I stood at the bus stop on Griffith Avenue, leaning against a lamppost and humming Lili Marleen to myself as I admired my shoes. I like to imagine myself as a sexy wartime siren in my dolly shoes and polka-dot dress as I loll against the street furniture, twirling my curls. Should you ever pass a distracted, lumpen figure wearing old-fashioned clothes and tugging at her frizzy hair, waiting for the 123, give me a wave. Or a lift.
I could have taken the car. I was headed for a meeting in the Dáil, which made me feel much more important than I am, but not so much so that I was willing to fork out €6 to park in the Setanta. The spaces are too small and the other cars there are too big.
As I stood waiting for the bus, the crowd shuffled out of the Church of St. Vincent de Paul after the ten o' clock mass. I was like a scene from a geriatric Dawn of the Dead. They wandered straight across the oncoming traffic on Griffith Avenue, making a beeline for my bus stop, like arthritic zebras at a crossing that only they could see. Cars screeched to a halt either side of them and were thanked for their courtesy with regal little waves. Two elderly ladies came and stood beside me, all lipsticky wrinkles and Monday mass glam. They looked me up and down, then turned their attention to an elderly gent running the gauntlet with the traffic, ten paces up from the lights. "Isn't he after getting very old looking" said one with a lemony snicker, her head poking out of her mac like a tortoise peeking from its shell. "Oh yes" said her friend, lips pursed in disgust. You'd swear he'd aged to spite them. He stood a ways away, sneaking peeks at them when he thought they weren't looking, then he scuttled along three-legged with his stick when the bus rattled towards us.
I sat beside him all the way into town, and there wasn't a peep out of him. I felt sorry for him, in that horribly patronising way I do for all elderly folk. Or for most of them, anyway. The other pair didn't let up on their cogar muggering for a minute. They reminded me of the teenage girls I see on the 128 in the mornings, who stink of cigarettes and temper and talk about their fellas like they're randy Jack Russells.
I could have taken the car. I was headed for a meeting in the Dáil, which made me feel much more important than I am, but not so much so that I was willing to fork out €6 to park in the Setanta. The spaces are too small and the other cars there are too big.
As I stood waiting for the bus, the crowd shuffled out of the Church of St. Vincent de Paul after the ten o' clock mass. I was like a scene from a geriatric Dawn of the Dead. They wandered straight across the oncoming traffic on Griffith Avenue, making a beeline for my bus stop, like arthritic zebras at a crossing that only they could see. Cars screeched to a halt either side of them and were thanked for their courtesy with regal little waves. Two elderly ladies came and stood beside me, all lipsticky wrinkles and Monday mass glam. They looked me up and down, then turned their attention to an elderly gent running the gauntlet with the traffic, ten paces up from the lights. "Isn't he after getting very old looking" said one with a lemony snicker, her head poking out of her mac like a tortoise peeking from its shell. "Oh yes" said her friend, lips pursed in disgust. You'd swear he'd aged to spite them. He stood a ways away, sneaking peeks at them when he thought they weren't looking, then he scuttled along three-legged with his stick when the bus rattled towards us.
I sat beside him all the way into town, and there wasn't a peep out of him. I felt sorry for him, in that horribly patronising way I do for all elderly folk. Or for most of them, anyway. The other pair didn't let up on their cogar muggering for a minute. They reminded me of the teenage girls I see on the 128 in the mornings, who stink of cigarettes and temper and talk about their fellas like they're randy Jack Russells.
