A funny thing happened on the way to the hospital…
Over the last year I’ve gotten lifts, taxies, cycled, bussed and walked to St James’s to see Robert, so I know the route backwards. Sometimes when I’m cycling I bring my glass recycling to the Marrowbone Lane facility, and yes, it’s mostly bottles: some coffee or jalapeno jars but mostly bottles which contained alcohol. Bite me.
When I cycle this way I normally continue on through Basin Street flats which backs on to St James’s and, which during the day, is normally okay. I only return home that way when the evening is a bit darker because I don’t have lights on the bike. I’d be safer from cars there…
On the way home last week some young lads were mooching around and the smallest of them decided to call out to me ‘what’s the story, love?’ and stood right in front of the bike. I headed directly for him until he was almost straddling the front wheel and I had to come to a stop.
‘Ya wha’! Ya bleedin’ Cee U Next Tuesday!’ said the cheeky little swine.
‘That’s terrible language for such a pretty little girl…’ I announced loudly as I got my pedal underfoot and took off – and pedalled like bejasus (his mates were quite big).
He looked horrified as his bigger friends pointed at him … ‘she thinks you’re a girl!’ as I beat a hasty exit.
There were more utterances from the barons of Basin Street but they faded into the distance.
Foiling Would-Be Robbers
Last night (Thursday 20/9) I decided it was getting way too dark to cycle so headed towards Dame Street to catch the 123 bus. On the way I met a Fanagans colleague Keith Whelan who agreed that it was safer on the bus than on the bike at night.
What did we know?
I turned left from George’s Street onto Dame Street where I saw a bus heading in the right direction, so put on a bit of a spurt. There was a young guy begging and I said something like ‘no thanks’ to him, glanced over my shoulder to check the bus position, faced forward again… and then something hit me hard on my left, I went flying into the air and landed painfully on my ass.
Two men helped me to my feet, saying ‘where did you come from?’ and ‘how did you get there?’: questions to which I had no reply.
A young guy (who worked in the shop, apparently) came over to ask was I okay and kept saying ‘sorry’. So I asked him was he the person who ran into me? And he said ‘no, it was that guy there’, pointing to a relatively respectable-looking middle-aged man who was propped up against the wall mopping the blood off his brow with his peaked cap.
The two men were very kind, asking was I okay to continue my journey, etc., and when they saw I was allright, discussed the sequence of events that had me suddenly at their feet. It seems the would-be thief slammed into me, ricocheted into a pole where he skulled himself, and had to lean against the wall to get himself together. The young guy (from the shop) said he’d been trying to steal ‘something’ and legged it when challenged.
All I sustained was a few bruises and a scratch, but frighteningly, if those two men hadn’t been there I’d have landed on Dame Street in front of the traffic. Or I could have knocked them in front of a car.
My heart went out to the ‘would-be’ thief: he looked quite miserable and shocked, and was hurt too. I don’t think the shop called the guards. He didn’t steal anything after all. But if I’d been a little old lady instead of a little middle-aged lady it might have been a different story.
Ritamary (sister-in-law) says I shouldn’t be allowed out on my own and Martha (sister) says she’s going to make me a skirt made of cones, big yellow ones…