Dublin drear

Somebody got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Oh yes they did (try to read that in a voice that your mother used, when you were five and cranky). No prizes for guessing who I am talking about.


I was feeling slightly deranged with  irritation this morning. I’m not saying that there wasn’t just cause to be cranky, but usually it’s easier to just let it wash off me – hence it felt irrational.

I know the reason for my morning annoyance, and the explanation for my reaction  – it’s because my blood sugar levels were low. When I say this I am not pretending to have a faddy new condition (like gluten intolerance – am I wrong in thinking that unless you have coeliac disease then gluten intolerance is – dare I say it – a condition for people who need a reason to  be treated liked a special little snowflake?)  Oh no my blood sugar levels are caused by diabetes of the Type 1 kind. And when your sugars are low, then you know about it. Irritability, stress, panic, the sweats are the initial symptoms. I was late so I couldn’t have a breakfast. I jammed a Digestive biscuit into my mouth and ran out the door.

En route to the bus-stop, I called in to Marks and Spencer’s to get a bottle of cloudy lemonade to aid digestion of the indigestible Digestive. There was a woman on the phone in the queue in front of me. She was called to the till to pay for her messages. Eye contact with the shop assistant was avoided. Her phone conversation continued. The poor checkout woman sitting there waiting, the queue behind Chatty Cathy growing longer. Finally after what seemed like an hour she finished her conversation, paid for her items and left the shop. Never once having made eye contact or exchanged a word with the nice woman at the counter. Clearly she was an unhappy person – vinegar lipped and with a sour face on her that would curdle milk. I don’t care what type of troubles you are going through Missus, but having a phone conversation at a checkout is universally ignorant and rude and unnecessary and disrespectful.

My low sugar probably exacerbated my annoyance at her however.

I got on the bus feeling bitter and resentful and completely stressed out – I probably should have had two Digestives – or bought a lemonade with sugar in it.

The morning bus is a commuter bus. Almost everyone who gets on it works in the same industrial wasteland in the grim outer suburbs of Dublin. Everyone has the same routine everyday. Including the genius who decided to get into an argument with the driver about being swindled out of two euros. His travel card had no credit. Therefore the driver asked him to pay cash – two euro seventy cents. Our noble hero decided to argue the point and insisted that the money had already come off his card and that the driver was trying to fleece him.

Bearing in mind that Dublin Bus drivers don’t have access to the cash paid for tickets or the credit on a travel card – the idea that the driver was engaging in some plot to steal two euros from an office worker seems a bit far fetched. The passenger refused to pay the fare in cash, and refused to get off the bus. The queue behind him grew longer. The already seated passengers growing more antsy, glancing at their watches. Is this moron going to make us later than we already are? Finally some dame in shining armour came to the rescue and paid his fare for him. The look of smug satisfaction on the whiner’s face was a sight that made me want to slap him.

Never mind, onward to work we go. Oh hell. I am sitting next to that woman with the high pitched voice who spends the entire bus journey shrieking down the phone.

This day just kept getting better.

I arrived at work and headed directly for the canteen. Food, glorious food will sort me out.

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