There is one pleasure, says a night-working colleague, which I defy the Minister for Supplies to take away from me, and that is the journey home in the 5.35 a.m. tram.
Actually, I should not refer to it as a tram; for it has long ceased to be a mere public conveyance, and has become almost a private car, reserved for a select few, each individual of which appears to have staked a claim on a certain seat, which he never fails to occupy day after day.
I will never forget the first time I entered the sacred precincts, and squeezed my way up the aisle to the only remaining seat. The buzz of conversation died in a flash, and I found myself subjected to some of the most severe scrutinies I have ever experienced.
It did not take me long, however, to settle down among my fellow-passengers, and, once having broken the ice, I was able to appreciate to the full the wealth of conversation with which the company abounds.
Every topic imaginable is unearthed, and it is not unusual to hear one section of the community discussing the merits of Beniamino Gigli as a tenor, while a neighbouring group considers those of Gordon Richards as a jockey. Many learned orations about the flour situation and the new bread are forthcoming; for the majority of the passengers are bakers, bound for factories at Ballsbridge and Dun Laoghaire.
In addition to being instrumental in bringing bread to our breakfast table, the "Rattler," as the tram is familiarly called, brings to the suburbs the morning papers, without which the early teapot would look quite naked.
The Irish Times, May 10th, 1941