Idlebones

ipod, therefore I Sane.

September 17, 2006 – 1:01

Last week I took a train to Dublin to vist a few favourite book stores and generally amble about a bit. A suggestion of Christmas shopping is hurridly packed away in the back of my mind with the christmas tree lights as I decide I’m not quite up to that task yet. It’s been a while since my last train journey, and I’m quickly introduced to why.
The morning rush hour train brings out the worst in people sometimes. I took my seat, my polystyrene cup of burnt flavoured coffee placed upon the small window ledge, and pulled my book from my bag before stowing the bag under the seat. The train is almost full as we pull out of the station, and as we slow to a stop at Balbriggan, there are very few seats left. The seat opposite me is still free, I notice, as three young women rush to board at the last minute. They’re three shapes are contradictions of each other, but all wear similar warpaint. All have over dark makeup and pencile outlined lipstick. The tall girl’s foundation stops in a curious circular line just above her white V neck blouse, as if she spray painted her face this morning while wearing a polar neck, and then opted for the V neck before heading for the train. I have to resist the urge to reach out and see if I can peel back the layer. They stand in a circle at the door, frantically searching in opposite directions for a seat before, spotting the seat before me, they as one hone in on it. The short, slightly plump girl gets there first and plonks herself down with a triumphant exhalation, while her two companions form a close cirlce around her in the aisle. A conversation that had obviously begun on the way to the station was suddenly reignited in a loud, wide eyed voice that drew a frightened jolt from the heavily pregnant woman beside me, almost tipping my coffee over my Jeans. The tall woman, who sported a black curly haircut that has all the appearance of an easy 60 quid for Peter Mark for sculpting a toilet brush, was very excited.

“They’re a WONDERFUL opportunity, my Mark says. Two bedroom townhouses near the town. Just a mile walk. A great second property investment opportunity”, she gushes.”So much room for the BMW in the Drive”

I think I know the ones she means. One of the latest in a string of duplex estates thats begining to ring Drogheda. Large signs bearing the words ‘Stunning’, ‘Exclusive’, ‘Exceptional’ followed by ‘New living experience’, ‘Modern living at it’s best’. They’re quickly running out of words to describe these utopian new estates and will soon have to resort to ‘Bleedin marvellous’, or ‘downright Shaggable’ as the developers’ Thesaurus wears out.

Stubby is nodding vigorously, her mouth fixed in a constant ‘O’ as her pashmina quivers shockwaves down her torso. Her fixed expression from her repetoir makes her look like an enthusiastic baby sparrow catching the fat words her friend throws at her.

The third girl has been listening intently too, but her nodding head has untill now been pointed at the floor, as if deep in thought, washing the words around in her mind. She is the ‘inbetweenie’ I decide. Average height, slim and well dressed in a slate grey trouser suit, her shoulder lenght blonde hair tied in a bun behind her head. When she raises her head I see she is wearing a severe tight lipped expression to match her severe looking rectangular black glasses that give her the look she possibly was going for. Someone from a Specsavers advert.

“Mavellous space in the main bedroom, and a kitchen-come-dining room that would be just MARVELLOUS for dinner parties” Toilet brush continues.

“Ted and I looked at those” Inbetweenie says seriously. “We weren’t sure about they’re re-sale value. It’s such a competitive market out there for those kinds of places you know”

Stubby flicks into another pose. Eyebrows scrunched, lips pursed and head inclined towards inbetweenie, as if to say ‘Hmm. Valid point’

Toilet brush is unphased, however, and stubby’s face of interest is catching words again as her friend exhaults the virtues of the rental market, and getting out quick before the housing crash. Stubby quickly switches back to ’Valid point’ mode.

The carraige is now sucked into by their converstion that seems to boom above all other noise from the train. Commuters are looking up from the books and laptops towards the three women, and I stare at the same paragraph in my book, unable to hear my own minds narration over the free-to-air conversation that permeates the whole carriage.

Suddenly, and without missing a beat, they rotate. Stubby stands and yields her seat to inbetweenie. Toilet brush takes a step into the space vacated by inbetweenie, and stubby occupies Toilet brushes old spot. I glance at the pregnant woman beside me and catch her eye. She looks as helpless as me, and I notice she is still on the Johnny Depp article in Hello! magazine that she started reading 30 minutes ago. This is obviously a well rehearsed move, and I regard the passing coutryside for the visual clue they have worked out as they’re cue to swap places. We’re pulling into Skerries, having passed a signal tower and I take this to be they’re point of referance. Toilet brush would get her chance at the seat by: I tried to work it out. Donabate? Lusk? No, too far. Poor old toilet brush would be left standing for longer than the other two. How do they do it? The distance between Donabate and Skerries is lesser that that between Donabate and Howth junction. How could they make this fair?! Rivetting stuff!

Toilet Brush had worn a maroon wedding dress for her registry office wedding. Really a bridesmaids dress, you know. Stubby nods continually.

Inbetweenie had found getting used to the slow pace of Ireland difficult to adapt to, having spent 7 years in the couldron of London Ciity.

“Oh, yes, I knoooow”

More vigourous nodding was now coupled with ‘oohs’ and aahs’ at Toilet brushes’ unusual wedding vows ‘wot we had written ourselves, me and Mark’

I was so looking foward to what happens to Mister Norrel in my book, but I’m sucked into this conversation against my will. So was everyone else in the carraige as far as I could tell. Most had given up trying to read their books and stood with their heads either bowed in submission or pressed back against their headrests staring glumly at the ceiling. Some had given up entirely and retreated into their ipod headphones and were begining to relax into escape. Soon the carraige began to sound as if I was living upstairs to a nightclub; a tinny, rhytmic undercurrent of white noise with a beat began to fill the gaps in the conversation.

The ladies are onto Barcelona now. I’d missed the transition between wedding vows and Spain, dammit, but I assume there had been a valid link somewhere. Inbettweenie was now holding up a vanity mirror, her face marked by four cream splodges, father, son and Holy ghost.

“Such wonderful Prada in Barcellona” she said into her reflection, and began rubbing the cream into her face.

“Marvellous” Said Toilet brush

“Ooh yes” nodded Stubby

A sound of cruching bone and soft whimpering from behind me as a passenger begins chewing his own arm off. Someone had forgotten his Ipod.

“Course you know Tom and Jean have moved to Genoa? Renovating a farmhouse. They just have a caravan on the site now, but it should be a wonderful opportunity”

“Is that Genoa with a harsh ‘G’ or a soft ‘G’?

“Soft, I think. Yes soft”.

Inbetweenie hums agreement sagely, her head raised at a thoughtfull angle, gazing out of the window. She has to adjust her stance to get the look just right.

“Very overrated, the Italian market, in my opinion. Course, Croatia’s the place to be now, you know”, she  comments, absently. As if it’s something that should be obvious to everyone.

I’m contemplating my own arm. Stubby flicks between scepticism and confusion. There seems to be no in between, or neutral in her facial expressions.

I decide it’s time to retreat to my own ipod. I place the earphone buds in my ears and switch to Ron Sexsmiths ‘Retriever’ Album.

Toilet brushes niece speaks Spanish and Italian. “Very clever child you know. Naturally gifted”

“Ahh, thats wonderful. I’d love a….” Stubby trials off. I’m sure she was about to say how she’d love one of those. As if a multilingual child can be bought off the shelf in Hamleys.

I flick to Wilco. Ron is too mellow to drown this out. ‘Theologians’ starts to plod it’s way into my ears.

“Born in Madrid, you know. Wonderful city Madrid. Mark and I go there at least once a year”

“Marvellous”

I’m begining to panic now. I’m ready to risk a perforated ear drum to drown this out before I have to find an open window and hurl myself on the mercy of the speeding Irish countryside. Led Zepp are my last hope. I fumble with the dial and find ‘Black dog’.  I break through the sound barrier to John Bonhams booming drums and sink back gratefully into my seat.

Looking around at my fellow passengers, they smile back at me. Welcome to Ipod sanctuary, they seem to say. The last thing I hear before Jimmy Page drowns out the conversation for good is Toilet brush, looking about her and commenting loudly:

“Terribly rude how so many people turn their music up so loud on a train, isn’t it?

Stubby is throwing her eyes up, nodding vigourously, her face back in “Valid point” mode.