Dear me. Another blog already! What am I coming to? Oh, I just have this urge to rant on about stuff.

Tonight I want to rant about Dublin Bus. Dublin Bus, as you might guess, is my local public transport (we have a rail system too, but I live two miles from the nearest railway station, so rarely use trains). I do not own a car - or a driving licence - so I am reliant on public transport. Actually, even if I did have a car I doubt I'd take it to work, parking being the problem it is. So, I bus.

I finish work at 5.30pm. There is a bus from Malahide (where I work) to town at 5.45pm. At least, that's what the timetable says. (And we all know about timetables and fiction, don't we? -Hm, there's a thought! Could one tell a story in the form of a timetable?) Anyway, this 5.45pm bus is pretty handy, since it leaves me time to finish up stuff at the office, or do a little shopping, or whatever, before catching said bus. Mostly.

At this point, we have to factor in the bit where the bus has to come out from town, full of people wanting to get on and off, in rush-hour traffic. It gets to Malahide, gets to its terminus, and then turns round to bring people back in towards town. Mostly, this system works pretty ok. Some days, it all goes skew-whiffy. Like today.

I got to the bus stop at 5.40pm. Nice time for a cigarette before the bus would arrive (me waiting at a stop maybe half a mile from the terminus). By 5.50pm it was clear that the bus had not even come in to Malahide yet. I would have seen it going past. Or it would have arrived. Or both. Sigh, snarl, pick up bags and move to stop up the road. Just for confusion's sake, there are two termini in Malahide, between which buses alternate. And the 6pm bus goes from the other one, and thus does not pass the stop outside the library where I normally wait. So up to the stop opposite the RC church I go, past which all buses go, regardless of terminus.

At 6.05pm, a 42 arrived in from town. And headed out towards the Coast Road terminus. This was the bus that should have picked me up outside the library twenty minutes previously. At 6.07pm, another 42 arrived in from town. And headed up to the Seamount terminus. This was the bus that should have left Seamount at 6pm.

Now, the problem that arises at this point is that very often, if a bus is late getting into Malahide, it will simply turn around and go back into town empty, presumably in the hope of then being able to leave town punctually on the next run. So I began to have Bad Feelings. They were justified.

At 6.12pm, the Coast Road bus came back, numberless, and declaring its intention of going to Clontarf Garage. At 6.16pm, the Seamount bus came back, also numberless, and declaring itself Out Of Service. "Now this," I said aloud, "is just getting ridiculous."

Meanwhile, at 6.15pm, another 42 had arrived in from town and headed on out the Coast Road. I began to entertain vague hopes that this (which should become the 6.20pm bus back in) might actually return and pick passengers up. By 6.30pm I had given up these hopes, since it does not take even an FAS driver quarter of an hour to get from the village to the Coast Road terminus and back again.

At 6.31pm yet another 42 arrived in from town and headed up to Seamount, ready to become the 6.35pm bus back in. I had quite strong hopes that this one, at last, might actually do the trick, since it should get to its terminus only just after its leaving time. But lo and behold, much to my astonishment, the Coast Road bus appeared at 6.32pm. With a number and a city centre destination, and the obvious intention of actually carrying passengers! I really do not think that I want to know how it managed to take the driver seventeen minutes to drive a mile. But I finally got home shortly after 7. Cross.

I think it's time to talk about my Bus Theories. I have a few.

The first Bus Theory I came up with, some years ago now, divides bus drivers into three categories. Those who suffer from FAS, those who suffer from LFS, and Maniacs. FAS stands for Fragile Accelerator Syndrome. Bus drivers with this condition are apparently frightened that if they put too much weight on the accelerator pedal, it will break. So they drive very, veeeerrrrryyyy slowly. LFS stands for Lead Foot Syndrome, and I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how they drive! And as for the Maniacs...well, they all have LFS, but they are also prone to doing insane things like flinging a double-decker bus at 50 miles an hour into a gap that would be small for a Mini. And making it through with no damage, except to the nerves of their passengers. (I had the interesting experience of sitting upstairs at the front the day the driver did that little trick.)

I have, I believe, already mentioned in these pages the temporally unstable black hole at the Clare Hall terminus of the 27 route.

Then there is the Bus Drivers' Olympics. I came up with this theory a couple of years ago, after they built the "traffic calming measures" on Talbot Street and turned it into a slalom course. This was, of course, the obvious one - many bus drivers use Talbot Street to practice for the slalom event. But the theory can be taken much further. All bus drivers are in training for at least one event in the Bus Drivers' Olympics.

There are those practising for the slow race, of course. How slowly can you drive a bus without it stalling? (Pretty damn' slowly.) There are the Precision Drivers, who pull up with great exactitude at traffic lights and bus stops. There are marathon runners, who travel at a steady, uninterrupted speed. Judging by the way some drivers screech to a halt at the lights, and then take off again like a bat out of hell, some of them are in for the Hundred-Yard Dash. And the Maniacs from the previous theory, of course, are all in for the steeplechase. Believe me, if these guys could get the bus to jump over things, they would.

I wonder how many of my Dedicated Readers I have bored stupid, rambling on about buses? I don't care. I like buses. I even have a website about Irish buses bookmarked. BusTravelIreland-EnthusiastSection, for those who may be curious. I find it comforting to see pictures of buses I just remember from my childhood, and to be able to identify the year of manufacture of a modern bus before it gets to within 20 yards of the bus stop. Yes, I am sad. Stop me now, before I buy an anorak! (This is my first attempt to make an actual link in this blog. I hope it works...)

Anyway, that's enough about buses for now. On to...stuff.

The interim report of the Flood Tribunal came out today. I can't actually recall, now, exactly why the Flood Tribunal (named for the judge chairing it) was set up. I think it was the one about abuses in the area of Planning Permission. But it's been going for several years now. And will be for some time longer. The news today, anyway, is very entertaining for someone like me, who takes gleeful delight in political scandal. Particularly when the muck is firmly stuck to politicians whom I always thought were slimeballs.

Hence, I gloat over the fact that Ray Burke (once a TD for Dublin North, in which constituency I used to live, and no, I did not ever vote for the creep) has been publicly named as a man who took bribes, and not only that, but threatened (both legally and physically) the journalists who tried to expose him.

Meanwhile, Bertie Ahern is frantically trying to clean his face; it must be very embarrassing to have so publicly expsoed as a blackguard someone you appointed as the Minister for Foreign Affairs! Particularly when rumours were already circulating more or less openly about his corruption at the time he got that post... Not to mention one P. J. Mara (known to everyone in Ireland of my age and older as "Ma-raaaaa", from the old "Scrap Saturday" political satire show on the radio); once Charlie Haughey's aide-de-camp, he's now the Fianna Fail Director of Elections. He's been named as "non-cooperative" with the Flood Tribunal, which will not do his reputation any good, and may well do the government harm as he tries to encourage a Yes vote in the referendum.

Oh, I do like political scandal! And I want to say publicly, fair dos to Mr. Justice Feargus Flood, for not bowing down to political pressure, or being afraid to say what he means. Corruption, he says he has found, all over the governments of the past ten years and more, and corruption he bloody well means. Egg decorates a few faces today, and certain people will be facing a lot worse than that. Well-deserved, too.

From work earlier today did not in fact work, but a little concerted poking this evening found and solved the problem. I was getting a template error, which proved to be sorted by changing my template. Which is why you're reading this in a nasty shade of blue instead of my normal pretty purple.

So...My finger is still not well; it aches when I bend it right down. But I can deal with it, and do most things. So I don't really care.

My brother phoned me yesterday evening. This is actually an event of note; we are not particularly close, and rarely contact one another unless we have some reason. We fought bitterly for most of the first 18 years of his life (he is eighteen months my junior), before finally discovering that we get on pretty well as long as we don't see one another too often.

His reason for contacting me in this instance was to find out if the company I work for (and for which he used to work) is currently hiring, as he has a friend whom he thinks might do well there. He then mentioned, as an afterthought, that he was househunting, and planned to view a house in my vicinity at the weekend. Couldn't remember the name of the estate, of course. "Castle something," he said vaguely. "Castle Elms," I suggested. "Yeah, that's the one."

It's only the new estate of townhouses and apartments that they've been building behind my road ever since I moved in here, three years ago! (Not, I should point out, that there is actually a castle or an elm tree anywhere in the vicinity!)

So I may have my brother for a near neighbour soon. Which would be quite amusing, really.

One of the guys at work asked me recently how my brother was getting on these days. He seemed a touch taken aback when I said, "Well, I haven't seen him in months, but as far as I know he's fine. I assume someone would have told me if he'd died or anything." But that's how we are. We don't hate one another or anything, but we just don't move in the same circles, or particularly want to.

The referendum is beginning to gather steam. The No side have loads of posters on lampposts - I'm still trying to figure out the one that says "Save Irish Jobs - Vote No!". I don't see what the Nice Treaty has to do with jobs here. But jobs are a Big Button here; for all of my childhood and teenage years, unemployment was a Major Problem, so people still get very worried at any percieved threat to employment. The Yes campaign have managed about one poster on a bus shelter (that I've seen), which seems to be saying (albeit more subtly) "Save Irish Jobs - Vote Yes!". Very strange. I still have no intention of changing my vote from last time.

Oh yeah. The BertieBowl. My Dedicated Readers may recall that I mentioned this piece of idiocy some months back, during the election campaign. Well, it seems that...I'm not sure who. Possibly our Glorious Leader, possibly the FAI (Football Association of Ireland), possibly both...would like for Ireland to co-host, with Scotland, the European Cup (or whatever it's called!) in about 2008. This, you understand, will only be possible if we can provide at least two large stadia. Currently, we have one definitely available stadium; Landsdowne Road. Which is actually a rugby pitch, but the rugby people seem happy enough to let the occasional soccer match take place there. (Last one I recall was a friendly against England in the mid-90s, notable mainly for a bunch of English hooligans coming over and starting a riot at.)

Then there is Croke Park. This is a GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association) ground. The GAA will not let Evil English Games (or, in fact, anything but Gaelic Football and Hurling) be played there. Despite all pleas, arguments, negotiations, etc. They remain obstinate. The Sacred GAA Ground will not be Profaned by Alien Games.

So, remains the BertieBowl. Which has cost many millions of Euros already, and still does not even approach existing. The government has recently told Bertie that it is not going to give him any more money to build it (presumably, they finally copped on to the "throwing good money after bad" notion), so he is reduced to touting for industry sponsorship - he really wants to get this thing built. He's been offered some already, which raises corruption spectres. We're good at bribery and corruption here. See some of our recent and on-going tribunals. Not to mention the antics of one of Bertie's predecessors in the Fianna Fail leadership seat.

Anyway, the Football Head-Buck-Cats (whatever they call themselves), came over here the other week to see what we had in the way of stadia to host a European Cup in. They were shown Landsdowne Road. They were shown Croke Park (but told "um, er, well, actually we may not be able to use this venue"), and they were shown plans of what the BertieBowl will look like if it ever gets built (they were not, I think, told that it's looking iffy). Why do I get the feeling that the bid is going to fail, and certain people are going to look rather foolish?

One of my housemates is having a Crisis. So, at least, I am told; I have not seen Charles (as I will call him) for a while. Charles is American, but has been living here for some years. He was going out with Joanne (as I will call her) for several months. She became pregnant by him, but for various reasons, it was decided that she would go home (to a non-EU country) to give birth, and the child would be adopted. So, she went home, and then decided to keep the child. And then decided not to come back here. Meanwhile, Joanne's sister, Leah (as - you guessed it - I will call her) is living and working here. Charles is working in the same place. Can you see where this is going? I did, long before it got there!

So, Charles was, as he says, "doing the dirt" on Joanne with her sister. And not telling anyone. (Though it wasn't hard to guess when he was working then, now, and everywhen, and never coming home.) Somewhere in amongst this, he and Joanne broke it off. Then, apparently, he discovered that Leah was screwing someone else. And she is now pregnant, I'm told, and says it's by the someone else, but the timing is seemingly all wrong and it's probably Charles'. *shrug*

Anyway, Charles is now having a major attack of the guilts. Over, of all things, the fact that "I lied to everyone about my relationship with Leah"! Uh, hello, you didn't say anything to anyone about it! When I finally get my hands on him (and seemingly he's broken it off with Leah, so he may come home more often), I shall be having a few severe words to say to him. Silly boy.

The nice people in the chatroom helped me sort out some of the plotting of the library story. Thank you, Kat, Ebeth, Carol and Wendy. I may actually start writing the thing soon.

In the meantime, I finally wrote a draft of the angel story that I can live with. Plan is to edit it on Saturday and then workshop. We'll see if that actually happens! This one is worrying me a little because it's in 1st person present tense, from the POV of the angel. A new departure for me, and I'm not sure if the format works. But hey, that's what the workshop is for!

Thursday. Trying from work...

It's now Tuesday and I haven't persuaded this idiot thing to post last Sunday's remarks yet.

I had something I wanted to say, but I've forgotten what it was, now. Oh well.

Ho hum. It's Sunday evening and I should be at training. Well, no, actually, training will be over by now. But I should, then, be on my way home from training, or possibly in the pub after training. But I am not. Why not, I hear you cry. (Actually, you don't care, do you? But I'm going to tell you anyway.)

Last week, at training, I was injured. No, I did not do a Brian and break a bone. It was a pretty minor injury in fact, but has caused disproportionate inconvenience. I was happily Incanting at someone during one of the exercises, and pointing at my target, as I am prone to do. When another person came running by, hitting randomly at people - and hit the end of my pointing finger. Quite hard. I muttered curses, and at the end of the exercise, requested him to be more careful about pulling his blows. I thought the finger would stop hurting in a minute. It didn't. It continued to throb in an annoying and persistent manner, like rain or a telesalesperson.

I did the next exercise, and then decided to give up, as finger was getting no better and not gripping my sword terribly well. Spent the rest of the afternoon getting chilly and bored watching the others. By the end of training, finger was swollen and beginning to turn interesting shades of green and purple. Next morning, it looked like a fat, blue-green-purple-magenta mottled sausage. And would not either bend or straighten. (And before anyone starts saying, "well, it could have been broken" - it wasn't. I checked at the time, and got a second opinion off Patrick. It was just badly strained.)

Now, a week later, my finger is almost back to its normal size, though still blotched with bruises down the inner side and over the top knuckle. And still not normally usable. It is amazing, the number of things that suddenly become Very Difficult to do when your dominant forefinger is out of action. Stupid things, like brushing teeth, lacing boots, cutting cheese... Naturally, it was the day after it happened that we had a CCB at work and I had to (hand)write the minutes. Painfully, and less legibly than normal.

I can do most things now, but the finger still doesn't grip reliably and twinges painfully if I bend it too much - which happens frequently, as I try to use it normally. Sewing is still out, which is annoying as I have a handful of projects waiting. So I felt it better not to go to training this week; I don't know how well I'd do hanging onto a sword when another sword hits it. And I really don't want to reinjure it! So I stayed at home and cleaned the fridge instead (ugh!).

So there you go. That was the Saga of Dorian's Finger. Not very interesting, really.

What else? The referendum date has been announced. Idiot government.

For the benefit of my non-Irish Dedicated Readers (i.e. most of you!), I should explain that, in order to deal with the planned expansion of the European Union (a bunch of Eastern European countries want to join), they drew up something called the Treaty of Nice. This contains a bunch of changes to the current structure of the EU, and all current member states have to ratify it. In most cases, this consists of the foreign minister or whoever bringing it home to his government and saying, "here's this nice treaty; let's ratify it" and the government saying, "yes, let's."

Not in Ireland. In order to ratify it, we have to change the constitution. And that means we have to have a referendum, and let the populace decide on the matter. We had the referendum last year. The populace (or the 30 or so percent who turned out to vote; EU-related referenda always get a low turn-out) said "No, we don't like this." (Not, I think, that terribly many people object to letting Hungary, Poland, and the rest join the EU. More that (a) half the voters didn't understand the Treaty and (b) the rest objected to the loss of influence that Ireland will be subjected to.)

So, you'd think the government would go "oh look, the people don't like this treaty; maybe we should find out why and then nag the EU to do something about it." Fat chance! We are now being asked to vote, again, on the exact same treaty we already rejected. As a friend of mine said, "Dear Mr. Ahern, which part of "No" did you not understand?"

But I anticipate some entertainment from the matter; with any luck, the vote will be "no" again, which will make the government look very foolish (Ireland is the only member state which has not yet ratified the treaty), and with a bit more luck will bring them down. I'm not sure if we've ever had a government that only lasted four months...it's possible, actually, given the three General Elections we had within eighteen months, back in the early 80s.