TIME is a wind tunnel that sweeps you up and carries you down back roads you walked in the long ago to meet the ghost of your younger self on a street corner.
Last week, I had an early start for a day in Dublin. There was scrabbling in the dark as I found two of my tablets, not three, on the bedside table, swallowed them quietly so as not to wake the other half, and figured that the third pill would show up... and anyway I’d live.
Once, my Aunt Eileen went through a day feeling extremely woozy – only to discover that she’d taken all of her husband’s tablets instead of her own. I’m not there yet.
I tried to tiptoe so as not to wake the men of the house – but I’m an elephant in high heels – and headed for the train.
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The over-60s travel card is a bargain, it needs used… I’m my mother’s daughter.
“We need to use these cards before they take them away,” I told the red-haired fella behind the counter who looked far too young to be in a job.
Central station and the train to Dublin has changed in the 40 years since my father drove me up from Ballymena and stood at the barrier, watching as I strode through.
He is 36 years gone, but when I walk to the barrier, I still feel that if I turned fast enough, I would catch the ghost of him in his old raincoat, smiling and raising a hand in farewell… and my heart catches all over again.
Back then, I trit-trotted down to the platform in my mocassins, my gold headband, my second-hand blue Aran, my Brutus Gold jeans and Aunt Eileen’s old brown suede coat – 18 years old and tres chic. Even now, I still feel in my 20s, but the mirror says not.
Now, like ma, I talk to everyone and their dog.
We come from a long line of railway people – they are family to us. So chatting on the train is normal – asking the fella behind the counter does he think they’ll take away our free travel cards; asking the fella who pushes the tea trolley how he copes with it wobbling when he’s pouring the boiling water.
At the other end, we were chatted up by a man begging at Connolly station who told us the Vincent said he just needed five euros for a new pair of trousers and he’d pray for us.
We paid up. He was up like a shot and tore off with his money. It didn’t look like he was racing to the Vincent shop for the trousers.
It was a golden day... we were three student friends from the 1970s meeting up.
“We had such good times as students, not a care in the world,” said my old friend.
On a beautiful autumn’s day, I saw our younger selves free-wheeling on bicycles down city streets and perched on railings in sunshine.
Long ago the Halloween witch in Bewley’s window looked like a shop mannequin until she flicked a claw and scared the bejaysus out of all of us.
I found myself dreaming of a Bewley's cherry bun with white crystals of sugar on the the top. Do you even get those any more?
And yes, I got the times wrong for the return trip. But we are railway people and I talked to the railway fella and he said there wasn’t a problem.
We friends promised to meet again – to share another golden day because the sand of time trickles slow but sure and old friends are precious.
