Heart Beat:National stress day or anti-stress day or whatever it was, found me driving from Limerick to Dublin on the N7. It was morning and the traffic was moderate.
Just on the Dublin side of Birdhill matters slowed appreciably and I joined an eastbound slow convoy at about 30mph. I speculated idly on the cause of the stagnation, just possibly it might be one of the National Roads Authorities mobile "traffic calming" devices, ie, the ubiquitous tractor. Traffic passing in the opposite direction appeared unhindered and proceeded at a normal pace. I speculated on the cause of our continuing obstruction and shared my thoughts with the Highest Authority. In retrospect perhaps I sounded a trifle irritated. "What's the hurry," she inquired calmly, reading the paper, "we'll get there sometime." And this said on national bloody stress day, mind you!
I settled back as we crawled towards Nenagh. The occasional van and car dropped out of the procession ahead and I drew closer to whatever was causing the obstruction. Eventually I got a clear view ahead. "Jesus Christ," I prayed; drawing another rebuke from the HA, "would you look at that." There, weaving in the middle of the road like some sort of demented Pied Piper, was a learner driver under instruction.
The driver paid no notice to her fellow citizens going about their presumably lawful business and queuing up for miles astern; moving over to facilitate safe overtaking was not a thought entertained. The instructor might have been asleep or possibly just scared rigid.
Again I requested the HA to view this doleful tableau, in which she evinced little interest. "Where are the traffic corps?" I demanded. "I don't know," she responded testily. "Why don't you ask them yourself?" "I'll tell you where they are," I said. "They're sitting on the Rock Road, waiting for some criminal to make a break down the bus lane." She pointedly ignored me.
But deliverance was at hand. The Pied Piper lurched left towards Nenagh and those liberated behind thankfully headed for the bypass. This was down to one lane for nearly its entire length.
Count to 10, my mother used to advise; I tried and it didn't work. It wasn't that I was in a particular hurry or going anywhere special. It was just an old fashioned notion that we ought to be able to travel the roads unhindered and at a reasonable rate. This was the snail racing segment. The wall of death part came later near the appropriately named townland of Kill, where the roadway divided into two separate passages; an adjacent notice invited you to select either. I selected the outer or left hand lane. It definitely wasn't my day. I found myself in a narrow strait, crash barriers on either side a good foot away from the car. Immediately to my left the traffic thundered southwards; the big articulated trucks shaking my flimsy little car. I wondered why this particular motorway has been under construction for half of my adult life.
Finally after further adventures at the Red Cow roundabout, I reached home; a broken man.
The HA yawned, stretched and said, "there now, that wasn't too bad was it?" I felt an immediate affinity with the luckless wedding guest in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner;
He went like one that had been stunned
And is of sense forlorn
A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
National Stress Day my ass; whoever dreamt that one up; bet you it had something to do with the HSE.
Since I am on wheels, I might as well continue. I am the owner of a Garmin Satellite Navigator Direction finder gifted to me by one of the Lesser Authorities. The quid pro quo apparently is that I pay for her wedding. Seems fair enough the way these things go.
Recently while driving, being guided by Mrs Garmin's rather bossy voice, the phone rang in the car. My caller asked if by any chance the HA was with me. I pointed out that the voice he had heard was Mrs Garmin telling me where to go. His was an understandable mistake. I might also have noted that the only phrase missing from the Mrs Garmin repertoire viz a viz the HA seems to be "why didn't you just stop and ask somebody?"
Rumours are abroad that we are to get a Green budget and that owners of gas guzzlers and SUVs are to pay for their sins in bringing the world to the brink of destruction. My sceptical little mind suggests that if we had no more traffic logjams on our inadequate road system, we would save as much in fuel consumption and emissions. How about getting rid of the cows instead, aren't they a major part of the problem?
Seriously though, this is a problem. The people who drive such vehicles paid for them with higher VRT, VAT, they pay higher Road Fund Tax and they contribute more tax on their petrol or diesel consumption. They bought their vehicles in good faith and now it seems they are to be retrospectively taxed. Furthermore, the resale value of such cars would be negligible, compounding the iniquity of this proposal. Emissions from such vehicles are in any case a tiny part of the global warming problem.
This is rather about polishing up a tarnished Green image on the one hand; and screwing more tax out of us on the other. Anybody who believes such a meaningless gesture will save the planet is possessed of an innocence that I truly envy. Time to sign off now as I have to go to my light bulb changing class.
Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon.