Naming our tram-tracks after Superman's girlfriend was a sinister omen from the start. But it was when I saw a Luas with a flat tyre that I realised how bad things were.
Naturally, I helped the driver change the wheel, using the special issue jack, an all-purpose Luas Procurement Agency pencil sharpener. Took a while, mind. That the wheel was square was something of a surprise, but the driver assured me, that's the Luas way.
Another thing which took me by surprise was the coal-bunker behind the tram, with a cheery, soot-faced fireman shovelling fuel into the furnace.
Except it wasn't burning coal any more, because the LPA had run out, so he was using damp peat. Now peat doesn't generate much heat, but it does produce a lovely smell, which many of our immigrants will not have encountered before: the tang of Connemara, right in the centre of Dublin! Magic.
Admittedly, some of our more impatient newcomers clearly wanted to get to work some time that very same day: ungrateful wretches, for here was Luas laying on a demonstration of how leisurely traditional life was in the west, where people shuddered beside a heap of smouldering water in their fireplace and the temperature was measured on a hygrometer. Happy days.
Moreover, Luas can sometimes bring people right back to the great crack of the West Clare Railway, with cheery commuters filling the hours while steam gets up by warbling Percy French ditties.
But finally we started and had gone all of 100 yards before we ran out of track. Luas management has devised a very simple procedure at points such as this. Everyone gets out, and we stick long poles under the tram and carry it until the track resumes. This needn't be far - on that particular morning it was only 400 yards, even less if you measured it in metres - and once we had managed to fit the tyres into the grooves in the ground, we were away!
Well, sort of. Because of a small oversight early in the project, the tyres were measured in metric, but track measurements were imperial. Indeed, Continuity LPA circles suspect the track is so imperial that it is actually working for MI5; they blame the whole Stormontgate affair on Luas tracks. They say if you put your ear close to the track you can hear it singing Land of Hope and Glory; and if you can't, it means the Luas has just beheaded you, confirming MI5 involvement.
More to the point, groove and tyre usually don't match, causing the tyres to burst. And that's not the only problem. Sometimes the emergency sails don't work. On one Luas tram, after they'd run out of coal, then peat, then finally sphagnum moss, the crew ran up the canvas on the mainmast, only to find themselves becalmed in the Sargasso Sea that is Sandyford. Strange monsters seem to lurk in those distant suburbs. Through the long nights, crew and passengers huddled below decks, while mysterious whooping sounds filled the air.
Dawn, and an empty pair of shoes alone on deck testified to a young male passenger who was no more. The ghastly sounds of the cracking of bones and the licking of lips confirmed his fate. The following night a cabin boy vanished, and the first mate, mad with grief, jumped overboard. His screams as he was eaten alive suggested that the Sandyford fiends began at his toes and nibbled north, all without anaesthetic. The boy seems to have been served as a digestif, contrary to Nigella Lawson's strongly-held views on such matters, but what can you expect in Sandyford? A Loreto nun was thrown overboard the following dawn, which seems to have placated the natives somewhat, though they probably found the flesh a trifle stringy: a common shortcoming, I believe, with the species. If they'd had a Columban Sister, there would have been no complaints at all: succulent, flavoursome, and in my experience, best savoured slightly rare. The ribs, by the way, are a treat. And as for Poor Clares. . .
Rescue finally came from an Air Corps helicopter, which was suspended from an RAF Nimrod, because Air Corps helicopters haven't got engines any more. No mechanics, you see. Which meant that extrication tended to be rather abrupt, since the Nimrod can't fly slower than 150mph. There were a few broken necks until the winchman - a plucky Polish girl on FÉS work experience - finally got the knack and the rest of the passengers were rescued, with few further fatalities. However, the skipper stayed to the end, and was last seen in the prow, abaft the rigging, gallantly saluting as his Luas tram began its final journey to Davy Jones's Locker.
Wasn't Luas supposed to have been driven by electricity? Well it is, in places. There's an entire stretch of line which is completely electrified, and little or no coal is needed. The power is supplied electrodynamically: two little Africans who were found masquerading as suitcases on a Ryanair jet agreed to peddle an electricity-generating tandem bike for 15 hours a day, in exchange for residence visas. A deal! (The other nine hours, they clean the trams.) And I tell you what: damned strong fellows, these Africans. Loads of stamina too. Thinking of bringing in a few more, and if we can't get the second LPA bike-dynamo working, we can use them as Luas oarsmen. Yo oh heave oh.