IN a bid to prove that I'm a real working class woman who's not afraid of the rough and tumble of everyday life, I decided to get the bus to and from work last Friday. The real reason is a little more complicated than that and had more to do with the fact there was a festival on in town and the road was closed to traffic. The first reason sounded better though.
Anyway me and public transport are not friends. Everytime I see a bus I get that Sunday night feeling I used to get when I boarded the Wexford/Dublin bus to go back to college with my bag full of shepherds pie and clean laundry.
The journey took about three hours along bockety roads and I was always hungover from the night before so each pothole felt like a crater. As soon as I sit on a bus now I feel hungover.
Anyways last Friday it was either get the bus or walk, the latter of which choices wasn't an option in six inch heels. So I tottered up to the top of the road on Friday morning only to watch the 9 am bus sail past me. Who said buses were never on time?
I stood at the top of the road for twenty minutes in my six inch heels looking like an unemployed hooker and wishing to God I'd just worn flats and walked to bloody work.
Finally the bus arrived and I clamoured on, paid my €1.50 and sat at the very front so I wouldn't miss my stop! By the time I got off, I thought public transport was the best thing ever, cheaper than a carpark and probably quicker than driving in each morning.
At 5pm that evening, full of enthusiasm, I headed for the bus stop only to find once again, the shagging bus driving away. Twenty minutes past, then thirty then forty. I was fit to explode and so were my feet in my six inch heels.
45 minutes after the first bus passed another one came along. I jumped on, gave the driver a dirty look and sat in the front seat, praying I wouldn't have to have my feet amputated.
Suddenly I realized we were going a different route home. I said nothing for about five minutes until I noticed we were heading for a particularly dodgy part of town. I turned to the lady on my left and asked her what bus I was on.
She informed me I was on a bus that went nowhere near my house. As we headed further into injun country I became more worried about how I was going to hobble home, than my personal safety.
I remained on board for a further twenty minutes until we came to the last stop, which was at least twenty minutes from my house. "I got the wrong bus," I whimpered to the bus driver telling him my address.
'Ah, yeah. This bus doesn't go anywhere near there.' He said, stating the obvious.
'Any chance you could drive past my house though, on you're way back into town? I'll pay you?' I pleaded, showing him my six inch heels.
Fecker wasn't interested in a nixer and made me get off. I practically crawled home, removing the offensive shoes half way there and walked down the main road in my bare feet.
Next time I'm getting a taxi.