Oh, Long Years Ago When Men Were Men, And Fancied May Oblong

There's one of them on every bus; an oulfella with the rheumy eyes and dirty fingernails, hefting plastic bags full of what's almost certainly not shopping, who smells of fag ends and stale drink. The 123 this morning was no exception. He got on at College Green and gave the driver a gappy grin, stowing his Tesco handbags on the luggage rack before fishing in his pockets for change. There were just two of us on the bus, me and a nun tucked into the single seat up front. I like that seat, and I resented her for sitting there. I sat instead in the double seat behind her, and when the oulfella boarded the bus I tucked my coat in under me and made to make room for him. Even though there were 40something seats free. It's only polite, and it's why I have only myself to blame when I complain that people always choose to sit beside me.

This fella didn't, though. He sandwiched himself into the seat behind me and we sat there, himself, myself and the nun, bobbing along as the bus rattled out towards Marino. I could feel him bursting for a chat, but he said nothing. A few more passengers got on on O' Connell St. but nobody sat near him. I buried myself in my book. As the bus lumbered up Cathal Brugha St. he started to sing in a low growl behind my ear. Oh poor old Dicey Reilly, she has taken to the sup! And poor old Dicey Reilly, she will never give it up! It's off each morning to the pop that she goes in for another little drop, but the heart of the rowl is Dicey Reilly... He giggled to himself. She will walk along Fitzgibbon Street with an independent air! And then its down by Summerhill, and as the people stare... I got the joke, and giggled two. Like schoolgirls, the pair of us.

The bus had emptied out again by the time we got to Croyden Park, and there were just the three of us left. Himself, myself and the nun. He rang the bell to get out off the roundabout, and I could hear him rooting in his pockets as he stood up. "Here" he said "this is for you. Have a lovely day now!" In his hand he had a bar of chocolate. "Are you sure?" I asked, and he pressed it into my hand and gave me a wink. He shuffled forward and looked down at the nun. "And one for the clergy? I don't think so!" he sang in falsetto. He picked up his bags and knocked on the driver's window, proffering another bar of chocolate. "For your good self, sir, and thank you very much. Have a lovely day". He stepped off the bus, pulled a face at the nun as it was pulling away and blew me a kiss. And then, delighted with himself, went off about his day.

Patent Pending

I bit the top off my Cadbury's Caramel egg. With a determined tongue, I delved deep and removed most of the filling. Most, but not all. Then, using a small spoon, I carefully filled the shell with tea. Waited for a melting moment, then drank deep.

It's been that kind of day.

Wispa Saves Monday

My Monday grouch has just been given a nice kick up the hole by a Wispa. I've mentioned before that I don't generally mind Mondays all that much, Tuesdays tend to be more trying. They remind me of small midlands towns; unavoidable drudgery on your way to somewhere much more fun (be your destination The Weekend or Galway) and I for one will breathe a heartfelt sigh of relief once we figure out how to bypass them.

But this particular Monday has been an exception, and for no good reason. I had a great weekend (Garage in the cinema on Friday, which was great, and then a party on Saturday night, which was even better) and my day today's not going badly (dry morning, pleasant walk, not-too-hectic workload, comedy gig later) but I got up feeling that I just couldn't be arsed. The only reason I came into work was because I figured a day spent not cleaning the flat would only put me in even worse humour. I think this morning's low should probably be attributed to Saturday night's boozing; I was in too much of a jocker yesterday even to feel like I had a hangover (I just felt like I had terminal something) so the hangover's having its way with me today instead.

On an optimistic note, I've got my costume sorted for the weekend's Halloween party, and it rocks. Inspired by Manuel's dedication to his craft, I'm going to dress up as a 1950s waitress. I can't rollerskate, so I'm going to just write "pretend these are skates" in biro on my plimsolls (Gingerbeard suggested I stick little paper wheels to the sides of them, but that would look retarded). I have the New Daddy and his wailing charge out shopping for a hat for me and I had my mam put the finishing touches to my dress over the weekend (I love it so much I wore it around the flat yesterday evening, admiring myself in the mirror and trying on lipsticks). Even writing about it has hoisted my ill humour somewhat.

I've left a Wispa sitting on my colleague's keyboard so that it might lift her mood a little, as it did mine. I'm only short of sitting on my hands to stop me snarfing it before she gets back from her meeting.