Bus to the airport and a smoky, treacle-tongued, flirtatious French voice pours through the intercom announcing our arrival. Cooing, purring he embraces us into his delightful conspiracy; yes, we have arrived at Dublin’s International airport. We truly exceptional passengers are indulgently cautioned not to forget any of our belongings all the while confirming with a chuckle that he knows superior people like us would never make such a mistake. With a wink-filled afterthought he hints that if we were to do so that such an action would be recognised as the playful bit of cheekiness it was no doubt intended to be. Voice a-brim with sighs and meaningful glances, we passengers, the truly sexy people he knows us to be, are advised that it is time alas to leave the bus and continue enjoying our intrigue-filled, exotic lives. As the treacle timbered, cat-lick rasp surrenders us with regret to the outside world the illusion is suddenly shattered as the English version bitchslaps us reeling into reality:
We’re here. Get out.