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"They are all bloody mad!" My best friend from England said to me the other day. Irish drivers don't know how or
why on earth they should indicate at roundabouts .. I told her "It's so the English can't tell where they are going",
as I failed to indicate myself, muttering curses under my breath about the driver in front. But driving in Ireland does that
to you; it takes a perfectly sane, normal woman and turns her into something akin to a banshee crossed with a foul mouthed
truck driver. My fellow countrymen recently blessed courtesy of the Celtic Tiger with cash aplenty, children called Enya or
Shannon, a taste for Tapas, the proud owners of bland, sterile new-build homes and very probably a 'little bolt-hole in the
Tenerife' have lost their inbuilt sense of charm and grace - Like a toddler on a sugar high, too much of anything shows
in the temperament. We are all guilty. 'Good day to ya', a commonly heard phrase whilst walking on Irish roads has been replaced
by 'get the f*ck out of my way'. Doubtless some would say that we all have to progress, get sophisticated, grow up. Improve.
But is having less time for our fellow man yer actual 'progress'?
Ireland has fled from it's 'Darby O'Gill And The Little People' image so fast it's left skid marks - a good thing in my
opinion, but one would have to ask if the recently free run too far too quickly.
Another delightful quirk of driving in Ireland is potholes. Not so much potholes as bloody great mine-shafts, divots in
the road as deep as Hades. I am not entirely sure why Irish roads are littered with holes, perhaps it's a cunning form of
traffic calming. "Dig a fecking big hole there, Sean. That'll slow the feckers down." All I know is that you run
the risk of losing fillings and the best part of your suspension when you drive over one. One has no choice but to drive over
them in most cases, due purely to the obscene narrowness of the roads. However, this does have it's advantages; it is quite
possible to lean out of the car window, gather an armful of wild flowers and drive at the same time. It is always best to
find the silver lining in most situations, don't you think?
Then of course there are the white vans - delivery vans. These vans are driven by men who can eat a pie, make calls, or
better yet, text, on his mobile phone and proffer obscene gestures at other drivers all at the same time - my girlish heart
does tend to wonder if this deep level of dexterity extends to the bedroom and the undoubted delight of Mrs Van Driver, but
I digress. The prerequisite of being in the White Van club is the rakish display of only one brake light (or tail light,
if you are reading this in American) and the words 'also available in white' writ large in the accumulated road dirt on the
back doors of the van. Poetry in motion ... Celts on the move in white vans, monster trucks and Things They Can't Bloody
Park ... Ah! Progress!
Deborah Lysaght © 2007 All Rights Reserved
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