Life in the slow lane

One of the difficult things about living in a place like Dublin, and I speak as someone who grew up in the country, is the sheer pace of city life. If it gets any slower, we'll all go mad. For example, I read during the week that, based on current projections, traffic in the capital is expected to move at "walking speed" in 10 years time. And I thought, OK, that will be a big improvement on the current situation, where you're lucky if you achieve crawling speed on some routes; but even so, 10 years is a long time to wait for it.

I got stuck in a side-street for 45 minutes one morning recently, and I was sorely tempted to abandon the vehicle (my garage's recommendation, in any case) and just walk away. Of course, I knew this would be a stupid thing to do - unless I removed the registration plates and filed off the chassis number as well - so I didn't.

But even when you've arrived at your destination, trying to park is such a slow, frustrating business it's becoming a health risk. More and more drivers, whom you think are doing something else, are in fact looking for the same parking space as you; and when one suddenly becomes available experienced Dublin commuters sense such an event from a change in the local air pressure, you have to act fast, even if it means cutting across three lanes of traffic and reversing up a one-way street on two wheels.

Fortunately, you can't do any of this be- cause you're probably gridlocked. So as a back-up plan, you may try banging your head against the steering wheel to see if it improves the traffic flow; and that's where the health risk arises.

It's not just in traffic that life is slowing down, however. Have you noticed the growing amount of time you now spend in so-called "convenience" stores? These shops are every- where, and yet there are always other people in front of you, day or night. (The difference is, after about 10 p.m., the shops are obliged by law to broadcast Dublin's popular late- night talk-radio stations; so that while queuing, you're forced to listen to lively public debate on such typical issues as whether the previous caller was a "slapper" or not).

Although it looks a stressful job, assistants in convenience stores can be the most relaxed of people, often taking the trouble of tapping in the full bar-code numbers rather than scanning your purchase, or just having conversations amongst themselves while you wait. Comforting as this is, though, I think what makes queuing in them so unbearable is that, as in fast-food restaurants (and most of Dublin's are medium-paced at best), the queues are notoriously unpredictable, except for the certainty that yours will move the slowest.

Technological improvements have made some things faster in Dublin. Twenty years ago, you had to queue for ages in a bank just to withdraw your own money; whereas now, thanks to the ubiquitous cash machines, you can queue for ages outside the bank. But the point is, you have to queue for everything: taxis, restaurant tables, the attention of a barman, etc. Apart from the plethora of consumer goods available, it could be the last days of the Soviet Union. It's enough to make you move to the country.

OF course, the country can drive you mad too. On foot of a recent column I wrote about the dawn chorus, I got a letter from a woman in Waterford who, in case the local gardai are reading this, I will call only Ann. Her problem was crows, she says, and when she was pregnant, these birds so annoyed her that she took to "discharging a shotgun at them through the window" every morning at 5.30. "No birds were harmed during the exercise, nor was the power supply for the area disconnected," she assures me, adding: "What disturbed me about the whole episode was not the effects of pregnancy on my testosterone levels, but my husbands ability to sleep while a shotgun was being discharged within six feet of his head."

That is cause for concern, all right, and my only comment is that Ann's husband may have been suffering from Army-style hearing loss. But I had another, even more testosterone-charged communication from the country recently: "the lovely Gatineau Hills of West Quebec," no less. Patrick MacFadden, who lives there, e-mailed me on the subject of ant extermination, his sure-fire method of which has wiped out every French-speaking insect in Canada. I pass it on here:

"Two cups boiling water; six tablespoons boric acid. Stir vigorously, use now or wait until cool. Get hold of an old plastic margarine container or some such object and punch a few holes in the sides close to the bottom. Dip a dozen or so cotton balls into the sugar-boric solution, put them in the container and place the whole thing in the ants' paths, (remembering to put the lid back on the container to keep out wasps and bees and such)."

Patrick adds the easy-to-remember advice to "check every few days to make sure your balls are still wet, if not, redip them," and concludes: "The slaughter doesn't happen immediately, because the deadly boric is cumulative; the ants cart it back, feed it to their young and, voila, the entire colony is toast. Good in house or garden, and a new use for old margarine containers. Keep any unused boric acid solution in the fridge."

So there you have it. But if anybody is trying any of this at home, please be careful. And remember, when you're not using it, to keep the shotgun in the fridge as well.

Frank McNally can be contacted at fmcnally@irish-times.ie