A Schoolboys’ Train Tale…

Monday… freezing outside… dark, cold. I managed to convince the good lady wife to go throw me off at the station. In my attempt at closing the front door I spill coffee, just a little, no need to go back inside for a cleanup. While getting into the car I notice the lid is off the cup, more spillage on the way to the station… the lid won’t sit still. Now I have coffee stains on my trousers… sh*te… not a good start to my newest train tale. The train arrives.

I head for the last carriage, the last door… it opens, no, drat… my seat is taken. I give the fellow a once over, drat again… I like sitting on that side… the canal side. I like sitting in the rear of the train… not a good start at all. Oh, did I mention I’ve left home without my phone? This is turning into that Monday blues feeling again… commuter wise, that is.

At Maynooth a young schoolboy gets in… he heads right in our direction, dumps his bags on the floor and slumps down in the seat diagonally opposite the fellow sitting in my seat of choice. Next station… Louisa Bridge… where have I heard that name before? Up gets the man… gathers his possessions and heads for the door… Aaaah, yes, he looks like an Intel type, I muse as he heads for his day of enjoyment at the Irish home of the multi-national giant.

I’m still contemplating a seat switch when the idea is promptly thwarted… by 3 more noisy young schoolboys heading straight toward their buddy.

The penny drops… this is their little corner. Little did I know. The walkway is now littered with bags. The lads each seem to have two bags, weekly supplies of whatever. I’m subjected to the constant torrent of verbal’s… they’re not intentionally noisy… just mother nature at it’s best. A few stations go by… at Clonsilla three more lads join the party… I’m now surrounded by 7 brats… that they surely are… dumped themselves all over the seats… letting the whole world know they’ve not done their French homework. Ladies stand, maybe the youngsters will rise to the occasion and offer their seats to the members of the fairer sex… but alas, what do they care? They attend a private school, they’re special! And are they acting it! 😉

There’s method in the madness, they need to do homework. Out comes the books. The fellow sitting next to me gives tips… two others jot down the answers… all the while on the chat about their beloved French teacher…

Train window smiley... beaming down on the lads...

’This is going to hurt me more than you…’ he mimics her high-pitched voice. His rendition of the good woman’s rant gets giggles going… the debate rages on as they scribble down the answers. The folk standing in the isles move as far away as possible. I’m trapped. Ashtown Station… one more joins the gaggle. He’s forced to stand. Why? I’m in his seat… and, as I’m doing this piece I most certainly won’t offer up my spot so he can be united with his buddies.

Aaaah…drat! The new arrival asks all sorts of questions… why do they need to do all of that? The boss-boy fellow beside me insists it must be so as to personalise each rendition. The new arrival bothers none… he returns to reading his free paper.

Personalise… these lads are well ahead of the rat race… they are multi-tasking as they grow up. They talk all sorts, about traditional music and the need to catch the later train while all the while doing their French homework. One of the more astute lads emphases the need for getting to school later. What was this drive for having to be at school early on a Monday? After-all, those plebe teachers working for them have no right to demand they rise earlier just because it’s exam time…

The banter is getting to me by now… private schools, the need to be different. Yet… here I see 8 young lads acting just like what I would say 8 young lads do all over the world… They chat on about diverse issues afflicting their very existence… Christmas, the need for doing some or other camp where the lads have to share rooms. Little Johnny seemed to have followed Little Paddy around most of last year while Little Paddy seemed to have developed a need for chain-smoking… even in the dead of the night. Now they turn on Little Johnny… slagging him about his past mis-endeavours… boys… yes, they will be boys.

Drumcondra Station… the books are hurriedly returned to their carriers… this is their stop. Boss-boy informs the others to look-out for his bag… ‘Mind the wine bottles,’ he says… Wine bottles? Yep, it’s for the charity whatever… imagine the parents getting locked while the kids play with their Santa hand-outs. More giggles…

He is last to leave… as he gathers his bags he bends over toward me… ’I hope it gets published…’ he whispers.

So… that’s why the boss-boy fella went quiet for a while… he was peeping over my shoulder. This lad’s a winner… he’s going to go far. No wonder I copped on very soon that he was boss-boy of the bunch.

‘Thanks…’ I say… yes in fact, it will be published soon… that’s a promise!

Now I’m happy I never did that seat switch… I actually got to sit next to a winner… maybe some of his charisma rubbed off on me… 😉

Misty morning train windows... crossing the Liffey on a winter's morning...