Post no. 12

It would be remiss of me not to sprinkle my wisdom on the crisis gripping our tiny island by the short and curlies, so here goes. (I’m talking about the public transport, in case you were wondering what I’m on about.)

My first reaction would be “Throw the lot in a huge cake mix, bake for a few hours and serve with custard.” More astute readers will have seen that the above proposition hits two birds with one stone (I hope I can still use this expression outside the hunting season)
a) Malta without bus and taxi drivers would be a happier place
b) exporting the cake to third world countries would contribute towards alleviating world hunger
Of course, first impressions and reactions are generally mistaken.

I know I’m not going to say anything that will rock anyone’s world here, but I think that the brouhaha kicked up by these not-so-gentle-men is intimately tied to the fact, in the Maltese psyche, that the world owes us a living. Let me explain.

The fuse was lit on a languorous summer Sunday afternoon, when the body that protects the interests of the drivers/owners of hearses, buses, red vans (why are they called minivans?) and white taxis said that unless the government does not go back on his intention to liberalise the acquisition of hearse-owning-and-driving permits, the aforementioned assortment of drivers, owners and similary juicy bites were going to strike.
A prima facie it appears to be a sympathy strike. It was, of course, nothing of the sort. The drivers and owners of buses, red vans and white taxis know that when the hearse-owning-and-driving permits are open to anyone who’s interested, it will be their turn to have their position challenged. A bit like Manic Street Preachers’ “If you tolerate this, your buses will be next”, if you will.
So far these people have been having it good, as the Americans say. They charged what they liked, they worked when and if they felt like etc etc. Now anyone who’s interested in buying a bus and/or a white taxi and/or a red van will soon be free to do so. And – here comes the hard-to-swallow bit for these people – they’ll have to pull up their socks. (Figuratively speaking of course, because for most of them wearing socks would cover the tattoo of a naked woman on their ankle. which explains why most public transport drivers don’t wear socks.)
I have heard that on joining this exalted body you sort of pledge your loyalty by depositing a substantial sum. If you do or think anything that will make life difficult for the other members of this
noble institution – in the present situation, to not participate in the strike – your money is forfeit. I don’t know if this is true. But if it is, it further undelines these people’s belief that they have a right to something without actually working for it.
They don’t want to be challenged. My impression is that they can’t deal with a challenge. And I’ll make a prediction. If a company decides to enter the public transport arena, it can expect to have its vehicles vandalised.
I’ve got to get back to work now. NOT by bus – I use a bicycle.

Toodle-oo.

 

Cycling

I used to be the proud owner of a Series III Land Rover (1981 model). I had to take the VRT test last February. You’ll have to understand one thing before reading on … I’m not one who’s taken in by looks. So it follows that Benedicta (the landy) was not one to turn heads, but she could roar when she had to, if you get my drift … anyway …

I took her to the VRT station and the attendant gave her the once over.

“She’s not going to pass.”

“I think you’re not going to pass her.”

“I’m not allowed to pass cars with 4 colours.”

Blank stare.

It dawned on me that Benedicta was going to need some cosmetic surgery. I didn’t have the time for all that, so I gave her to a Land Rover enthusiast who promised me that she wasn’t going to need anything as long as she was in his care. (I’m sure I heard him mutter “She’s had a life worse than a stray dog.”)

“Listen.”

“What?”

“How are you going home now?”

“I’ll bus it, I guess.”

“There’s that bike by the door. Why don’t you take it? I was thinking of throwing it out soon. Saves me the trouble”

“Gee. Thanks.” (I think.)

If it were a dog you’d call it mangy. And it was love at first sight. Blue, gritty and it had that great worn look about it that tells you “This bike’s been to Timbuctoo and back.” (But the tyres spoiled it all because they were spanking brand new. They still had those sort of little hairs on them that new tyres have. Whatever …)

I am now cycling to work. It’s become the highlight of my day (except negotiating the roundabout at the top of the hill leading to the dockyard. I feel like a model for Brownian motion.) Going and coming. And do you know what’s really fun? Going down one way streets. The first time I did it it was more than I could take to stop myself from shouting “In your face!” to the No Entry sign.

Simple things please simple minds, you might say …

I don’t have to tell you that the bike-it-to-work scheme encountered some serious opposition from the wife. She even phoned the Police Station asking them whether it was obligatory for bicycle riders to wear a helmet. (I can remember how she said “bicycle”. It was like drawing your nails across a blackboard. And how she looked at me when she said it. It was a sort of serene look – like Tilda Swinton in Constantine – but you know, when you’re on the receiving end, that it spells trouble with a capital T.) To my relief the lovely constable on the other side told her “No. It’s not obligatory.” I think that had he been face to face he would have added “But there’s a White Paper about it.”

Her stance has changed since. She can appreciate that her husband now takes up less space in rooms. So she gave me a bicycle rack for father’s day . I think what she meant to say was: “Take the car, drive it till the petrol runs out, then take the bike.”

That’s it for today then. Speak to you tomorrow. Same time, same place.

Toodle-oo.