I wiped the condensation from the bus window, soaking my sleeve with everyone's catfood morning breath, and then sat staring balefully through my porthole at the pedestrian traffic. Bean na gcos crosáilte, and a cross little face on me too. Another Wednesday morning.
I miss my canal bank walk to work. I find it hard to think on a cramped bus with steamy windows and screaming schoolkids. Everything's all up in your face, you can smell them, with their haircuts and misery. The girls from Loreto on the Green squeal marble-mouthedly about choir practice and holiday homes. They sound like their mothers. Thank fuck they get off at Earlsfort Terrace. There's a lull then, the silence broken only by the sound of Morning Ireland leaking from the headphones of the suits bound for the IFSC. The bus clears out at Connolly and there's two stops of peace before the North Strand kids stomp up the stairs.
I shouldn't complain. It's an easy commute. Besides, I could take the car. I often do, but I feel bad about it. My colleagues cycle and walk to work. I make hard work of the trudge from the bus.
Instead of crossing the college campus to get to my office, I usually cut through the school playground. I feel vaguely fugitive, neither parent nor teacher, weaving through the lines of little boys in the school yard. I should take the scenic route across the campus. It's nice, full of chattering magpies and romping squirrels whose bottle-brush tails ripple like chiffon scarves when they scurry up the trees. I should take a walk at lunchtime too, but I don't. I eat sandwiches while my colleagues eat salad, and I wonder if I'll ever get it right. My self esteem runs low and my temper runs high when I'm hungry. Once I've eaten I'm in love with it all again, with all of them. It lasts until I get back to my desk.
I wrote this post one wet Wednesday in May when school was still in session. Annie asked me recently if work is better now. "No" I said "I just complain about it less". Which is progress of a sort, I suppose.
I miss my canal bank walk to work. I find it hard to think on a cramped bus with steamy windows and screaming schoolkids. Everything's all up in your face, you can smell them, with their haircuts and misery. The girls from Loreto on the Green squeal marble-mouthedly about choir practice and holiday homes. They sound like their mothers. Thank fuck they get off at Earlsfort Terrace. There's a lull then, the silence broken only by the sound of Morning Ireland leaking from the headphones of the suits bound for the IFSC. The bus clears out at Connolly and there's two stops of peace before the North Strand kids stomp up the stairs.
I shouldn't complain. It's an easy commute. Besides, I could take the car. I often do, but I feel bad about it. My colleagues cycle and walk to work. I make hard work of the trudge from the bus.
Instead of crossing the college campus to get to my office, I usually cut through the school playground. I feel vaguely fugitive, neither parent nor teacher, weaving through the lines of little boys in the school yard. I should take the scenic route across the campus. It's nice, full of chattering magpies and romping squirrels whose bottle-brush tails ripple like chiffon scarves when they scurry up the trees. I should take a walk at lunchtime too, but I don't. I eat sandwiches while my colleagues eat salad, and I wonder if I'll ever get it right. My self esteem runs low and my temper runs high when I'm hungry. Once I've eaten I'm in love with it all again, with all of them. It lasts until I get back to my desk.
I wrote this post one wet Wednesday in May when school was still in session. Annie asked me recently if work is better now. "No" I said "I just complain about it less". Which is progress of a sort, I suppose.
