I have written previously about how shockingly difficult it is to reach one of the largest industrial estates in the country, on public transport, during rush hour, every morning. A place where tens of thousands of people work, served by such a primitive and unreliable service, clearly ought to be regarded as a problem. The problem is simple – the 40D bus from Parnell Street to Ballycoolin Industrial Estate is ‘The Bus that Never Arrives’. If I arrive at 8.25am for the 8.30am service then the bus will arrive at 8.44am. If you crawl out of bed early to make the 8.15am service then it will rock up at 8.44am. Continue reading Dublin Bus 40D – the emblem of failure
I am feeling tired and emotional after my trek to work this morning. I am not using ‘tired and emotional’ as a euphemism for being drunk in this instance. I am actually tired and emotional after my two and a half hour journey. Continue reading The never-ending journey
Now that we are plumbing the depths of winter, with daylight a distant, hazy memory, and climate conditions that would chill you to the bone, my trek to work to the industrial wastelands has become virtually intolerable. My work place itself, is in the November of locations – a singularly dank, grey, miserable, depressing, ugly part of town.
The journey has become a relentless obstacle course.
For starters, you never know when or whether the bus is going to arrive. The road which was closed while the tram track was being built, has now reopened. It’s since become a lottery whether or not you’ll end up standing by the side of the road, like a streetwalker, waiting for half an hour. In the dark, biting cold. Continue reading Love on the No. 40
I called into my usual greasy spoon for my morning cup of coffee, using my last 2 euro coin to pay for it. Wishing the nice woman behind the counter a good weekend I exited the shop. Before slumping at the bus stop outside to await the vehicle’s arrival. It would whisk me off to a black and white, monochrome land – the reverse of the Wizard of Oz. I was going to wake up in the bleak, grey world of Kansas – also known as the industrial wastelands. Continue reading ‘Sorry bud. We don’t take notes.’
I have started boarding the bus to the wastelands, four stops later than what has traditionally been my boarding point. As the mornings are shortening, I am finding it more of a challenge to peel myself from my pit. Hence I am leaving the house later. If I walk a marginally longer route to this new point, I can save myself seven minutes extra in a morning. For an evening person, these extra seven minutes in the scratcher each day, are more precious than gold dust.
The only problem with boarding the bus on the fourth stop, is that my aromatic fellow travellers take liberties. They regularly sit in my designated seat. I will admit that I am joking – to an extent – when I claim to be obsessive compulsive about sitting in the same spot each day. The reality is that I am slightly more easy going. I’ll sit anywhere – but I’ll do a quick analysis before committing to a place. Continue reading I’m going to wastelands, wastelands.