Escaped traffic lights recaptured

A herd of traffic lights which had made a sensational escape from a depot of South Dublin County Council overnight were recaptured and corralled in Firhouse this morning.

Under cover of darkness, the eight-feet high lights had sneaked out a hole in a fence and scattered across parkland into nearby estates.

Local resident, Eilish Okimbawano, told our reporter: "I came out to pick up the milk and there was one standing in my garden, eating the top off my Clematis campaniflora.

"I got it in Woodies in the 50% off sale," she added.

This is not the first time there has been a problem in South Dublin with roadside structures. In 2005, one-hundred directional signs disappeared along the M50. It is thought they migrated to Southern Italy for the winter.

The escaped traffic lights were rounded up by Roads Department staff on overtime this morning and corralled in a temporary compound off the Firhouse Road. A spokesman said:

"We think we got them all back, but it's hard to tell. They're pretty frightened at the moment and will probably just mill about for a few hours before settling down. Once they get used to the new surroundings they should all start pointing the same way."

Reports this afternoon from the Dodder Valley Park area of sightings of two more traffic lights hiding in shrubbery near Firhouse Weir are being investigated.

In the meantime, member of the public are asked to be vigilant and to report any suspicious traffic lights to their local Garda station.

UFO Over Firhouse: Alien on Doorstep Shock!

On Monday morning the local Council arrives in my area and takes away the household refuse at a fee of €8 per binload. As they come quite early (and, because for the past almost three years, I am now a wage slave and leave for my job quite early) the bins tend to be at least wheeled to the front of the house the night before. We affix a tag to the handle which proves we've paid the €8. As this is a valuable little item, we wait until morning to put it on the bin. Some bugger would surely steal it otherwise.

Anyway, I was standing tending to our wheelbin last Sunday evening when I was mildly surprised to see a circular object whirring steadily over my head about sixty feet up. At first, I couldn't make out exactly what the object was as it hovered there. It seemed to have a large, dark nucleus at the centre around which spun a pale coloured aurora. The think buzzed fairly loudly too and kind of wobbled uncertainly in its spinning motion.

A second or two later, the shape stopped spinning and straightened up into the shape of a model helicopter, the kind controlled by radio transmitter. The tail rotor stopped spinning momentarily, then started up again. Then the machine flew onwards for all of forty feet towards the gap between two houses to the rear of us before all power abruptly ceased and it dropped to a death on (by the sound of it) a concrete surface.

"Talk about having to wear a hard hat in your own back yard!" I said to Herself, telling her the tale.

We sat for an hour, watching television and drinking beer. Then the doorbell rang. Herself got up and answered it.

Smirky Greensleeves was standing on the doorstep.

"I got a new model helicopter today," he said, a picture of buck-toothed innocence. "And my Mom and I were flying it in the field and we lost it. You didn't see it did you? I've asked at all the other houses."

We wondered why he'd asked at all the other houses first. Herself was trying to dice him with death rays from her eyeballs as his little bright halo pinged audibly above him.

"It crashed over there," I said, pointing over my shoulder towards the rear of the house.

His little ratty eyes grew rounder.

"You saw it?"

"Yes. It went down..." I walked towards the back window and counted houses. "... After the second house on the next road."

Mock, fawning, incredulity.

"It went all the way over there?"

Okay kid. I can't hold Herself back any longer. If you don't feck off she will be peeling your skin off in about five seconds.

I retold the tale of the buzzing noise and the yoke spinning around and the short onward flight and the crash.

I added:
"You should fly those things close to the ground, you know?"

"My Mom and I were flying it way off over there," he lied, waving his arm back out towards the field. "There's some power in them," he grinned.

Like right. I was a kid too for a while. I know the first thing any kid will do is try to find how high and then how far away a model aircraft will go.

He buggered off. Half-an-hour later he was back again.

"I went around there and there's no sign of it."

"Well, it might have crossed the road to the other houses," I said. "It's difficult to say. I did hear it crash though."

"Well I can't find it."

"You're welcome."

I looked out at the gathering evening gloom.

"You're going to have a hard time finding it in the dark soon anyhow," I said.

"Yes. I might go home and go to bed and get up real early and look again," he replied through his lollypop-stick grin.

I've not been buzzed recently by any more model helicopters. Either he found it and it was damaged beyond repair, or, as I suspect, a neighbour pushing out their Sunday evening / Monday morning wheelbin found a junked toy scattered about a driveway and swept it up as so much litter.

I like the wheelbin idea.

I really like it.

New security feature at ATM?

I was getting cash out of the ATM in Firhouse a little while ago, and mindful of the recent bruhaha about false fronts and card readers and general fraud I was feeling quite contented with the familiar spat-upon screen, slashed machine frontage, and hacked off pieces around the card slot when suddenly a disembodied voice said:

"Who?"

I said, "What?"

"Who?"

I said, "It's me!"

"Who?"

"Me!"

"Who?"

"Me."

"Who?"

I tapped the numbers into the machine and took my cash.

"Who?"

"Still me."

"Who?"

"Going now. Goodbye!"

"Who?"

"No, really."

"Who?"

"Gone!"

"Who?"

I got back into the car and said to Herself:

"I think they should do something about that bloody pigeon."

Firhouse, February 13th, 2006

There were silent lines of Garda tape strung along the Firhouse Road today. It hugged the line of the hedgerow, tied off at intervals on telegraph poles. A young guard stood watch on the edge of the cordon at the Shopping Centre, shuffling about in his blue uniform and hat, waiting for orders.

The scene flew by at forty miles an hour as the taxi passed and I looked out, like the bystanders, on whatever might be glimpsed. Human nature, I suppose, wondering, fearful, sympathetic, shocked. The news came through in rumour in my busy day, almost forgotten later in my Valentine's Day card hunt, joining the small crowd of mostly men looking bemusedly at red hearts on Easons display stands, handing them mutely to the checkout girls to ring up and paper bag.

Tonight as the news reader reported again the deaths of a mother and her two children, the sky, overcast since morning, slowly shed great wet tears. I felt them fall on my back and on my brow as I put a chain though the bars of our gate and closed the padlock tight. I think that Jesus wept this evening. I said a small prayer in the dark and went inside.

Tomorrow, February 14th, we will think about love.