Harrison Ford called himself a ‘schmuck’ over plane incident

Video A video released last month showed Ford’s Aviat Husky plane as it descended towards the airfield where an American Airlines Boeing 737 was slowly taxiing. Ford was also involved in a serious incident in March 2015 when his private plane crashed on a Los Angeles golf course after engine failure. “I was distracted by the airline which was in movement when I turned to the runway and also the big turbulence by the landing Airbus.” The air traffic controller is heard telling Ford (74) to take his time finding his pilot’s licence, adding that it is “no big deal”. Sorry for that,” he added. “Oh. I understand now. Actor Harrison Ford called himself a “schmuck” and said he was “distracted” after he mistakenly landed his private plane on an airport taxiway, an audio recording has revealed. The star of Indiana Jones and Star Wars narrowly avoided a passenger plane carrying 116 people during the mishap at John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California, the US. The audio recording was released by the US Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), which is investigating the incident. “Was that airliner meant to be underneath me?” Ford asked the air traffic control tower as he landed in the wrong spot. “I’m the schmuck that landed on the taxiway,” Ford told an air traffic controller after the incident on February 13th. Landing on a taxiway instead of a runway is a breach of FAA regulations. “It’s a big deal for me,” Ford replied. PA I landed on Taxiway Charlie.

Undressing the Muse

This morning at breakfast – thick yogurt, chopped fruit and cinnamon – Trevor stood up on the raised platform to read the inspirational thought for the day. “You know, when I was a young I wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t even know what that meant.” I whispered but he heard. He is kind, and I have become hypersensitive around him, his hand resting beside my scrawled pages, his voice, the way he crosses his legs, the smell of fresh cotton on salty skin. Self-conscious, I meander through the corridors of their lives, sidestepping soapy water thrown from a housewife’s basin. These are the questions I ask myself as the wind sings through the bamboo. Round, chocolatey Miss Grace: if she had taken me to one side would it have made a difference or would I still have become pregnant at 19? or love… The story was about a donkey, or, rather, it was told from the viewpoint of the donkey, and Tessy Nolan, a swotty girl with spots and glasses, got redder and redder. We walked along the arc of the bay to the taverna. The other night I heard Greek gypsy music coming from one of the houses. Instead I am the same woman, afraid of stinging insects, startled by goat bells and the strange electronic sound of the owls here. In some ways I am still 17, but without the body and the whole life ahead, and before I got lost in his rock-star life I wore black eyeshadow and nail varnish and smoked cigarettes under rain-drenched trees behind the school. He drew back and put on a teacher’s face. For the last class I read something I’d written many years ago, when I was in love with a rock singer who smoked marijuana and sang songs that sucked me in. Janet is more interested in boys than schoolwork. I got a bit lost, but eventually I found my way to the bare-arsed beach. I haven’t gone there yet, as I would feel too exposed in front of the others. Before I left Ireland I stood in my house, with my books and candles, listening to the clock ticking and in the distance the sound of the Atlantic, familiar as my name. Sorcha was asleep under the veil of her mosquito net as I crept in, wondering if I should visit the toilet just once …

Hennessy New Irish Writing winning poems: March 2017

Wardrobe She walks on her knees past decades of dresses leather shoes handbags yielding from years of weight further back until her spine is to the wall her knees curled preserved from daylight her mother’s perfume: upon release soft curls descend on her face a delicate cheekbone leans into a rounded cheek lithe arms encircle her tight ‘goodnight’ layers of scent linger as her mother leaves notes of flowers berries trees draw her back inside her childhood dream before sleep: in a wood of cedar trees she picks sweet dark blackberries a single wild rose a mute swan glides on the lake its body a pillow from which a lissom neck ascends blackness streams from black eyes gazing downward as if reading the language of the lake with the slow rise and fall of white wings the fragrance recedes once a child now a woman drifts into real dreams. No arms of flesh could ever fit their reach. ADVERTISEMENT Shirley Gorby, a member of Rathmines Writers’ Group in Dublin, read her poems as part of the Seamus Heaney Summer School at Queen’s University Belfast in 2015. She understands my eyes, decides among the stories of her life and begins; the words – verbatim within me, only her voice, her drama bring me there. Container A bread box a fruit bowl a milk jug these are all useful things they don’t know worry it is not their concern if bread becomes stale fruit turns powdery green milk goes out of date their purpose is to contain something of what we need no matter its state there is no bind between container and contained but give me some knowledge I don’t want to hold I will try to let it go somehow dig it up from where it lies shovelling fast into the air run far before the landing but no matter because I owned it once so it will come back and lie down again comfortably in that scooped out place. Neighbour She, undoing and fixing my school knitting, I, kneeling beside her, taciturn, observing her. Fine craftsmanship; unwearable though – those woollen arms grown into memoirs. A teal jumper, the last she knit with me lies, arms folded in a drawer back in the old bedroom. She is working on her first collection

Echoland launched as Dublin’s One City One Book 2017

The award is for the best novel by an Irish author published between February 1st, 2016 and February 1st, 2017 and is the largest monetary prize awarded for fiction and available solely for Irish writers. Expect the usual puzzled looks, team squabbles and fab prizes! The city is an integral part of the book, not just the backdrop to a spy story. Echoland, the first novel in Joe Joyce’s spy series set during the second World War in Dublin, was launched this week as Dublin’s One City One Book 2017. Three other Irish writers were longlisted: Lisa McInerney, Christine Dwyer Hickey and Ethel Rohan. Next month’s festival offers an opportunity for readers to engage with the book, and the city, through music, readings, walks and interviews. Perhaps the most notable novel to be overlooked is The Lesser Bohemians by Eimear McBride. The Wonder was shortlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize. Solar Bones has already won the 2016 Goldsmiths Prize and the Bord Gáis Energy Irish Book Awards Novel of the Year 2016. Funds raised will help support emerging poets through the Poetry Ireland Introductions series. The five runners-up will each receive £1,000. ADVERTISEMENT The winner will be announced at the opening ceremony of Listowel Writers’ Week on May 31st and will be presented with the prize. This year’s festival will feature Colm Tóibín, Margaret Drabble, Alan Cumming, Akhil Sharma, MJ Hyland, Graham Norton, David Szalay, Granta Editor Sigrid Rausing, Helen Lederer, Paul Howard, Lisa McInerney and Fergal Keane. The winner will be announced on April 27th. Also shortlisted are Kathleen Alcott, Bret Anthony Johnston; Richard Lambert; Victor Lodato; and Celeste Ng. Irish author Sally Rooney, whose debut novel Conversations with Friends will be published by Faber in June, has made the shortlist for the £30,000 Sunday Times EFG Short Story Award. dublinonecityonebook.ie/programme Joyce said: “I’m delighted and honoured that Echoland will be Dublin’s One City One Book for 2017. Fiona Shaw and Simon Callow will read the stories at Foyles, Charing Cross Road, London on April 26th. My Name is Leon was shortlisted for the Costa First Novel Award. poetryireland.ie Three debut novels have been shortlisted for the €15,000 Kerry Group Novel of the Year Award 2017, which was announced today, along with the widely-acclaimed Solar Bones by Mike McCormack and The Wonder by Emma Donoghue. The Poetry Ireland Table Quiz 2017, with question masters John Banville and Marian Richardson, …

‘Irish Times’ Poetry Now Award won by Paddy Bushe

The collection ranges wide over a series of nourishing encounters with art and music, with nature and family, but also engages passionately with the darker side of Irish cultural life. The winner of this year’s Irish Times Poetry Now Award is Dublin-born Paddy Bushe for his collection On A Turning Wing, published by Dedalus Press. He lives in Waterville, Co Kerry and has published 10 collections, including To Ring In Silence, New and Selected Poems (Dedalus, 2008 ). The winner of last year’s Irish Times-Poetry Now award was Caitríona O’ Reilly for Geis (Bloodaxe Books ). The clarity, honesty and integrity of the work stand out.” Paddy Bushe writes in both English and Irish and is also a translator. The other nominated poets this year were Katie Donovan for Off Duty (Bloodaxe), Paula Meehan, Geomantic (Dedalus Press ), Thomas McCarthy for Pandemonium (Carcanet Press ) and Macdara Woods, Music from the Big Tent (Dedalus Press). He was the editor of Voices at the World’s Edge: Irish Poets on Skellig Michael (Dedalus, 2010 ). Life after Life review: Paddy Armstrong’s painful Guildford Four memoir Life after a life sentence: I’m 39 and scared of everyone Larchfield review: A passionate, lyrical and surprising debut The annual prize, which has been presented for the past 11 years, has previously been won by several of the country’s major poets including Seamus Heaney, Derek Mahon, Michael Longley, Harry Clifton, Sinéad Morrissey, Dennis O’Driscoll and Theo Dorgan. This year’s judges were broadcaster and journalist Olivia O’Leary; editor of The Stinging Fly, Declan Meade; and poet and critic Michael O’Loughlin. The poet will be presented with the €2,000 prize today as part of the Poetry Now festival in Dún Laoghaire. ‘Meticulously crafted’ The judges declared Bushe’s collection to be a “meticulously crafted book filled with the authentic voice of poetry. He has been a recipient of the Oireachtas and Michael Hartnett poetry awards and translated the work of Scottish poet Sorley MacLean into Irish.

Dáil wear: Mick Wallace and Boyd Barrett display uniforms of choice

So let our Dáil deputies wear what they wish. When Boyd Barrett and colleagues donned “Repeal” shirts, they looked more sartorially homogenous than any of those around them. Supportive symbols Speaking on The Pat Kenny Show, Boyd Barrett argued that the “political establishment” was concerned that he and his colleagues had worn “symbols supporting Tesco workers, or symbols supporting the campaign for Repeal the Eighth”. But this question genuinely is a little easier to frame for those male deputies. Donald Trump wears eye-wateringly expensive suits, but he has, so far, failed to be anybody other than Donald Trump. The suits have taken over Glastonbury.” That sort of thing. Those opposed to a code will argue that they ask only for freedom. For TV appearances, Christopher Hitchens often adopted the official costume of the rebellious working journalist: top button undone, loosened tie knot lowered an inch or two beneath the Adam’s apple. Michael Foot, leader of the UK Labour Party in the 1980s, dressed like an elderly layabout, but he had a sounder grasp of Westminster’s dynamics than all the stuffed shirts that followed him into that role. Agree to conform The point is that everybody says something about their attitudes by the way they dress. If depictions of future parliaments from 1960s sci-fi had worked out, our leaders would now enter debates in crisply starched jumpsuits with Nehru collars. But they are showing allegiance through the stuff they wrap around their bodies. For 40 years, “suit” has, among such people and their descendents, served as a loaded insult for the class of awful, seal-bashing square who habitually wears such a garment. Jeans should never appear new. Richard Boyd Barrett is ready for the weeding in faded jeans and a grey anorak. For at least 70 years, the standard uniform for such politicians has been necktie and lounge suit. But don’t pretend that dressing down isn’t a loaded gesture. Anything else counts as deviation. “Oh, man. Meanwhile, Healy-Rae can continue his family’s tradition of dressing for a coursing meet, and Wallace can pull on the vestments of a resting Grateful Dead fanatic. And no Etonian housemaster is quite so particular about dress etiquette as was the first-generation hippie. In 2017, we are still wondering whether men should be compelled to wear suits in parliament. Donald Trump wears eye-wateringly expensive suits, but he has, so far, failed to be anybody other than …

Life after a life sentence: I’m 39 and scared of everyone

I know they want to get me. I nod. I don’t know how you did it, but I know it was you. Which way can I run? ADVERTISEMENT I’m not strong. “Why did you never come to visit me? Suddenly there they are in front of me. Alastair also arranges for us to do controlled interviews and we’ve been paid for them. Tells me later how strange it was. Pay for a ticket. One day she was 16 and now my wee sister is a 30-year-old woman and I just can’t take it in. Trying to look like I do this all the time. I’m happy to see him too. I’ve never spent fifty pounds on anything in my life. The pub I’m out with a few mates I’ve met. It won’t give me 15 years back. I nod. Fifty men couldn’t have got me into that car. While it’s moving. It won’t prevent me from fearing that people will recognise me, that they’ll think I did kill them people and they’ll hurt me. He’s still talking somewhere in the background. I miss them so much, but I can’t say that. And Josephine. Put your head down, Paddy. He’s grinning. Always face the door, Paddy – nobody can take you by surprise. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, rubbing my jaw and wondering who this old man is Alastair Logan is my solicitor. Oh, Jesus, it’s stopping in front of us. Somehow Alastair manages to move me from the kitchen, get me upstairs to my room. I keep looking at her. People aren’t going to hurt you. Not physically anyway. Don’t want to let her go. High-pitched sounds, getting closer. Yeah, right. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Keep hugging her. When they come he has to explain it to them and they leave quietly. Bloody typical. And then there are voices nearby. After a couple of hours I’m like one of those wind-up toys that’s slowing down before it stops completely, rooted to the spot, liable to fall over at any moment. Suddenly it’s like I’m propelled from my chair and I’m kicking the wall. Everyone knows they lied. Certainly not me!” he writes in his autobiography Buying jeans Alastair gives his girlfriend money and asks her to take me clothes shopping.I pick up a pair of jeans. He has no idea. I can just about make out her voice through …

Meet Maeve Kerrigan, my new favourite detective

One step up the ladder and the view was giving me vertigo.” Let the Dead Speak (HarperCollins, £12.99) is the seventh in Jane Casey’s addictive series, and while the characters are as nuanced, the emotional territory as transgressive and the plot as elegantly turned as ever – the final twist is a technical masterstroke – the real joy resides in the subtle portrayal of the main detective. Every Man a Menace (Grove Press, £12.99) stretches from Bangkok and Burma to Miami and San Francisco on the trail of a huge shipment of molly, or the drug MDMA, and the fates of the many actors who guide its path: Raymond Gaspar, straight out of jail and sent by his prison-bound boss to check on an increasingly erratic distribution agent; paranoid Semion Gurevich, living the club-life dream in the money-laundering paradise of Miami; Vanya Rodriguez, also known as Candy-Hall Garcia and many other things besides, a woman who could talk a sober man into doing just about anything; and Gloria Ocampo, a ruthless, pantsuit-wearing grandmother with a deadly trade and a feminist philosophy: “Women need to help each other. Witty, wry and with a great big heart, DS Maeve Kerrigan has to be my favourite contemporary detective. But the secrets of the case are buried in the past: in the apparent suicide of Kelly’s twin sister, Cat, and the twisted familial and sexual connections between the Lunds, the Marshalls and the McFaddens. John Fairfax is the pen-name of William Broderick, a former Augustine friar whose novel A Whispered Name won the 2009 CWA Gold Dagger. Still, its atmosphere lingers. Thirty years ago Kelly Lund was jailed for the murder of the Hollywood movie director John McFadden. “It was worse now that I was a sergeant. Benson is a compelling character, and Fairfax walks a nicely ambiguous line with regard to his motives and morals. Hoffer, born in Ohio but repurposed as a raffish, art-fancying scrounger, is by Graham Greene out of Patricia Highsmith, with perhaps a rub of Charles Willeford’s The Burnt Orange Heresy. Men are dangerous. (He claims privately that he admitted his guilt in prison simply so that he could be admitted to the Bar.) The family of the man he pleaded guilty to murdering are on his trail, the government is trying to shut him down and no solicitor will instruct him, such is the hostility of the legal …

Jack Reynor: ‘I was afraid of being Han Solo’

“That’s what I love. I had a good two years in there and it helped me to develop an awful, awful lot.” Reynor made a huge splash with his 2012 performance in Lenny Abrahamson’s impactful drama What Richard Did. Half of Hollywood’s films are shot in London, anyway He had just finished his Leaving Cert at Belvedere College when he scored his first starring role in a feature film, playing the boy-next-door in Kirsten Sheridan’s experimental, unscripted Dollhouse. Frozen food “He had a frozen food franchise and I’d go knocking on people’s doors in Tallaght and Clondalkin and all over,” recalls the Colorado-born, Wicklow-raised actor. Come to think of it, we do go back a bit. Some people would find it quite endearing; others would slam the door in your face.” Not that there have been too many slammed doors for Reynor the actor. He does like a cake – and in that we are very much united.” My name’s Jack.’ So I’d go up to people’s doors trying to sell food out of the back of a van. Back when the millennium was in its infancy, the nine-year-old Jack Reynor had an afterschool job assisting his grandfather on his delivery route, a gig that proved ideal training for the future slings and arrows of the movieverse. “I was a very forward kid. He wandered into his screen debut, as an altar boy in Kevin Liddy’s Country, which was shooting down the road from his home in Wicklow in 1999. So we have the cold to thank. “But the question with Jack was not if, but when.” Thank the cold “The Factory was an amazing establishment,” says Reynor of his alma mater, which has subsequently relocated to Bow Street. He’s also completely lovely as a person. Phenomenal talents who are on the cusp of great things. Even before that breakthrough, his mentors at the Actors Studio in the Factory had noted that there was something about Jack. I’d walk right up to you and say, ‘How are you? There had initially been 30 but within three weeks half had dropped out because it was so f**king cold. Quite intense. The best thing is to be part of what makes them successful rather than coming along afterwards, and latching on to become just a by-product of that success.” Blame it on the frozen foods. ADVERTISEMENT “The Actors Studio housed a powder-keg …

‘The word “cult” is almost a nice way of saying a lot of people hate you’

Then I’d look bad. When I was wee, in the middle of the summer, the big field behind the shops would be filled with dry grass and I’d get a box of matches. Directing “Where they really took a chance was in letting me direct the series,” says Limmy. So I went down to London and they said ‘we love it, it’s fantastic, it’s almost poetic’,” – his voice dropping to a smug, keening welp in advance of the planet-sized “but” that’s surely arriving – “‘buuuuut, we think it’s more of a comedy drama, so we’re going to have to pass. They’re decent people, they’re kids even, but they’ve got wee fingers. I’d never directed before; I was learning on the job.” Is he tempted to take these skills on the road, putting in a turn as an actor, or director for hire? Regular followers are familiar with his injunction to “check out Daft Punk’s Get Lucky if you get the chance”, a bland endorsement he’s auto-tweeted once a week for the past four years. Bleak and ingenious, Limmy’s Show! Twitter’s a bit like that. “People who give off about fat-shaming and body-shaming are often the same people who talk about Trump’s hair or how fat he is, or how old he is. “The word ‘cult’ is almost a nice way of saying a lot of people hate you, or have never heard of you. Now available on Netflix, its three series are a recent benchmark for ambitious, character-driven sketch comedy, featuring a gamut of uncanny performances from its creator. “It’s a wee bit darker, less punchliney,” he says. “Being in somebody else’s thing and saying their words and not having any right to change it – I don’t know how I’d deal with that. This last habit has seen him quoted by numerous respectable publications, convinced these unlikely remembrances are in earnest. If somebody writes something and I’m gonna direct it, I’d like to be able to say ‘I’d like to change that, maybe try this’. I’d like to think I could do it, but I just know I’ve got a dead particular taste. “I could see them being okay with me directing the pilot, since three-quarters of the videos were already there in some form from my website; they just needed to be reshot professionally. “In Daft Wee Stories, there might be stuff like The Size of Sally …

Mick Fleetwood: ‘Peter Green is the reason there’s a Fleetwood Mac’

He decided it was time to go his own way, but not without first poaching Fleetwood and later bassist John McVie from Mayall’s lineup. I have always believed in this approach and try to have faith in the artistic vision of any new musicians and writers I work with. “John and I have always felt very strongly about that. The story of Fleetwood Mac isn’t over but, without getting too serious, I am 70 years old. “Some bands, like AC/DC, have lost members and replaced them with someone who is almost a duplicate of their predecessor,” says Fleetwood. Green had replaced Eric Clapton on guitar and was the rising star of the scene. The 300-page “collector’s item” costs £325 and is filled with previously unseen photos. Copies can be pre-ordered. That’s why Fleetwood Mac became so many different things over the years.” Glimpses of genius Fleetwood says he could see glimpses of the same genius Peter Green had when he first saw Lindsey Buckingham perform. The day before we meet, Fleetwood has been to see Stevie Nicks perform at the Frank Irwin Centre in downtown Austin. Photograph: Michael Putland Sense of confidence Fleetwood attributes a lot of credit to Green for instilling in him a sense of confidence in his playing. “I don’t think we’ll do another record,” she told Rolling Stone. I’ve always had quite a light touch and Peter was the first person to ever say, that’s okay. However, the lead singer and songwriter wasn’t that enamoured by the spotlight. “People still say to me, ‘Isn’t it sad how Green started the band but didn’t enjoy get to enjoy its success?’ That’s not true. This can’t go on forever While the direction the music took following the departure of Green might suggest otherwise, the group’s founding father still managed to leave an unconventional yet lasting impact on the approach Fleetwood and co took in terms of bringing on new members. Only 2,000 copies are being made, with Fleetwood signing each one. It was here they discovered the answer to their problems had been right in front of them all along. The publication of Love That Burns, the first in what will surely be a series, in the same year is merely coincidence, says Fleetwood. The full five-piece outfit, most of whom are now in their 60s and 70s, were on the road for the first time in 16 …

From the archive: Happy days – when the milk arrived at your door

How, ironic, then, that this picture wasn’t actually published – because it portrays a scene which, at the time, was about as ordinary and real as it was possible to be. The houses and shops hunched against the wind. Kiltimagh was chosen because the town was considered to represent “the West at its most ordinary and most real”. ADVERTISEMENT It would almost make you yearn for the good old days. This photograph begs to differ. And the milkman – whose name, unfortunately, the photographer never recorded, and who was doubtless pretty startled to be confronted by an Irish Times photographer as he went about his business – captured as he steps on to the kerb, his manner relaxed and easy, his smile a ray of sunshine at the heart of the image. Named after the song Johnny’s So Long At The Fair, the series examined agricultural developments in the region. It is not okay to pick up a glass bottle which has been left on your doorstep by some unseen, Santa- Claus-style guerrilla operator, and imbibe its contents. Also, they have health and safety objections. Oh yes, we tell our grandsprogs: glass bottles full of milk used to arrive on the doorstep every morning as if by magic. They associate glass bottles with drunken violence. The empty bottles alongside the full ones. G et people talking about the ritual observances of the good old days, and sooner or later the topic of milk will rise to the surface. The footpath sleek with rain. When they were empty you washed them out and put them out on the doorstep, and the whole cycle began again. The little car crammed with milk crates. Arminta Wallace Taken in the spring of 1967 to illustrate a five-part series by Michael Viney called So Long At The Fair, it shows a milkman going about his daily deliveries in Kiltimagh, Co Mayo. The grandsprogs are appalled.

Poetry: Rise and Fall

Eliot and Forward prizes. On grey days rooks bounce slowly on thermals above the trees opposite the house they rise and fall without seeming to care it’s all a fallacy of course because without human life the house stills like something dead and throws that stillness out of window after window its blank stare deadening the fields around it what story could have you walk into this deserted valley one morning like the first who came this way after something broke in the old life did you live here then the time of iron posts and axles time of stone barns time of planting fruit in clearings where the first trees were hauled down and burned the house was busy then between wars that came and went like weather were you equal to it so much labour squandered by the thing that broke the old life down they are not calm these ruined and empty houses that used to fly their roofs like banners of occupation or of hope Fiona Sampson is published in 37 languages and has received numerous international prizes. A fellow and council member of the Royal Society of Literature, she has published 27 books and was twice shortlisted for both the TS. Her new books are Lyric Cousins: Musical Form in Poetry (EUP), The Catch (Penguin) and Limestone Country (Little Toller, May 2017).

In a word . . . Dart

Though I will forgive a lot for that announcement last winter, which said the delay was “due to cygnets failure”, as a swan and her brood crossed the track at Lansdowne Road. Dart, the Dublin Area Rapid Transit, operating since July 1984. Ten, 12, 15 minutes later, according to your watch, the same train is due “in 4 minutes’’. ADVERTISEMENT inaword@irishtimes.com However, I’ve discovered not alone how to make time stand still, but also how to make it go backwards. All begin: “We are sorry to announce that the (insert a time here) train to Howth/Bray/Greystones/Malahide is delayed (insert a number here) minutes. People who live outside Dublin may be at a disadvantage here, but they too can partake anytime they visit our fair capital. It is true that as one gets older, time and everyone seems to be rushing by. “Easter already? Just visit a Dart station. Anyone can do it. There is a different concept of time in Dartworld. As you await the next train at any of its myriad stations – and Dartworld people measure their lives by waiting at stations – the sign may tell you “next train due in 5 minutes”. Sure we’ll never feel till Christmas.” That sort of thing. This is due to (a) operational difficulties/(b) the late arrival of an incoming train/(c) a signal failure.” Tick as appropriate. Then there are those regular Big Brother (Orwell-style) announcements. You know how everyone complains about time rushing by. Quite extraordinary, of course, are those trains “due in 27 minutes’’ and are still “due in 11 minutes” after you have had a coffee, a croissant, a bap, a ciabatta bread roll, a coke (diet), a salad, soup, a run around the block and a read of The Irish Times, The Irish Independent, the Herald and that latest book on crash dieting.