I wonder to myself, like the editor of today's Irish Daily Mail, where our government is... Apart from our Minister for Transport, Noel Dempsey, we know he's currently on holidays. As for the rest of them, f*** knows. But rest assured; they weren't left to skitter home on foot last night after the buses came to a halt at 4pm in the (alleged) capital city.
Thankfully, neither was I. No, here types one of the very lucky ones. I just forced my way on to a Red Line Luas as far as Connolly Station and encountered the swarming mass of confusion that was people, who usually get buses home, trying to get tickets and/or information. There was nary a high-vis jacket in sight as a crowd of Luas users met a crowd of Inter City commuter users creating a gidlock at the entrance. There was no queue, instead there was a front row of a concert waiting to get into a mosh pit to see a band no one was really into. Thankfully I already had a ticket, so I tentatively "sorry'd and excuse me'd" my way through the undulating wall of puffa jackets, peppered with the wet dog smell that comes courtesy of woollen coats. That task only took close to ten minutes. As I headed towards the automatic ticket barriers, it was clear anyone could have walked through to the platforms as all the gates were open, but who was there to inform the undulating mass?
Trotting towards platform five, I found a diesel bound for Wexford, which was due to stop at Dun Laoghaire. Perfect. I could skate the rest of the way. There was an aroma of burning rubber from acrid smoke as the train departed Pearse St. The girl beside me looked up at the one opposite and said: "Jaysis, if anything happens to this train I don't know what I'll do." The train, now cursed, came to a complete standstill outside Sydney Parade. Fifteen minutes later, still no movement, or information from the driver. Half an hour later, still no movement/information. Forty minutes later, still no movement/information. I was huffing and puffing like a maniac at this stage (patience isn't my virtue), much to the distress of the fellow passengers, so I found out what was going on... on the internet. Yep, there it was, an announcement on Irishrail.ie saying that south bound DART services were momentarily delayed due to a technical fault on the 16.30 Dublin to Wexford train. Oh, and another passenger got a phone call from a friend in the DART behind us who knew more information about our plight than we did. Nary a word. Nothing. Perhaps our train was too old to have an intercom system... Frightening.
Approximately an hour later, the musty smelling beast started groaning its way slooooowly onwards (at one point the guy in the seat across said, "I still smell burning, but at least we're moving!" to which the lady opposite said "Yay, the train's burning and we're on it."), whereupon it parked itself in a track cul-de-sac at Dun Laoghaire station. Was there an announcement informing those hoping to go all the way to Wexford that the train had in fact terminated? Lord, no, sure why would you need one of those. And why would hundreds of confused, frustrated and freezing passengers need to know what direction to go to in order to get to the main Dart platform? Why, they can just hop over the railing and land on a miniature ice rink leading on to railway tracks!
Honestly, at the risk of sounding wildly overdramatic, it was like arriving at a concentration camp. The lack of information. The layer of snow that had frozen solid, rendering the simple act of walking calamitous. The en mass bids for escape over the railing, to get to main Dart platform, limbs collapsing once they connected with the ice slick on the other side. There were a couple of blind people and their frightened dogs, which added to the confusion brilliantly. All that was required was one bloke on an intercom - failing that, a megaphone - to let the hoards know where the various platform entrances and station exits were. All three of them. Instead, there were people risking breaking their necks by jumping over a railing as they had no idea of the other options... I then skated home along the mettles, snotting myself only three times.
This morning, as predicted, the snow froze so I joined two other lone figures walking to our local station in the middle of a main road. Taking one's chances with the traffic was safer than even considering touching off a pavement. Surely the city centre would be better... HAH! I toyed with getting off at Connolly and engaging the relative safety of the Red Luas to Jervis, but a perverse side of me wanted to see how bad things really were. Tara Street it was. Even the sight the compacted snow sleeked across the platform wasn't enough to cop me on. There obviously wasn't enough staff to clear the snow off yesterday evening before it froze. Yep, that must be it. The person idly throwing grit down on top of it must've been too busy to undertake that task also.
Butt Bridge outside Tara Street looked beautiful stretching white across The Liffey, in a 'Winter Wonderland death trap' kind've way, with train commuters gingerly stepping off the pavements to slide into oncoming traffic at the lights. The usual dollops of vomit dotted along the Eden Quay towardsO'Connell St Bridgehad an added delight factor this morning, what with pedestrians careering towards them unable to stop. Halfway up the quays, the pavement changed consistency from solid ice to extra powdery. Had someone managed to add salt or some kind of white grit to it? Bravo if they had, pity it just created a false sense of security over the layer of slippy ice below.
As expected, there were all sorts sliding all over the place, which brought a certain comradery with it - workmates tottering hand in hand, and what not. "Are you all right, there?" was being shouted a lot, as strangers thudded to the ground. That was about the extent of it, though; few were helped up as people's goodwill didn't extend to the level of possibly encountering the ground themselves.
Again, I was one of the lucky ones. Many moons ago, my mother told me to put a thick pair of socks over your shoes in such conditions. It looks mental, but it helps... until they become clogged with compacted ice themselves. This happened as I walked down the road on which the office is situated. Having been forced on to the footpath due to traffic, a misplaced foot skidded and, when I went to grab a drainpipe, imagine the horror when I noticed it too was wrapped in a sheet of ice. So the ample arse connected with the ground. No harm done. No sprains. No bones broken. No cracked skull. Yep, I'm one of the lucky ones. The journey from Tara Street toGreat Strand Streethad a soundtrack of sirens. An uncle is still recovering from a fall he had on New Year's day and an aunt, who slipped in town, has refused to leave her house since.
Is this the norm? What other "capital city" slides to a halt after less than an inch of snow - which had been forecasted? What happens in London, New York, Paris, Berlin, the whole of Poland, Russia, and Canada when they get PROPER snow? Why is there no contingency plan in place for such events? This is not 1982! Why was almost every person on that train last night audibly mumbling "f***ing country... it's a joke." Cork under water in November and Dublin now in a state of panic over a few centimeters of snow. Where is our government?!
Rant over. Safe home - that's if you actually made it in to work today. And feel free to leave your stories below, I bet a lot of them are worse than the one above, what with some of you forced to walk home to Blackrock and Sandyford.
