Really Nice Bus Drivers: A Celebration

It's time for an overdue YAY! for really nice bus drivers.

This breed of bus driver is, unfortunately, an endangered species. They are the pearls in a SEA OF OYSTERS AND CLOSED BUS DOORS.

Today, I was held back half an hour in work because the close-up went wrong (a frequent occurance). Usually, finishing up at 7pm every Friday, I'd be dawdling, texting and iPod-bashing the day away as I shuffled impatiently in my wait for the illusive 7.40pm 42 bus. Today, however, was a bit of a LEG IT scenario.

Over the course of my legger, I accidentally plowed through some youngwan, and had to go through the mandatory apology and politeness in order to avoid public abuse. This added a fateful twenty seconds to my obstacle-laden bus run.

Spotting the 42 from the crossing at Marlborough Street, I began UltraPegging. No way was I waiting for the 8.20pm, which would mean that I'd probably only get home from my 7pm finish at around 9.30pm. I'd be devo.

The bus pulled away just as I got to the bus stop. I was heartbroken. It was far, far away. However, I noticed the trusty Luas line had stopped the bus in traffic! In my greatest ArmChance move since THE BEGINNING OF SEPTEMBER, I ran up to the door of the bus... effectively in the middle of the road. Dreadful danger.

I looked sadly at the bus driver. He looked at me, and just turned back round and looked ahead. Crestfallen, I resigned myself to the inevitable DriveOff. I was turning to go back to the bus stop, when THE BUS DOORS OPENED. The light was green at this stage and everything. The driver beckoned me onto the bus.

I am almost fifty-six per cent sure that he is the only bus driver in all of Ireland who, at that late stage, wouldn't have relegated me to a 9.30pm arrival at home. I got in at 8.40pm. Delighted.

Thank you, Mr. Really Nice Bus Driver. Godspeed.

An Identity Crisis

There I was. It was Saturday night, and I was sitting in the bar of the Pearl Brasserie on Baggot St. (which is LUSH, by the way), having a good aul family gathering for my aunt's 40th.

The conversation turned in the direction of the recession, so, naturally, I zoned out. I picked up my iPhone and flicked onto my Facebook app to see if any of my crops needed harvesting, or if I'd any new comments.

I was pleased to see I had a comment from my good friend Damien, who had seemingly been searching the Waltons School of Music website.

Now, earlier in the summer, I had attended a five-week long Musical Theatre Workshop course (which was as hilarious as it was beneficial... a few characters in the class we shall say!). It tickled me on this particular occasion, therefore, to see that Damien had spotted me on the Waltons website, all angelic and crooning, having somehow been selected to be the face of the Introducing Singing for Adults class. I told the family who thought the whole thing was only GAS and proceeded to pass the phone around the table and have a good hearty chuckle at my expense (as the Twomey clan are wont to do)

We got on with our family chat, and during the lull between starters and mains, I checked Facebook again. There were a good few comments under the picture, most notably some from Stevi and Sinead, both of whom were questioning whether or not the picture was me. Sinead argued that the eyes were different (which I think they are). My family were completely divided, with Mammo and Aunty Louise saying it wasn't, and myself, Aunty Ger, Uncle Eamonn and Grandad saying IT DEFFO WAS.

Myself, my college friends, my home friends and my family couldn't decide. Some were adamant it definitely was. Some were convinced it wasn't. Some sat on the fence.

It had to have been. It was just too much of a coincidence. There's no way someone who looks that like me could have been in Waltons at the exact same time as me. It's like a Sister Sister scenario.

The girl in the picture is wearing the same top as I wore to the showcase rehearsal, but her hair is a shade darker. The hairstyle is the same. But her fringe is sweeping the opposite direction.
She has my dimples and my singing face.

Holly's theory is that the picture is of me, but I've been photoshopped to change the eye shape and hair colour so I can't sure for image rights.

2 days and 38 comments later, opinion is still 50/50.

Here's hoping it is me. I'm not having my face nicked!

OOOOOH DELISH.

Fresh vegetables.

So FarmVille has taken over my life.
You may know it from such locations as ALL OVER YOUR NEWS FEED ON FACEBOOK.

The premise? Farming.
Fun factor? Low.

Having said that... there's something very scrumptious about the prospect of EARNING. You start off with nothing but 6 plots of land, and 5000 coins and you work your way up. You invest in crops, and you're given a harvest time. Say, for example, you're planting Bell Peppers. You can't harvest them for 2 days, and if you're 12 hours late you lose your investment. If you harvest in time, you GET RICH.

This leads to PANIC when facebook wont let you in to FarmVille because your Butternut Squash is going to wither, or shopping-size eyebags in work because you've stayed up for an extra 3 hours because you have to harvest your artichokes.

Now, after playing for 6 weeks, I have expanded my farm twice, have approx. 150 plots of land, kajillions of animals and trees and no self respect.

But most importantly...

I HAVE A BARN.

I earned it.

Ah, really, now.

This won't do.

It won't do at all.

This is neglect of the highest capacity.

I'd like to say I'm back for good. I've been meaning to for ages... cannot certify it though, because I lied before.

Let this post be a message of hope... that Moments with Machneas will ride again.

IN PURE GLORY.

Long time, no blog

So, my last post is dated October 19th, 2008. Negligence the likes of which I have never laid eyes on... blogging is apparently a summer activity of mine.

Consider this post a resurrection.

Watch this space.