Shape Throwin' On D'Olier Street
By Christy Hogan

It was Tuesday night 24th of February and I was crossing the road at the pedestrian lights on D'Olier Street. 'Blast it,' says I, actually my utterances were much stronger as I watched the number 3 bus pull away.

I'm sure you all know the feeling. It was ten o'clock and I was left pondering the all too familiar- will I walk or will I wait? I have a touch of 'Arthur' in my left hip and it was him rather than yours truly who ultimately decided to wait.

'Wait', wait is something you most definitely will endure when you enlist as a number 3 commuter. My pocket dictionary explains the word wait as follows. Wait, await, be expecting, attend, serve at table, act of waiting, Christmas carol singer.

Christmas carol singer! Surprised? So was I. None the less, I could have sung 'God Bless Ye Merry Gentlemen' ten times over, alas, no bus.

However, the mind has peculiar ways of compensating at times like these. I became aware of my immediate surroundings and the people therein.

A Chinese couple were looking at the vandalised bus timetable attached to the bus stop. The timings were illegible. Other indigenous Irish as well as non-nationals huddled together in small groups. It was a like a meeting of the United Nations with everyone eagerly awaiting the arrival of Kofi Annan.

Across the road stood the 'Old Lady' of D'Olier Street, 'The Irish Times', where my late father worked for almost thirty years. A car with the dreaded yellow clamp was clearly visible further up the street. And I could only imagine the frustration the driver would feel on his return.

A youth in his mid teens was puffing away belligerently on his cigarette. He seemed agitated at something, probably the world, and began some ritual spitting. He must have spat about fifty times in a five-minute period.

Unfortunately, this activity did not alleviate his agitation and a new outlet was necessary. He began to throw shapes, kicking the litterbin nearby in a kind of karate style. At first the kicking was a sort of forward thrust giving the bin a good few clatters with his trainers. Then they became more advanced, with the youth kicking at an angle and lashing out horse style as he faced away from his target.

Finally, the cigarette was doused, the karate exhibition over and the spitting ritual complete. The boy was spent. Moments later he was gone, vanished into the night, undoubtedly preparing an encore for some more unsuspecting commuters.

A half hour had passed and a number 3 bus finally arrived. I was heading home, Dublin, I love ye.

 

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