When you write a blog like mine you are always looking for a whimsical, self-deprecating angle, something that will amuse one’s readers by gently making fun of oneself.
Take, for example, a situation where you wrote a post last weekend about how you were forsaking the boring, reliable, dependable train, and that from yesterday, June 1st, you were committing yourself to bus travel by buying a monthly ticket. Imagine how funny it would be if you could then report that the bus broke down on the way home on that very first day. The temptation to invent such a story would be huge, though you’d know that this would be a very bad idea. Your readers would know that you made it up, things like that don’t happen in real life, you’d lose all credibility.
The great thing about my life is that I never have to make stuff up, because things like that really do happen. Regularly. So yesterday evening, on my first evening as a paid-in-advance bus-commuter, the bus genuinely did break down.
Sometimes I think my guardian angel is a Ghost Writer (by which I mean the ghost of an dead writer, not someone who writes this junk for me) who, having suffered during his own life the agonies of Writer’s Block, helps me avoid it by filling my life with daft occurences and odd coincidences.
Either that or Dublin Bus are so desperate for new customers that, having noticed me catch the bus for the first time a couple of weeks ago (well, they do admit their buses have CCTV), they put their very best bus on the 84x route until they lured me in. Once they saw me buy the monthly ticket they were able to relax and put back on the usual bus, the one held together with duct-tape and dried snot, the one that runs on the same engine as a pub-toilet hand-dryer.
I’m consoling myself by figuring that things can only get better. However, if I ever see a horse-and-cart (with or without the horse-nappy) approaching the bus-stop, with “84x” daubed on the side of the horse in day-glo orange lipstick, I’m back in the train-gang.