My ideal . . . mode of transport


I was in my bedroom the other day, meditating on how cute I’d look in a little pair of snow boots over the coming festive season. I imagined carrying brightly coloured parcels and smiling at strangers while wearing those little boots. Everyone would finally see how lovable I am.

Then I thought about how much cuter my sister would be in the little boots, because she has a good heart. My mood darkened and I decided instead to imagine my ideal mode of transport.

As a child I dreamt of moving to New York City and making it big. So big I would need to possess a helicopter to ferry me between meetings and dance parties. What actually happened was I moved to Dublin where I spend my days cycling my brother’s old bike between my house and Lidl. I thought about this yesterday when a lady working in the bank said to me, “Everything’s a nightmare until you get used to it.” I thought about it so much I had to take extra medicine!

The upside to cycling is the sensual fashion choices it leads to. Is there a man alive who doesn’t find himself drawn to a woman in a balaclava and a construction worker’s high visibility vest? So mysterious. With one leg of her jeans tantalisingly rolled up? Mercy! He won’t stand a chance. Cycling helmets, too, make an unforgettable impression, particularly when worn indoors. I leave mine on – taking socks off my hands and fussing about with buckles wastes precious minutes. Minutes better spent buying keenly priced vegetables and trying not to cry. My helmet is silver and tilts to the left, completing the “broken robot-terrorist” look that drives men wild.

I get the bus too. I mean, I really get it. I love nothing more than to sit upstairs, crack open a tin of something apple- flavoured and just clam bake with my buddies. We play music on our phones and swap prison stories. We frighten elderly people sitting nearby and that makes us feel relaxed and in control of our lives. I’d get the bus constantly if there were snacks available on board.

That’s where the train has an edge: the trolley. The relief that comes with all of the choices in the world whittled down, at last, to something manageable. Tea or coffee. Drink it as you gaze out the cinema screen train windows. You’ll be happy then, I’m telling you, even if all that’s showing that day is The Midlands and you know the ending.

Ultimately though, it comes down to words. I’m tired of complex words like “decisions” and “responsibility”. Give me short, simple words.

Like you use with horses. You got it, Detective – the ideal mode of transport has four knobbly knees, two brown eyes and one strong heart.

I’ll get a horse so when I need to, I’ll just say one quiet word. Hup.

And the two of us will get the hell away from everything and everyone else.

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