had it all figured out: fake Ugg boots to keep the toes toasty, a wear-it-skiing fleece to take care of torso chills, a big cozy purple pashmina that only accidentally toned rather well with the nails to keep the neck and chest from siezing up, green leather gloves to stop my fingers from getting frostbitten and dropping off.

(What can I say, I really feel the cold.)

Sadly, I forgot that jeans are the most freezing effing things you can possibly wear, so my upper thighs and ass are now completely numb with cold.

It would have been ok - if chilly around the nethers - had the walking calamaties stopped at the purely sartorial. But no. Five minutes out the door, I spotted a great big Alsation pause, mid-pee, to stare down the road at us. He looked pretty disinterested, in fairness, only short of lazily picking his teeth with a peppermint flavoured toothpick to be really laconic, but this boy was out for a wander sans owner, Boris is not great with other dogs - especially large breeds - that are new to him, and my nails were way too pretty to be chipped by a hound trying to take lumps out of my fingers. So off we popped across the road, and the Alsation spat out the toothpick, lit a fag, and scratched himself. Grand job.

Then, about halfway around the block, I espied what looked like a mid-sized light brown elephant with a trunkless black face. Again, no sign of an owner. Feck's sake, I thought crossly. This dog looked decidedly more interested in us than his apathetic Alsation colleague had seemed, so I reeled Boris right in, made sure I had him on a tight lead, willed him to ignore the monster, and off we went across the road again.

My poor little heart sank right down into the fluffy soles of my Ugg-a-likes when this simply enormous animal started to lumber over the road towards us. I kept walking at a brisk ladies-who-walk-in-pairs-and-swing-their-arms-like-maniacs pace, trying to get around the monster before it actually crossed our path and far enough away for it to just lose interest. No joy - he planted himself square across the footpath, making it impossible to pass him witout stepping out onto the road and right into the school run traffic. I tried to project an aura of authority and calmness and in complete controlness, but in truth every fibre in my body was screaming "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGodOHMYGODAAAAAAAARGH!" as he looked (thoughtfully and more than a little hungrily, I thought) from Boris to myself and back again.

Getting up close and personal with this thing, you see, had not done anything to set my mind at ease. It was stocky, but terrifyingly muscular, sort of like a canine Arnold Schwarzenegger circa the 1975 Mr. Olympia competition. It was really tall, easily coming up to my waist, and big, powerful looking jaws.

Trying to step around Arnie without getting squashed by oncoming traffic, I firmly told him to "Go home!" which works very well on the sort of scutty little mutts we might usually encounter off-lead on our rounds. This fella was having none of it.

I started to sweat inside my ski-fleece and wish to Christ that I was one of those people who carried big shillelagh type sticks on their rambles.

Although I think Arnie might have taken anything shy of an entire sequoia to be a delightful little chew toy.

I didn't want to turn my back completely on this lad so I turned sideways and tried to make like a crab back the way we'd come, all the while saying "Go home! Go home! GO HOME!" in my most gruff, authoritative voice, which probably sounds a little like Minnie Mouse on helium. No dice. He - not my furiously overactive imagnination - stalked after us, all the while looking from one to the other.

A couple of things flashed through my head as Arnie increased pace to catch up to us and he and Boris went nose-to-nose: the story of Himself's Westie, Casper, biting a (I think) Labrador's nose as a fairly weeny puppy. (I reckoned Arnie wouldn't take something like that lying down.) The story of a Collie that Himself had been acquainted with who had eaten Westie puppies without salt. (Eek! Poor Bor!) And the story of that woman in France who became the world's first recipient of a full face transplant, having been mutilated in a dog attack. (Not my idea of a nice relaxing facial, and I reckoned that it wouldn't take too much of a stretch for Arnie to get those jaws level with my schnozz and tear the face off me.)

As the dogs started to growl at each other and I started to get really and truly Freaked Out, something fantastic happened. Two cars pulled in just down the road. A woman hopped out of a navy Renault and a young fella hopped out of his red motor and they called the dog away from me. Initially, I thought that they must surely be its owners and that it had made a break for freedom and that they were out driving around looking for it, but no - they were just two really decent individuals who saw one girl and her Westie being confronted by a monstrously enormous dog and stopped to help. In the course of the conversation afterwards, they seemed to know the dog a bit so I said things like "Oh, I'm sure he's harmless but - well - the size of him!" and "I feel like an awful eejit" (although that was true). The woman offered me a lift home or a lift down the road a bit just to get past Arnie, but distracted enough not to bother with us anymore, Arnie trotted off across the road... and in the open front door of a house where his owner stood chatting to a woman who had just arrived to the gaff.

Now I'm reasonably sure, after a great deal of Googling, that Arnie is a Bull Mastiff. By law, as one of 10 breeds of dogs deemed dangerous in Ireland, Bull Mastiffs must be kept under strict control when in a public place. According to the Statute Book, that means (a) being muzzled and (b) being kept on a lead, on the other end of which must be a person over the age of 16 who is physically capable of controlling the dog.

Alsations, by the by, are also on The List.

And here I thought that not picking up after their hound was as irresponsible as a dog owner could get...

GAH.

Last week, I decided to order the limited edition graphic print pictured above from a crowd called village in New York. I think I'd espied it somewhere like an issue of Living Etc once upon a time and fallen madly in love with it - the juxtaposition of a no-nonsense font with the froth and frill of the colourway and the sentiment really appealed to me. It captured something of the zeitgeist of my yoof, when teenagers across the globe couldn't string a single sentance together without including the "like" filler. The Irish were no exception, and to this day it's a habit that is, like, nearly impossible for us to break. One of Joe O'Connor's recent radio diary entries dealt with this very issue.

So when a bit of birthday money came my way I said sure feck it anyway, I might as well get the thing, and decided to bite the bullet, placing my order last Wednesday.

I arrived into work this morning to see a cardboard shipping tube standing upright on my desk and was overcome with giddy excitement... until I opened it and noticed two wee holes in the outer wrapping paper. Eek. Carefully unrolling the print, nearly turning my head away and squinting out under the corner of my specs for fear that I might be about to see the unthinkable, my fears were realised. There were two corresponding holes in my print.

When I looked again at the outer cardboard tube, I spotted a dirty great big staple looking quietly out of place between the red "FRAGILE! HANDLE WITH CARE!" stickers dotted across the package, and then it hit me: the post room guys here have these in-house delivery dockets that they staple to goods received until they can get a signature for the items. Including $100 limited edition prints obviously marked "BE F*CKING CAREFUL WITH THIS!", apparantly.

FFS.

Ever heard of a little thing called Sellotape, lads?!

Well, the print is ruined as far as I'm concerned. The holes are really, really obvious, in the plain light pink, and no, there is no disguising them. I will see them every single time I look at the stupid thing, regardless of how it's framed or where it's hung.

So. Like. Cross.

Stupid no-shipping-to-Ireland internet shops...

To horribly maim a classic quote: It is the best of things, it is the worst of things. I generally love Internet shopping - the convenience! The choice! The cheap prices if you don't get caught by the Customs lads! - but there is nothing guaranteed to cause your heart to sink into your boots quite so quickly as discovering that the online store who is the sole stockist of that *perfect* bed/dog harness/dress/ribbon/button/pair of glasses (I could go on, I've been burnt quite a few times) does not ship outside the contigious United States.

Yeh, yeh, I'm sure it's even worse if you're living in Alaska or Hawaii, whatever...

Yesterday, while having a Google of jacquard headboards, I stumbled across the online store of American company Brocade Home via a post on Apartment Therapy. They stock a bed base that is so close to being exactly what I want for our bedroom that I actually stopped breathing. That's it at the top of this post. When I saw that they offer it in white as well as black, I started to feel faint, which was when it occured to me that I should probably start breathing again. Prepared for a mahoosive price tag, because surely to God this was too good to be true, I involuntarily squeaked with delight when I saw that it was $299.

Excira and delira with my find, I toddled off to see how quickly they could get it to me... Ah. There's the rub. "Nope, sorry Lyndar, we are not shipping this lovely, ideal, you-want-it-so-bad-you-might-actually-cry bed to your country. If you want it that bad, we suggest that you move your ass to a real country like the 48-State America."

B*stards.

Ireland who?

Does anyone else feel that, as a nation, we're a bit... I dunno, blinvisible at the moment?

First, Prince decides that he can't be bothered dragging his short arse into the country to perform to a crowd of only 55,000 in Croke Park.

Then Europe makes noises about forging ahead without Ireland on foot of the Lisbon Treaty 'No' vote.

And on Saturday night, la Sugababes cried off their slot supporting Boyzone in the RDS due to "illness". Indeed. They didn't look too sick at Nelson Mandela's birthday bash the previous night, did they..?

It'd be enough to give any country a right inferiority complex.

Blind terror

Himself was off gallivanting working in Edinburgh on Wednesday and Thursday last, so me and The Bor were home alone on Wednesday night.

Usually this wouldn't really bother me; Himself's now fairly infrequent jaunts abroad work trips represent ideal opportunities for getting in a bit of uninterrupted waxing, or tanning, or nail varnishing, or pottering around in my jammies with a face mask on. On Wednesday night, though, it was pitch black by the time I got home from work [bloody Daylight Savings Time, pah] and I could hear The Bor barking his head off from the train station. My initial reaction was "That little fecker!" but as I got nearer to the house it struck me that the racket he was making wasn't comprised of any of his usual barks. Yes, he has a load of different, totally distinguishable barks - there's the "Look at meeee!" bark, the "OMG I think I just heard a cat four miles away" bark, the "Next door are putting their bins out" bark, the "I just feel like it, alright?" bark... Well, I can tell them apart.

Anyways, he was barking really wierdly and didn't let up when I turned the key in the front door [highly unusual] or come racing headlong at me when I went into the kitchen [unheard of]. I flipped the switch for the outside light to see what the hell he was at and - nothing. Flipped it back the other way. Nada.

Most people would probably conclude at this stage that the bulb had blown and that a cat was tormenting The Bor and go off about their business. I, however, was convinced that there must be a prowler about. As I double checked that all the doors and windows were locked and started to break out in a cold sweat, I cursed the absence of blinds or curtains of any description from the patio door and kitchen window. Suddenly I was very, very aware that Himself's car was absent from its usual spot and sure that any half decent burglar/rapist/crazed serial killer would have scoped the place out for a while and would surely cop what the missing vehicle signified. And then they'd just have to have a peep at the back of the house to confirm that Himself wasn't about.

So I busied myself draping Himself's boxers and mismatched [and therefore boy] socks over the backs of the dining room chairs, the logic being that any would-be wrongdoers looking in over the back fence would say "Hmmm, if she's drying his smalls he must surely be returning home tonight. Retreat!" Or similar.

I also called Himself who was half-cut in a pub in Edinburgh [working, you see] and laughed at me. Then I rang my Mammy, safe in the knowledge that she would take me very seriously indeed [30 minutes after my call, she arrived at the front door with my sister in tow to make sure I was alright.]

The whole episode brought a few things home to me with great clarity.
1. I heart my Mammy.
2. Himself needs new socks.
3. We are getting blinds for the naked patio door and kitchen window pronto.

Well. We're getting blinds in 52 days when IKEA opens in Belfast [can't wait!] They have this nifty double pole panel curtain system yoke that I've been after for ages. It's like what's on the left there.

It's also really bloody hard to find in Ireland and any of the interiors shops I've seen it in are charging the guts of 300 squids for it. The IKEA version, however, will cost approximately half nothing.

So our back windows will be covered and we might actually be able to buy something worth stealing with the sheckles we save.

Re-sult!

Epilation: not a revelation

My little sister & I co-invested in an epilator a few years ago. It had fancy protruding massage-y bits to lessen any discomfort and came with a shaver head attachment. It was the Rolls Royce of the epilators then on the shelves. Like so many purchases, it seemed like a good buy at the time: we would save an absolute fortune in leg waxing costs over the lifetime of the epilator and would have silky smooth pins for weeks on end. No more frantically hunting for a razor when you decided at the last minute you wanted to wear a skirt!

The pain of my my first [and, as it happened, last] use of what I like to affectionately call The Devil's Own Hair Remover was so excruciating that it made my eyes water. It was incredibly, roar-inducingly sore. I could have understood it if I was a shaver; I'd have put it down to the roots of the regrowth being really strong and never having had the experience of getting my leg hair viciously reefed out of my skin. In fact, I had been getting my legs waxed religiously for a couple of months before trying epilation; theoretically, it should have been grand.

The epilating head of the device was relegated to The Bottom Drawer, where it probably still languishes with little plastic Barbie shoes whose pair could never be found, tubes of hair mascara and pages of stick-on nail tattoos.

Once bitten, twice shy, right? You'd think I'd have learned my lesson.

I had in me eye.

Only a few weeks ago, I read of the arrival into our fair isle of a new, improved and - wait for it! - practically pain-free epilator, Braun's Silk-épil Xelle. Ladies Who Expertly Epilate over on beaut.ie were calving about The New Magic Epilator and assuring epilation virgins that epilating really doesn't hurt anyways. Heidi Klum loves it too, according to the Braun website. And it was June, and I had two fabilis Karen Millen skirts sulking in my wardrobe about not getting worn on sunny days ["What does she mean she hasn't time to shave her legs, the hairy cow!"]

Now, I didn't just rush out and purchase the appliance in question. Give me some credit! No, I thought about it for a fortnight and did a bit of research and then rushed out and got it ;) It came with an ice pack to numb the area you were going to epilate and about fifty billion different heads to cater for beginners, facial epilation, bikini line epilation, the works. And of course it had the ubiquitous shaver head attachment.

Even though I was periodic, I used The New Magic Epilator for the first time the night that I bought it - when I purchase new things, I get so excited about them that I have to dive straight in and try them out immediately. Given the time of the month, I was expecting an inordinate amount of pain - which failed to materialise as far as my legs were concerned. I was really impressed - if it was this easy while I was periodic, how brilliant would it be when I wasn't?! My underarms were a different story though: the epilation itself felt like Beelzebub was ripping out each hair individually with his teeth and I couldn't put my arms down by my sides for ages and ages afterwards. The upshot was that I didn't so much have armpits as firepits for the next 24 hours.

Yesterday evening, I gamely decided to have my second epilation session: I had some pesky regrowth and wanted to organise nice silky legs for myself for the weekend ahead. So I took my leave of Property Ladder and retreated upstairs with my well-frozen ice pack to sort it aaaaht. I decided to tackle the underarms first; I must have been doing something wrong the last time, I convinced myself. I froze the relevant bits as instructed, stretched the skin taut, poised the epilator... and nearly collapsed with the soreness. It was absolutely horrendous, if anything, it was worse than my previous attempt. Gritting my teeth and blinking back the tears, I somehow managed to do both underarms without fainting.

With that ordeal out of the way, I froze my legs up good and proper, keeping my arms at a 90° angle to my body and occassionaly blowing on my poor underarms in a desperate attempt to ease the burning pain. I was actually looking forward to doing my legs: they hadn't been sore the last time I'd done them and I wasn't even periodic now, this was going to be a total breeze.

Only it wasn't. It was more of a Category 7 hurricane. That's right, the class of storm that would signal the end of the world. My shins were actually ok, but the pulling sensation on the rest of my legs - no matter how careful I was about keeping my skin stretched - was unmerciful, and the stinging! My God. And I noticed something that I hadn't previously: over the diabolical whirring noise of the epilator, I could actually hear my hairs being ripped out by the root.

I only managed to get one leg done. [The right one, for anyone who was wondering.] I had to leave it so after that. My leg was absolutely roasting and looked red raw - there weren't just little red pinpricks here and there, it looked like I'd gotten a rash on top of a second-degree burn - and it was actually a bit swollen.

What has me really narked about the whole episode is that the epilated areas weren't even left as fuzz-free as they would have been if I'd shaved. But I'm determined to make this work, dammit, red raw legs or no! If I actually get a couple of weeks of hairlessness out of the operation, I might give it another go. If I don't, well, I might have to compose a letter of complaint to Mr. Braun or Mr. Whoever-Invented-The-Epilator [because we all know it was a man]. It will be a brief letter, to the point, something along the lines of "Dear Sir, it is my sad duty to inform you that your latest effort is an unmitigated heap of sh*te. Yours, etc."

We'll see how it goes. Right now, I think I'd rather turn into a hairy molly than ever use it again.

It's time to take the train

Ahahahahahaaaaa, no, no it's NOT. And a Saturday afternoon in June is definitely not the time to be cruising the railroads. Although with all the catchy slogans, the Craig Doyle ads on the telly and the pictures of the Shiny New Trains on the Cork line you could be forgiven for thinking that surely it's always time to take the train. Now, I am not a big fan of public transport at the best of times [choruses of "What?" and "Really? Is she serious?" etc all round]. Being a seasoned commuter will do that to a person. Even so, I usually quite like rail travel: compared to being on a bus, it's infinitely less stressful [you're not sitting in traffic and, not to get all Derek Mooney on your asses, you can see loads of lickle bunnies in the mornings!] and definitely less likely to send you spiralling into the depths of claustrophobia.

However. Having attended an Evint and a few choice bars thereafter in Dublin on Friday night, I had occassion to Take The Train last Saturday afternoon. That train journey home was a bona fide nightmare, far worse than the state of the queuing system [a euphemism if ever I used one] at the ticket booths at Heuston; worse even than having to stand all the way to Port on the 1750 to Galway on a hot, sticky, clammy Friday evening when there's a chap on one side of you who isn't even on nodding terms with deoderant and a bird on the other with her iPod up so obnoxiously loud it's making your ears bleed. Saturday afternoon's trip was so bad that would have been head-wrecking even if I hadn’t had the teeniest tiniest little smidgen of a hangover; with one, it was just bloody unbearable and made me want to cut my own ears off with a blunt and rusty butterknife.

Allow me to give you the lie of the land, as it were, and explain just how hemmed in I was, on all sides, by Irritants; I think it's going to be the only way I can explain just how horrific the experience was. [And remember, children, I was hungover, make-up free, and very, very tired.]

Sitting in the "booth" behind me: three little madams from Tullamore. I’d say they were about 14 or 15 years of age and they gave these four [older] American tourists a load of hassle. The Americans had pre-booked their seats and, ergo, there were big signs on the seats to say they were reserved so of course the Tullamore ladies [ah, more euphemisms] disposed of the notices and plonked their ar*ses down in in the seats. When the Americans came along a few minutes later they said "Hey, I'm sorry girls, but you're in our seats. Didn't you see the signs?" and the Tullamorians [Tullamorons..? lol] were like "No, there was no signs, and anyways we're not, you can't reserve seats. Youse should have got here sooner", it was rather embarrassing. The main American woman [in her '50s or '60s!] was well able for them though, she was all "Oh yeah? Well our tickets have our seats numbers printed on them – these seat numbers – do yours? No? So you guys will just have to move". The brats did move, but they made a huge production out of it and my God the effing and blinding out of them was truly appalling.

Sitting in the booth front of me: four cackling Howyas who apparently hadn’t been out of The Big Smoke since their school tour to Mosney back in 1935. They had flasks of tea, a big sliced loaf (yes, seriously!) of Brennan’s finest, ham, cheese, and a load of King/Tayto/Hunky Dorys… "Ah jaysis ye can’t bea’ a crisp sangidge, wha'?"

Sitting in the booth across the aisle: three orange Oh My Gawdesses [seriously, do they not wash their hands after slapping on the Fake Bake?!] respledent in Juicy tracksuit bottoms, Uggs and Abercrombie hoodies. Flicking their stylised messy parted-way-too-far-too-the-side hair and rummaging through their D&G luggage, it was "OMG" and "Mom" [what Irish person refers to their mother as "Mom"?!] and "loike" and "I down’t think sew" a go-go.

Despite sitting within inches of the rest of their respective parties, of these people were absolutely roaring at each other at the tops of their voices. It would have been bad enough if they had all just been really loud, they were all, without exception, talking absolute sh*te. In addition, they were like part of a showcase for The World's Most Irritating Laughs™ and then, in response to something genuinely unfunny that one of their cohorts had said, tried to outdo each other with their best fake, unnaturally enthusiastic laughs. Which my hangover and I agreed was needlessly cruel.

Then, just as my head was about to implode, the Americans started to play cards very loudly [apparently, it can be done] and the stag party in the next carriage began lashing out every rebel song and football anthem they had ever heard at the top of their lungs.

And then the train pulled out of Heuston. That's right. They were all just getting warmed up.

Really made me appreciate the hush of my Monday morning commute, though...

Don't forget to vote, now.

I'll leave the questioning of Bertie about that 30 grand Sterling to VB et al. Needless to say, I too would like to know WTF the story was with the money [and also whether Mr. Wall currently requires a tenant in any up-and-coming properties] but this is rapidly becoming a bit of a meedja issue, I think. RTÉ News screened the entire exchange yesterday evening on the 9 o'clock news, with rehashes of some segments later on Prime Time.

With a General Election on the horizon and those Rock The Vote ads out in full force, what I'd actually be interested in knowing about at the moment are details of FF's manifesto, thanks. Any plans to improve - or even have a stab at integrating - public transport, lads? What about infrastructure? Education? Health? Climate change? The uisce in Galway? ["Maria has to walk up to ten miles a day just to bring water to her family. For as little as five Euro a month, you could give a family like Maria's the gift of clean water. Please, give what you can. Maria lives in Galway."]

I don't know the answers to any of these questions. I only know that someone should give VB the gift of a nose hair trimmer [it'd be good for the 2007 Kris Kringle but can we really wait that long? He'll be able to plait it by then] and that FF are engaging in "gimmick politics" having pulled "a massive [complete joke of a] U-turn" with their promise yesterday to immediately abolish stamp duty for first-time buyers.

Frankly, m'dear, I don't give a flying f*ck about FTBs who get stuck for stamp duty. Able to afford a house that costs more than €300k? Well then f*ck right off with yourself, you should have no bother coming up with another measly ten grand for stamp duty. If you were listening to Eddie Hobbs about saving and not pissing your money away against a lifestyle you can't afford, you should now have about that stockpiled for just such an expense. Or when does your SSIA mature? Failing that, sure get your ma to lend it to you. Aren't you taking a load of laundry and ironing and cooking and general hardship out of her life by vacating the homeplace, it's the least she could do.

Assuming, of course, you haven't already overstretched yourself and lied to the bank about things like how you're funding the deposit which you're sneakily borrowing from the Credit Union or have stolen out of your grandad's sock drawer. I'm sure you're far too clever for that.

I'm a lot more interested in proposals for stamp duty amendments for people purchasing their second and subsequent homes. Just out of curiousity, natch...

Well now I'm glad I don't have a Nano..!

from Shiny Shiny

iPod saves soldier's life ¦ iPod tells soldier he was shot - the real story [via iLounge]

A Rant

Lookit, I know it's been absolutely flippin' ages since my last post. But just because I haven't been filling up this page with my ickle pink words doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about doing it and thinking what those ickle pink words might ultimately say. And sure we all know that it's the thought that counts.

Por example: one evening, I had a thoroughly chronic bus experience. [Now, I know I complain about commuting an awful lot, but this was a particularly awful episode, definitely worthy of a rant!] I was so completely enraged by what happened that I vowed I would vent my spleen [owie, painful] via the medium of Mon Petite Blog. However, I was afraid that I would forget the true extent of my crossness by the time it came to putting fingertip to keyboard, so I decided to jot down exactly what was going through my mind at the time - and here is what I wrote, in all it's nail-spitting glory, for your viewing pleasure...

"I'm writing this on the back of an envelope. I appreciate that you're reading it on a screen & that the two might seem worlds apart, but let's not think too much about that right now. I am scribbling on the back of a brown envelope that my last Statement of Tax Credits or some such scintillating document arrived in, and although the middle-aged gal beside me on the bus seems to be engrossed in her newspaper, I feel horrifically self-conscious.

This isn't some sado-masochistic exercise in self-humiliation though; there is actually method in the madness. No, really. I'm writing what will shortly be an entry in my blog on the back of a non-descript brown envelope on the bus home from work because I'm afraid that, by tomorrow or whenever I get around to posting this entry, I may have forgotten how unspeakably angry I am at this moment in time. Unspeakably is right: I am so, so, so cross that I don't think I can even begin to describe the enormity of the fury that is boiling within me right now.

Left work at 5.04pm. Nothing particularly unusual there. Took bloody aaaaaages to get across the N11 to my bus stop [I'm too scared of heights and shaky constructions to use the footbridge so have to cross 4 lanes of traffic when there's nothing coming]. There are days when such a delay would prompt a rise in blood pressure whose magnitude is matched only by the enormity of a simultaneous nose-dive in mood and accompanied by an actual physical pain in my face [right across the sinuses, I kid you not], but there were no buses zooming towards town that I could have caught if only I'd left work a few minutes earlier/if the traffic blocking my path across the road wasn't so chronic/if I'd been wearing a jet-pack a la Bond, James Bond. So no harm, no foul, I eventually made it to the bus stop without having missed a potential bus into town and I was very pleased with myself and all was right with the world for all of about, oh, 30 seconds.

Maybe it was the karmic equivalent of Newton's Third Law. Maybe it was some variant of Murphy's Law. Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline. Who knows. Anywho, what happened next started out looking very much like super duper good luck - I saw the 5.15 Bus Éireann bus from UCD to Newbridge trundling towards me. This bus is a rare [some would say mythical] beast. It eliminates the need to traipse into town on a Dublin Bus that's more than likely standing room only, leg it through Temple Bar to the quays [obviously, you get extra points if you avoid a collision with some sour-faced teen on a skateboard mooching around the Central Bank] before invariably freezing your unmentionables off until the next Bus Éireann bus from Busárus deigns to trundle along. It also saves €1.35 a pop, which is a lot when (a.) you're not out of college quite long enough for the student mentality to have relinquised its hold altogether, and (b.) when you're trying to save save save with a view to buying a nice shoebox next year somewhere around The Back of Beyond. [Or Mountmellick. Sure they're one and the same, really.]

So I was understandably excited at being in time for the direct bus. [Listen, if you got rained on half as much as I do while trying to get from the Dublin Bus stop in town to the Bus Éireann stop, you'd be excited too. Ah, cohesive and coherent Irish planning strikes again!] I have a theory that these 5.15 UCD-Newbridge buses are a wee bit shy. It's a work-in-progess, based on the observation that they are reluctant to pick you up when hailed. Maybe they worry that you're some raving lunatic crackpot who mistook them for a Dublin Bus; this would be substantiated by the fact that their drivers are always keen to point out crossly: "This isn't a Bus Éireann bus stop, I'm not meant to pick-up here" if they do decide to be big men and do you a favour and stop for you.

Jeez lads, thanks so much for picking me up at a Dublin Bus stop. Have a medal or two. Alternatively, RACK OFF!!! I am dropped off every morning at a Dublin Bus stop with no Bus Éireann sign and there's no whinging about it. In addition, the "official" Bus Éireann stop on Earlsfort Terrace has no Bus Éireann sign. Just a Dublin Bus sign. Again, no whinging from drivers about stopping there.

Besides which, aren't Dublin Bus and Bus Éireann all part of CIE?!

Anywho. My attempts at getting the direct bus to collect me from this non-Bus Éireann stop have met with mixed results. I have found that the most successful strategy involves standing right at the edge of the road and sticking my arm out in plenty of time [like, while the bus is 200m away] while holding out my 6-inch long white weekly ticket for all and sundry to see. The idea is that it's patently obvious that I know it's a Bus Éireann bus and I'm not trying to ambush it for a lift into O'Connell Street instead of waiting for a 46A or something.

So. Today, on seeing the bus approaching I moved out of the bus shelter to the kerb and stuck out my arm in the usual "I am hailing a bus" fashion while holding my impossible to miss ticket for ultimate effect. Worryingly, it signalled no intention to pull in and showed no signs of slowing down - I genuinely think it might actually have started to move faster. As the bus got closer, I frantically waved in the direction of the driver's seat to try and flag it down. Zooming along, it came level with me and it was fairly clear at that stage that it was absolutely, definitely, no way going to stop, and in frustration I said "Oh, come on!!!!"

And what did the bus driver, the big man, do? He responded by slowing fractionally as he drove past, made a big production of sneering at me, mouthing "What?" and shrugging his shoulders.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHH, I say!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

How not to start a Tuesday.

I feel a little bit funny about publishing this post. Sure, I have no problem slagging off blonde girls who are rubbish with directions or dopey shop assistants, but to date I've never used my blog as an outlet to vent my annoyance at someone with whom I'm actually acquainted.

Well, that all changes today, baby! These changes are brought to you courtesy of a freakin' horrible phone call I had to endure this morning which has got me so freakin' mad that I am going to tell you [in strictest confidence, natürlich] The Story of This Morning's Horrible Phone Call and The Awful Embarressment It Left In It's Wake. Firstly, however, let's get one thing clear: I have been dealing with fairly rotten phone calls on and off now for about five years [it's in the small print of the job descriptions for "Personal Loans Administrator" and "Accounts Receivable Assistant"; apparently people don't like being asked to pay back money which they owe. Who'd have thunk it!] That is to say, I am well used to people being complete jerks on the phone and it doesn't normally get to me because it's usually not directed at me personally. The abuse is usually directed at The System or [my personal favourite] Them, the high-flying decision makers who are always, according to my callers, out to get one over on The Little Guy. So that's grand.

However, the nature of this morning's phone call was personal rather than business so there was no System and no Them that I could pretend were the intented recipients of any unpleasantness. There was just little ol' me.

I decided to make the phone call because Robbie William's tickets are going on sale this Friday, 09th December, and I need to get two. Not just any mucky old tickets, though: the gig's in Croker and I don't want to end up stuck behind a pillar or something, and they are intended for a present and so I want to get the best ones I can. So I decided to put in a call to an acquaintance of mine who is In The Industry. This is a bloke who has said to me [three times], to my sister [twice] and to my Dad [every time he is talking to him], "If you're ever looking for tickets to any gigs that my crowd are organising, just give me a call, don't bother hunting them down in the shops. If they're sold out or whatever - no worries, I'll look after you." That's practically verbatim, and we've never taken him up on it, I mean not even to ask if he's heard when such-and-such a band might be coming to Ireland again. I didn't even ask him for tickets to the last round of U2 gigs because I didn't want to be scrounging, and the next time I was talking to him he was all "Ah why didn't you give me a ring, I'd have sorted you out with VIP tickets!" So I reckoned I'd see if he could hook me up with some good tickets for Robbie - I obviously wouldn't say no to freebies, but even if he could just sort of hold a pair of decent seats for me and then I'd pay him for them, I'd be over the moon. As he'd said so often himself, it was no problem.

LE PHONE CALL
I ring the main office number, I get put through to his phone, he answers...

MOI: Hi, it's Lyndar here; I believe congratulations are in order! [His wife had a baby about a week ago.]

HIM: Yeah? [Just "Yeah" with a "what the hell do you want?" inflection. Not "Yeah thanks" or "Yeah how are you" or "Yeah anything".]

MOI: So, how's everyone doing?

HIM: Fine. [Sounding as piste off as a body can be.]

MOI: Have I caught you at a bad time there..? I know you're a busy man! [Because I'm thinking Jesus what is this guy's problem?!]

HIM: Well, yeah, I'm actually with someone at the moment?

MOI: Oh sorry, your front desk just put me through! Should I call you back or can I send you over an e-mail?

HIM: No. [Not "No, go ahead" or "No, you're grand". Are we seeing a pattern emerging here?]

MOI: Well, I won't keep you long; I'm trying to organise two tickets to Robbie Williams as a Christmas present for someone and I was hoping you might be able to help me with that!

HIM: Eh, those tickets haven't even gone on sale yet?

MOI: Right, but-

HIM: [cutting across me!] And I won't be able to get tickets for you anyway. We can't hold any of them back because it's going to sell out in about ten minutes and all the tickets have to go to the fans. So I suggest you go to your nearest ticket outlet early on Friday.

MOI: Riiiiiiiight. Well, thanks for that; say hello to herself and the baby for me...

And he kind of grunts and hangs up the phone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LE AFTERMATH
So I am left feeling like an absolute scrounger [doubly insulted by the insinuation that I'm not even a real Robbie fan] and am so mortified, I find myself cringing uncontrollably for the next couple of minutes. That is, until I realised that I hadn't done anything out of order and he was being a complete jerk! I mean, it's not like I'm someone who's never met him and was cold-calling himout of the blue. No, I am someone he has flamin' well told to call him three times previously for all my ticketing needs and the one time I do he has the bloody cheek to act like I'm something he trod in??!

Aaaaaaaaaarghhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!! Rude obnoxious people who make you feel like an idiot until you finally realise it is they who are the idiots!!!!!!!!!!

Public Transport: The Saga Continues.

I like to think that if a day starts well, it will mosey along happily on an even keel and end well, too. Generally, if I make it to the bus stop in time for the direct bus in the mornings, I have a pretty good day; by contrast, if I end up having to take a go-slow coach into the city centre [most likely sitting beside a dough person] and then a standing-room only bus out to work, I tend to feel poo-ey until I fall asleep that night.

Well, this morning’s episode did an admirable job of blowing that theory out of the water.

Things started exceptionally well – not only did I catch the bus I wanted, I also managed to make it out of the house without forgetting anything and had exact change for the busman, oh yes! – but I knew there was trouble a-brewin’ before I had even bought my ticket. The driver said to the girl boarding ahead of me: “Sorry, I’m new to this route; you wouldn’t mind sitting up the front there and giving me directions?” 

Those are words no commuter ever wants to hear. Especially at 7.02am on a Monday morning. Especially when they are directed at some young wan who didn’t look overly impressed to be asked and half-mumbled “Eh, ok” in response.

The last time I found myself in this situation, I didn’t mind quite so much because:
(a) it was the first time I’d ever seen a bus driver need directions;
(b) I was heading to the library in college so wasn’t in any great hurry;
(c) the girl who advised the bus driver what route to take was someone I had spent six years with in school and never liked [she wasn’t so much a Janus as a six-faced wagon!], so I was inordinately pleased to see her make a complete b*lls of it and incur the wrath of several commuters who had to trek miles out of their way to get to work thanks to her idiocy.

Anyways, I decided to give The Young Wan the benefit of the doubt: perhaps her reticence to take on the role of navigator on the 126 bound for U.C.D. was all down to tiredness and the early hour rather than her lack of familiarity with the route. Maybe she knew the maze of one-way streets around St. Stephen’s Green like the back of her hand.

I need hardly say that she didn’t.

Things were going fairly smoothly until we got to the National Concert Hall. Usually at this point, the bus goes forwards through the junction at the NCH, hangs a left onto Leeson Street at the next junction, takes the next right and follows the road around and hey presto, it’s at Stephen’s Green. 

Not so this morning.

This morning, The Young Wan sent us right at the NCH, then told the driver to take the next left along Adelaide Road. Now, I have never ever seen a bus take this route, but I thought perhaps she’s send him left again so he’d be heading down Leeson Street, back on track, and all would be right with the world. 

But sure, that’d have been too easy! Too predictable! 

Instead, she let him head straight down towards Holles Street Hospital on Fitzwilliam Street, aaall the way down, until he basically had no option but to turn left. He pulled up alongside Merrion Square and, on cue from The Young Wan, announced we were at Stephen’s Green

One of the other women on the bus chirped up at this point and he looked morto, went left around the corner of the park, up Merrion Street, across Baggot Street and stopped at Ely Place. At this point it seemed that anyone who had intended to disembark at Stephen’s Green decided to cut their losses and run! The Young Wan’s Reign of Terror had not quite passed, however. Rather than send the driver out to U.C.D. the traditional/normal/correct/quick/easy route [Baggot Street – Waterloo Road – Morehampton Road etc], she had him drive down Earlsfort Terrace to the NCH and on to Adelaide Road… again. 

At least there was some variation at this stage: she had him turn right onto Leeson Street and on towards Morehampton Road, where we at last made contact with a road the bus had actually travelled on before.

When I was getting off at my stop, I asked the busman if he’d be doing this run again in the morning [he confirmed he would] and if he thought he’d be ok around Stephen’s Green tomorrow ["Eh, yeh probably"]. I told him I’d be on the bus in the morning, that I had got it just about every morning for the last 4 years and knew the route backwards, and that if he needed a hand to give me a shout. The response was a fairly relieved sounding "Right -  thanks!"

Sticking my oar in like that isn’t something I’d usually do, but I'm actually good with directions and navigation and all that jazz. Oh, and I’m on the clock now. I can’t afford to spend an hour sniggering at eejits like The Young Wan who haven’t actually a bull’s notion of where the bus usually goes but refuse to admit it when I should be at my desk.

	Fig. 1: The route any normal person would take when circumnavigating St. Stephen's Green
	Fig. 2: The Young Wan's, em, "alternate" route!!!

I want a car. I want a car. I want a car...

I was all set to buy My First Car this weekend. Although I am dead against cars on principle [ruining the environment, clogging up our streets, let's all hug a tree etc], the fact of the matter is that I am absolutely fed up with having to rely on lifts everywhere and also, of course, with the only real alternative to a car when getting to work = a 50 mile round-trip every day: public transport.

The public transport system [if you could even call it a system, pah!] in Ireland is kinda dire. The buses are never on time, the trains are reminiscent of sardine cans, and the two lines of our fancy schmancy new light rail system don't meet in the middle. All new public transport projects seem to come in waaaaay over budget and are never delivered on time. 

What I can't understand is why the buses/trains/DARTs/Luasessess* are in the sorry state that they are, given that Bertie And The Lads always spend more time and money on them than was originally forecast! I mean, if a project comes in over-budget and over-time, surely that should mean it's ultimately better than it would have been if the extra attention hadn't been lavished on it..? 

Anyways, the bottom line is that public transport in Ireland is rubbish. In order for me to get to and from work without using an evil car [boo, hiss] I have to get two buses each way. That's to take me from Naas [major satellite commuter town only 25 miles from Dublin city centre] to Donnybrook [so close to the city centre that I don't think it can honestly call itself a suburb] and back. It can take anything from 1½ hours to 3 hours and goes through Kill, which wrecks my head because Kill is a small village which was by-passed about 20 gazillion years ago, an average of 2 people get on the bus there and it adds 45 minutes to the journey. Shouldn't it be a case of majority rules? People in Kill who want to get the bus should have to walk out to the main road and not be so bloody lazy, it'd only take about 2 minutes ;) And if that doesn't float their boat, sure they could always move to Naas.

Getting two buses is, sadly, just the easy option. If I really wanted to punish myself, I could get a feeder bus from Naas to the train station in Sallins [the station calls itself "Sallins & Naas" which is a joke because it's about 3 miles from Naas], take the train to Heuston, take the Luas/feeder bus into the city centre, and take another bus out to Donnybrook.
It's as though the Irish Government don't want me to use public transport..! And as anyone who watched Eddie Hobbs' Rip Off Republic over the summer will testify, that's not just my personal paranoia: they really don't. Sure, if I'm on the bus/train/DART/Luas, I don't have to go through a single toll bridge, pay VRT, buy - taxed - petrol, or get Motor Tax. 

Now, some people will tell you that they wish they could use public transport to get to work. They'd love if someone else did the driving. They hate sitting in traffic. The sort of people who come out with these gems are invariably people who have never used public transport in Ireland in their lives. Oh sure, they've been on the Underground in London or the El in Chicago, but frankly there is no bloody comparison!!! And as someone who has 4 solid years' experience of relying on public transport to get me from A to B to absolutely flippin' everywhere, I can spot one of these poor sods at 100 paces. 

I am so fed up with the complete horror that is the public transport non-system, I have decided that I want to be a ful-time motorist. It's a move I've been considering for a while, carefully weighing up the pros and cons and wondering how I'll feel about adding to pollution and so forth.

My decision was made a whole lot easier by the sheer horror that was my bus journey from Naas to Dublin this morning.

Oh God, it was just awful!!! It started well enough: got a seat at the window, happy daze. However, my tormenter got on just a few stops later and decided to plonk himself in the seat beside me. He was big anyway so took up some of my seat along with his own. He then [conveniently] "fell asleep" and just sort of spread out like rising dough. His left leg was skewways across the front of my seat to the extent that his left knee was actually in the middle of the back of the seat in front of me [try to visualise it and just feel the annoyance building]. He had his arms crossed but when he [conveniently] "fell asleep", his left arm sort of drifted out of place so that his shoulder was actually in my seat [not in the gap, in the back of my seat] and his albow was in my ribs. Also, he had a big f*off coat that he didn't bother putting up in the overhead shelf [that would be far too polite and convenient], he just let it hang over onto my seat. Even squishing myself into the corner couldn't actually remove me totally from his reach.

AND, to add insult to injury, he snored. For the whole 2 hours. Really loudly.
I've never been so happy to get off a warm bus out into the freezing cold in all my life.

Quite apart from the fact that I didn't pay 50% less for my seat and he didn't pay 50% more for his, it was just really rude. I mean, I'm not an idiot. I know there's a reason it's called public transport. I just didn't think it was now leave your manners and common courtesy at home transport.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to track down a navy Ford Ka...

*Fine so, genius. You tell me what the plural of "Luas" is.