Waitin’ Around.

Poet & Author Tom Ryan Recollects.©

In this racing age in which we now live, one of the most pleasurable of activities seems earmarked for total oblivion. I refer, of course, to that once-popular activity of just ‘waitin’ around’.

In almost all situations in life there are moments when the world comes temporarily to a standstill for the partner and I. Such as when the number 8 bus to Dalkey whizzes past us on an evening we had planned a convivial evening with the in-laws before dashing to the theatre. On occasions such as this, one can easily distinguish between those who have read ‘The Power of Positive Thinking’ and those given to kicking pavements, climbing the pole of the bus stop, grinding dentures, practising side-line hurling pucks with the brolly and roaring at junior to quit mouthing about his being late for ““Frozen” or “Paw Patrol” on the telly.

About the only people I know who enjoy waiting around are young courting couples who, like the partner and self, take advantage of the standstill in time to communicate with a touch of hands or a plain old giggle-giggle. People in general, though, have little inclination to just wait around any-more.
As for the partner and self, we enjoy nothing better, except, of course when partner has an appointment at the hairstylist.
A little waiting around is (and the Jesuits may correct me), damn good for the soul. It is like a little retreat as beneficial as any (with respect) at our Retreat Houses. Mind you, people will insist (particularly possessive wives) that such waiting around periods are fraught with peril for the soul. And indeed there are men who, while waiting around, see nothing but romance in every female on the street.
Hardly the stuff “retreats” are made of, though I will not act the hypocrite and deny I am like the rest of men, (partner, forgive me!).

Still, marginally, mind you, there is more to the great world than ladies hurrying home from office, shop or factory. One could, for instance, eavesdrop on the private lives that often become very public at a railway station or a bus stop, when detainees and ‘in a hurry folk’ moan about the vicissitudes of life such as their working day presents them with. Times you know when a station waiting room or a bus stop can be a public confession box.
Waitin’ around is good for my business. Once I was forced to wait for an hour for the partner outside a Tipperary Hotel and wondered, irascibly, when she would arrive.
In the course of that hour I met the secretaries of umpteen societies and groups who were leaving the hotel after their respective meetings, all cheery and talkative of course, after leaving the hotel lounge-bar.( Mind you, after the introduction of the smoking ban, there are more people just waiting around than ever before).

Eh, begad, I was given press releases, secretaries’ reports and off-the-record statements I should never have acquired under more sober circumstances, had I not been waiting around. Maybe more journalists should hang around hotel exteriors after closing time!

There are some people who live in a small town all their lives and never really know it. Not me. From waitin’ around for the partner I know the colour of every shop front, the registration number of every car, the habits of every courting couple in town. I am better than a Garda and I am likely to know at what precise time the town drunks are about to render a few bars of “Show Me The Way To Go Home” or “The Red Flag”.

At Thurles Railway Station, while waiting around I have welcomed home emigrants, congratulated young boys and girls off to their first job in the Civil Service or to College; consoled hurlers coming back from Dublin trophy-less and (before I was wed), asked to dinner bright young things from New York and Paris arriving to ‘au pair’ in Tipperary.

Really, I almost envy the professionals at the ‘waiting around game’. Corner boys, people on strike, reserves on teams, gentlemen of the road, all good people who serve right well, though they only stand and wait.
Which reminds me, partner has been waiting around for me to drive her to the Post Office.
“On my way, dear. On my way”.

END

Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.