WE LIKE the tunnel. We like how it gets us to where we need to be, and quicker. It makes up for our late nights, our slowness-to-rise and even slower-out-the door next mornings. It saves us time, but costs us money.But still, we like the tunnel. And for so many more reasons. One of them is because we need to be with the babysitter - 45 minutes ago.
The babysitter lives on the southside of Dublin; usually they are either my parents or my wife's. We live on the northside, or depending on who you are talking to: in the sticks, is that even in Dublin? As if where we lived was some remote outpost. We could be described as living in a satellite town of Dublin. What I am trying to say is, we live in Lusk.
Before the tunnel, there was Drumcondra. Before the tunnel, there was town, traffic and frustration. There was a crying baby in the back booster seat. Before a certain age, she was required to sit, by law, with her back to us, or the driver at least. This made matters worse.
After the tunnel, there was: "You made it, and on time!", or "You're here. Already! What a nice surprise." The tunnel made everything better.
Well nearly.
You see, the tunnel costs. Three yo-yos, we can handle, €12 we cannot. It all depends on the time of day. Weekends are €3. Hurray. Six for off-peak hours during the week.
But come rush hour the price climbs to €12. Now if we could afford that kind of money we might not even be living over here; we might be where we are rushing to or at least somewhere closer to it.
Recently, coming home alone from a trip to the US, I landed at 4am. I took a taxi, another extravagance, I hear you say. The driver described Lusk as an island. Which, if one were to be pernickety about it, is not really accurate, or if you do accept his figurative flourish, makes where we live an island on an island. People who love islands are called islomaniacs. The clue is in the word, ie maniac.
Maybe we're all a bit mad, confined too much by too little land and surrounded by so much sea. Either way, the babysitter is not always needed exclusively on weekends. The babysitter is needed, sometimes, during the week and, worse, sometimes during what is euphemistically called "rush hour".
The longest urban tunnel in Europe does not understand the needs of its users. I know, the Port Tunnel is supposed to be for trucks, but let's be realistic. When you've got a screaming baby in the car and you're late for the babysitter, it's time to remove those sunglasses and turn on the headlights. At least that's what the Port Tunnel Authorities say you should do. And I'm quoting.
No problem. But I have a suggestion, too. Reduce the toll. And not just on weekends.
When you are late for a babysitter who is losing patience, a babysitter who wonders if you're going to make it, who does not understand why you are in a tunnel in the first place - you're breaking up, they call out on their mobile phone - you don't want to wonder about the ethics of the transaction. You want to get to where you're going as quickly as possible.
I hate those stickers on the backs of cars: Baby on Board. What exactly do they mean? I know what I think they mean: drive carefully, not too close please, precious cargo aboard. But not according to my wife.
She insists the sticker means that the person driving the car is susceptible to the distraction of their baby and will therefore drive erratically. It's a warning, in other words. In her mind, Baby on Board means, "Beware, I may not be in full control. For God's sake, keep your distance, I'm liable to do anything."
This is something we differ on, but thankfully we are both in agreement when it comes to getting to the toll before four in the afternoon. It's not just the difference between €6 and €12, it's the difference between a baby who has cried so much that it's unbearable for her or you; it's the difference between what mood you might find your babysitter in, between finding a friendly face at the end of a long journey - or none at all.