WHEN I went to live in London in the early 1970s I used to be knocked backwards by the amount of traffic-conversation that preceded every gathering. If you went to someone's house for dinner you were expected to give an account of how you hacked your way through the jungle to get there, as if the place was some kind of forest-clearing in Borneo instead of a suburban house in Ealing, and in turn you had to listen to everyone else's story.
I decided it was a ritual, like the way a dog often turns round a lot before settling down: London people had to tell you where they left the M4 and how they had skirted round the back of Paddington. Then, when it had all been said, you could talk about real things.
It was very boring and I used to thank the Lord that in Dublin there would never be endless traffic stories like this because there weren't a dozen alternative ways of getting from one place to another; you sort of went on the main road. So we could start the real conversation immediately, I thought. We were ahead of the game.
Wrong.
They're here.
And if you want to unleash them on yourself, just mention the three words Traffic Management Plan and you'll get worse than you would believe possible.
And the really bad part about it is that there's no real solution except to leave three hours earlier than you need for everything, like in the middle of the night. And buy tapes with sounds of water rippling over little rocks things that will calm you down, and keep saying "ohm, ohm" and try to loosen your grip on the wheel if you see bones coming through white flesh on your knuckles.
That, and the knowledge that you are not alone, may help.
Listen to the conversations all round you: know that everyone else is in the same position. Get solidarity and comfort from realising that the city has come to a standstill for everyone, not just for you. Listen, listen and calm down.
IN a restaurant, a couple waits for their host. He arrives in the door with a face like thunder, nearly taking the door of the restaurant, the waiter, and the people at two tables with him in his path to his own table. He starts dragging off his wet overcoat, his gloves: his face is purpling, up by the moment.
"Jesus Christ" are the first words he gets out, and the place is treated to a description of how he waited for 20 minutes at one set of traffic lights, and 10 at the next and there was no parking and there were wardens and guards like spare parts at a wedding, walking round leering at people, and Jesus Christ! again bawled at the top of his voice.
The startled couple, who had been waiting for him for more than half an hour, lied and said they had only been there for five minutes: the crumbs of 10 bread rolls proved them to be dishonest.
"Can I take your coat?" the waiter asked, politely.
"Look, I don't need any hassle today, let me tell you.
The waiter moves nervously away, the man who owns the restaurant arrives to take the coat which is thrown half on a chair half on a floor, with the gloves and a scarf and the man looks as if he about to strip down to the buff unless somebody stops him and calms him down.
"A nice drink perhaps?" the owner cannot find the right word. There are no right words.
"Nor I do I want to be patronised," cries the purple man in choking voice that terrifies the wits out of his two lunch guests who had wrongly thought they were going to have a nice meal out.
ON the bus, the woman got up three times to bask the bus driver was there no way he could go any faster. The first two times he explained politely that there wasn't. The third time there was a slight edge to his voice when he asked had she any suggestions? Like maybe ploughing through the solid line of traffic ahead of him? Or revving up seriously and taking the bus into a flight path to feet above the line of trucks, cars and buses below?
There were tears in her eyes.
I'm sorry," she said, and went back to her seat.
People were kind and came up with suggestions. "Could she get off the bus and walk?"
No, she walked with a stick, she wouldn't be any quicker.
What about a taxi?
Wouldn't it be the same snail's pace.
Yes, but at least the taxi driver could take a different route. People will understand if you're late, they told her, everyone's late these days. It just can't be helped. Everyone understands.
The woman could not be consoled. It was an appointment with the bank. Everything depended on their getting this overdraft. The bank had a feeling that they had been unreliable in the past.
We all had the feeling that she might have been the tears of mascara didn't make her look like a good risk.
The bus was silent thinking about banks. Someone gave her a tissue and someone else loaned her a mobile phone. She made a poor job of explaining the traffic situation. None of us had any hope for the loan.
BOY stood at the bus stop - like everyone else he had been waiting forever as things went slowly by, grim-faced people from an adult world staring unhappily ahead. "Did you have a nice day at school?" asked an old lady anxious for a conversation - any conversation - to pass the time. The bus was 200 yards away, it might take 5 minutes to get to us.
"No," he said.
"Why was that dear?"
"The bus was late getting there and the teacher said how was it that the rest of the class got in, and I said they had fathers with cars and they all got up at 6 o'clock in the morning and I was told not to give cheek."
"Yes, well," she said.
"And then we all got late to the football pitch because the bus didn't come and there was no football, and now the bus hasn't come and I'm going to be late home and they're going to say how is that I'm the only one late home, and none of them go out but if I said that I'd be giving cheek again."
"It's a hard life," the old lady said.
"It's a shit life," said the boy, ending the friendship between them.
OUTSIDE a solicitor's office. An awkward meeting, two one-time friends have fallen out, a business is being wound-up, there are still areas of disagreement about some outstanding debts.
"Let's try to get this done in as civilised a way as possible," says one of them.
"Yeah, well it would be easier to be civilised if your bloody lawyer had turned up."
"He's stuck in traffic, his secretary said."
"Secretary? Gargoyle, more like. Where's she coming from not letting us smoke in the building for God's sake?"
They stood glumly in the rain smoking while traffic inched by.
Once they had cursed the traffic to the pit of hell, and counted the number of cars that had only one person each in them, there wasn't much to talk about. So they inhaled. And they talked about the old days, when they were starting out.
When the solicitor arrived yelping about gridlock and the car scrappage scheme and nobody caring and cities coming to a standstill, the two men were looking at each other as normal human beings. One of the few success stories of the Christmas traffic.