Into the teeth of a storm.
Bad weather drives workers indoors to actually work. No skyvin' out for a fag/ coffee/ sandwich/ chat. When your umbrella has been blown inside out, your shoes are shippin' water and it's unpleasant... you become productive.
That's lovely in a centrally-heated office with the percolator on and Mr Muffin delivering to your desk at 10.30 but its going to be a bad day for the bike messenger.
Like God turning on the weather it had all changed by 10am. A wheelie bin came at me across Leeson Street. My satchel was flapping in every gust like a landed salmon on a riverbank. Rain was finding every tiny angle to meander into my jacket. My shins were numb from the rain-water and wind. I only had mitts, so a quick return to base had me rifling rubber gloves from the kitchenette and an old pair of woolly socks from a pile of discarded odds and ends in a corner. The socks went over the gloves and made me look like Fagan. I didn't care. Nobody did. Some Messengers went home and switched off their radios. My signature sheets were fast becoming a clump. My mouth was numb, I couldn't ask for basic things without sounding like a stroke-victim. I kept going because I figured the consequences of stopping even for a minute would be damaging. By God it was busy. I probably did close to sixty jobs what with people forced indoors and not all our boys willing to work. My fingers were sore, then numb-sore. My whole being was cold despite gallons of snatched coffees and enough Snickers to silence Mr T. Around three I took off my socks and shoes and semi-heated them under a hand-dryer in a toilet under O'Connell street. An hour later I had to pee in a stairwell for a lack of any other place to go. Six o'clock saw me spent. Finally back to the base, I didn't have the strength to face the gloom outside. But when I did the rain had stopped, the wind had died and when I looked up to the amber street-lit sky, a jet was flying low over the buildings towards the airport.
That's lovely in a centrally-heated office with the percolator on and Mr Muffin delivering to your desk at 10.30 but its going to be a bad day for the bike messenger.
Like God turning on the weather it had all changed by 10am. A wheelie bin came at me across Leeson Street. My satchel was flapping in every gust like a landed salmon on a riverbank. Rain was finding every tiny angle to meander into my jacket. My shins were numb from the rain-water and wind. I only had mitts, so a quick return to base had me rifling rubber gloves from the kitchenette and an old pair of woolly socks from a pile of discarded odds and ends in a corner. The socks went over the gloves and made me look like Fagan. I didn't care. Nobody did. Some Messengers went home and switched off their radios. My signature sheets were fast becoming a clump. My mouth was numb, I couldn't ask for basic things without sounding like a stroke-victim. I kept going because I figured the consequences of stopping even for a minute would be damaging. By God it was busy. I probably did close to sixty jobs what with people forced indoors and not all our boys willing to work. My fingers were sore, then numb-sore. My whole being was cold despite gallons of snatched coffees and enough Snickers to silence Mr T. Around three I took off my socks and shoes and semi-heated them under a hand-dryer in a toilet under O'Connell street. An hour later I had to pee in a stairwell for a lack of any other place to go. Six o'clock saw me spent. Finally back to the base, I didn't have the strength to face the gloom outside. But when I did the rain had stopped, the wind had died and when I looked up to the amber street-lit sky, a jet was flying low over the buildings towards the airport.
And I knew I would soon have to do the same.
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