ginger hair gits on trains

or Why men can't sit

I've moved from my little house on the phibsboro, to the wider more open vistas...and i'm loving it. It took me a few nights to get use to the lack of sirens and helicopters - what were the denizens of dublin getting up to - and now but for the rumble of a distant train, there is silence. Granted I'm up before the birds and taking some enforced exercise in the form of 'If you're happy and you know it....' but at long last I can sleep. I no longer feel like I'm living in a grottier version of Gotham city. I can give up on my project of working out how to transform an energy saving lightbulb and a skylight window into an impromptu Bat signal. The jokers are still out there but they can't cross fields.
And I still get to watch Desperate Housewives.
One of the side effects of my move is that I have become a train commuter. Generally I like this, I think Heuston station rocks - it kicks Connolly's ass every time - I can buy hot chocolate in the evenings from the Butlers stand, and in the mornings I get to choose one other commuter to have an imaginary race with to the bus (I win every time).
It would be perfect if it wasn't for the men. The leg spreading, seat hogging, commuter unfriendly men. It isn't enough that he (the ginger haired git) has his own seat, it isn't enough that he (the ginger haired git) is sitting on the outside, it certainly isn't enough that I'm letting him have both armrests. BOTH! It isn't enough but he (the ginger haired git) has to try and take some of my space too. This is a quintessentially male behaviour. I have brothers and a long memory. We went on car journeys. It's like their legs are on bloody springs. As soon as they sit down 'whoosh'. No amount of pushing, shoving, sighing, kicking, moaning would get them to sit tight.

Oh yes, happy International Women's day. Fighting for equal rights and equal seating.