Fighting talk in the Big Smoke, reasons to keep the ears open on the train

‘HERMIONE dearest, have you ever considered that we might move to Dublin?’ ‘Dublin, did you say? Nice destination for a brief city break maybe, but I’m not sure I’d like to live there. The place is full of howayahs.’ ‘Hmm...’

‘What do you mean, hmm? Stop your hmm and spit it out, Medders.’

‘Well you know I was up in Dublin the other day?’

‘You had a medical appointment. You received the cleanest of clean bills of health. So now you are back in the bosom of your loving family, enjoying the delights beyond The Pale of life lived in Medders Manor. Long may you do so.’

‘Hmm...’

‘Oh, get on with it.’

‘Well it’s just the DART.’

‘ The DART?’

‘And the hospital waiting rooms.’

‘Am I jumping to conclusions, Medders, or are you thinking of abandoning Our Town, where you are surrounded by loving friends and doting acquaintances, in favour of a light rail line and visits to doctors?’

‘Hmm... Sorta.’

‘I’m sure the novelty of going from Sandymount to Sutton and back again or Killester to Killiney and back again would soon wear off. Besides, there are only so many medical complaints you can dream up to justify going to hospital clinics. And anyway, you seem to be bounding with good health, thank goodness.’

‘Yes, but you overhear such tasty stuff on the DART. They don’t seem to care what they say.’

Provincial towns are full of gossip, which can be fun. But the problem is that, because everyone in Our Town knows everyone else, there are strict limits to what is uttered in public. Conversation is constrained by all sorts of unseen and undeclared boundaries which are never to be crossed.

Contrast that with passengers aboard the 08:24 DART train running out of Bray the other morning. None of them seemed to give a damn what they said or who might hear them saying it.

The start of the journey was enlivened by a woman in marketing in conversation with a colleague over the phone. I know she was in marketing because she was loudly ventilating her views on the impact of some slip-up on the production front on the core customer base. Or some such guff.

Then I was joined by a couple of lads. Lad One who sat down beside me wore a light grey jogging bottom with matching sweatshirt. Lad Two was the sinister boyo who took a seat opposite. A combination of hoodie and cap ensured that the only visible part of his face was a pair of weasely eyes.

The pair spoke a language which comprised grunted vowels and it was only when Lad One took a call that I realised this was a pared down version of English. In deference to the caller, he began to use a few consonants.

‘I’m up today,’ he declared. It began to dawn that the man at the other end was Lad One’s solicitor. Lad One was due to be ‘up’ in court and here he was in a very public place giving loudly expressed instructions to his lawyer. He shamelessly admitted fighting in public but was indignant that arresting gardaí left him in his cell rather than arrange for medical treatment to the wrist he damaged taking a swing at some gouger. By the time he cut the call, he had worked himself up into a right old human rights lather. Stuff like this is never shared in the open in Our Town.

Perhaps Lad One would benefit from the unsolicited advice offered to all and sundry in the queue at the hospital. The man opposite me declared that it is always best to take off all rings before going into a fist fight. It is inevitably the wearer of the rings who suffers the worse injuries, apparently.

Perhaps the quality of things overheard in Dublin is not always as high as it was the other day but bear in mind that there is always a chance of running into Bono. We really should consider moving.