How long is a Dublin minute? Adventures in waiting around, with ‘real-time’ bus predictions

It definitely said five minutes. Passengers awaiting a bus in Dublin, 2010. Image: Getty.

It’s one of the little quirks of our postmodern wonderland that slight imperfections in a quasi-utopian service are complained about far more than the absence of the same thing: you’d rather no WiFi than slow WiFi, that kind of thing.

In a similar vein, until quite recently all the humble bus user had to go on when waiting on their chariot were timetables and some educated guesswork. How quaint it must have felt. In the last few years, though, the development of various breeds of real-time software means you can see your bus’s ETA down to the minute, via apps and on-street displays.

That’s the idea, anyway.

Dublin’s version of this, the Real Time Passenger Information system (RTPI), was launched in 2011, supplying travel information to a network responsible for 128m passenger journeys in 2016. And it has a bit of a reputation.

Every commuter has a story about buses supposedly coming closer before receding into the distance, or showing up on the displays, only to vanish entirely. “That thing’s been saying ‘6 minutes’ for a quarter hour now” sits alongside “shite weather, isn’t it?” in the annals of Irish small-talk. Different countries have their own version of the same popular discontent - some a little better, some a little worse.

Basically, RTPI works by inserting a GPS signal into a bus and working out how far it is from each subsequent stop along the route. Jeremy Ryan, head of public transport contracts with Ireland’s National Transport Authority, says that the system is fed with regularly-updated ‘profiles’ of how long a bus should take to get from stop to stop, with different profiles for different days and times. These profiles are aware of normal traffic and pre-planned roadworks, but can’t know about ad-hoc things like heavy rain or emergencies, which leaves the predictions a little sticky.

The NTA carries out quarterly surveys to assess the system’s accuracy. According to this research, about 97 per cent of Dublin buses arrive within three minutes of the scheduled time, which the NTA and Dublin Bus say is “well above industry norms”. Reassuringly for people convinced that their own area is cursed with malevolent software, there apparently aren’t significant variations between routes, directions, or times of day.

Approaching these assertions with the swivelled eye of healthy scepticism, I decided to engage in a bit of citizen’s quality assessment. I walked to some strategically-placed bus stops around central Dublin, waited for a bus’s expected arrival time to tick over to “5 minutes”, and measured how long it took to roll up beside me.

Not having all day, I limited myself to clusters in Phibsboro and Rathmines, 2-3km north and south of the city centre respectively, and to the city centre itself from O’Connell Street to South Great George’s Street.

And what do we find? Well, probably unsurprisingly, on the whole the RTPI system does indeed appear to be remarkably accurate. Averaged across 62 buses, the average time it took for one to arrive after the ticker moved to “5 minutes” was a lean 5:58. Bearing in mind that nowhere is it claimed that “5 minutes” should be taken to mean 5:00 exactly, keeping the average error down to less than 20 per cent is not too shabby a performance.

This makes all kinds of sense. A system with much more of an inbuilt error would be nigh-pointless to continue using from a passenger’s perspective. And it’s easy to see how a system with even a 3 per cent error would develop a negative reputation, considering how many people it stands to annoy every time there’s a slip-up.


That said, at different points of my experiment, “5 minutes” could have meant either 2:32 or 11:21. If you arrived at a stop proclaiming “5 minutes” on a given day last week, it seems there was about a 1 in 4 chance of the bus being more than 2 minutes early or late. Insofar as there was any variation between areas, buses heading into the city centre from the south side averaged 6:41, though there were hardly enough trials here to be statistically significant.

In sum however, we’d probably be advised to give the software some credit. For all I know, it may well have a conception of time divorced entirely from our idea of reality – but for the most part, when RTPI tells you your bus is 5 minutes away, it’s not exactly lying to you.

 
 
 
 

How getting a dog made me hate London less

A dog called Martha. Image: Jamie Ross.

I never have been anything but a staunch hater of London. Growing up in what a friend from Chicago called “a forest reserve”, my entire life has been split between a suburban one in a leafy town near Dayton, Ohio and an urban one, spent in stupidly pretty, and still fairly leafy, Edinburgh. I moved to London for a hot second in 2016, hated my job as well as my surroundings, and left, pretty much immediately.

And then, almost two years later, I was offered my current role at the New Statesman, and I packed up my shit and dragged my reluctant boyfriend with me to do it all over again. I sort of enjoyed my summer in London – but I felt strongly that living in the city would never feel like anything other than a necessary evil.

I live in – this is your moment to laugh and call me a posh prick – Notting Hill. It’s a decent location, has more trees and parks than other parts of the city, and, most importantly, is the closest I could get to replicating my old neighbourhood of Stockbridge in Edinburgh, which I loved dearly. But even this isn’t enough to entirely counteract the fact my physical surroundings, on my commute to the office by the Temple, made me feel constantly claustrophobic and stressed. London is cold and unfriendly, compared to many parts of this country, and it is filthy – not in a snobby, prissy, precious fuckhead way, but in a “My life expectancy has probably dropped by three years breathing in this polluted air and stepping on broken glass” way. For my first few months in London, in the middle of the heat wave, walking the streets was like walking through an endless sludge: this was not a city I liked nor one I, really, wanted to live in.

Until I got a puppy.

The one condition my boyfriend imposed when he agreed to trudge down to London with me was that we find a flat where our letting agreement said that we could have dog. So, three months after our move, we got Martha, a twelve-week-old black cockapoo.

Getting her changed our lives in a lot of ways. It’s made it impossible for us to leave the house without having a human being on attendance to watch her like a hawk. It means I now have to wake up at 6:45am every day, weekends included, so that she can take a shit. She has improved our lives remarkably - I mean, we have a living floof doing sweet and adorable shit in our house – but she has changed things a lot.

And the thing I least expected this goddam dog to change has been the way has made me feel more integrated into this godforsaken city: she’s made me appreciate London, even with its downsides.

Actually, something else happened, without which I don’t think my point of view would have changed. Almost immediately after getting Martha – and I mean, like, within hours – I contracted a disgusting cold. The day after that cold cleared up, I got violent conjunctivitis, like the disgusting seven-year-old I am, which took a week to get over.

These two illnesses, combined, lasted around two weeks, so I was trapped at home for roughly seven days of the ten I would normally have been at work. That meant I was around to relieve the puppy burden from my home-working boyfriend.

I was tasked with dragging my puss-filled eyes out to let our dog have a run around, and to get her to piss every couple of hours. This new responsibility forced me to explore the neighbourhood that, for the three months previous, I had generally ignored. What I thought was the worst timing known to man was, not to exaggerate, life-changing. I’m not sure I would have come to this realisation about my new home had it not happened.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Another great day at the park! Pic by fellow small creature @esther.dominy.

A post shared by Martha The Dog (@heythereitsmartha) on

Happy City by Charles Montgomery is a book all about how urban planning can make or break our wellbeing – what commutes, cars, bikes, and greenspace do to our mental health. One portion of the book is spent debunking the idea that the sheer amount of greenspace in an area is what makes us happy. Montgomery argues that it’s actually the regularity of greenspace that makes a real difference – it’s not just how much grass and trees there is in the city you live in, but how often you get to see it.


Pre-Martha, my exposure to grass amounted to the occasional lunch in a garden and a visit to Hyde Park once or twice a month. But within a matter of days of getting a dog, I learned that I had not one, not two, not three, but five (five!) piss locations within five (again: five!) minutes of my house. Some were suitable for little more than the aforementioned – but others gave her enough room to run after sticks, leaves, tennis balls, and, her favourite, other dogs, so that she’d be pleasantly exhausted for the rest of the day. What I originally thought was just an expanse of buildings and pavement stretching from my flat to Hyde Park was actually filled with pockets of green spaces that made this trash-laden hell-hole feel a lot less oppressive.

Spending time at parks where other dogs also go to piss meant I started to make relationships with other dog-owners too. For the first time in any place I’ve lived in outside of my home town, I actually started to meet my neighbours, and learn about things that were happening in my neighbourhood, that I would never otherwise never known about. I now know Tiggy, Rex, Bubba, and Charlie, as well as their respective owners. I also know about good pubs, family-run restaurants, and free events that are far better than the deeply average, pretentious brunch place recommended to me by The Culture Trip. My neighbourhood has feeling like a dead space between Tesco, my bus stop, and the tube, to a place I can see as a respite from the rest of this stressful city, full of people I know and new places I’d have otherwise not thought twice about.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Me and some new friends from the other day! Hoping for some more social time this weekend 

A post shared by Martha The Dog (@heythereitsmartha) on

And taking her out at the same time every day, around the 7am mark, means we then almost always run into the same people. A very sweet kid walks to school around the same time and always smiles at her. We see the same woman with her dog, who always greets Martha with aggressive barking, ultimately ending in a congenial ass sniff. We let her jump up at the incredibly patient builders doing construction on a building at the end of our street.

This morning ritual, seeing my neighbourhood when it’s not rammed with tourists but is quiet and reserved for people who live or work nearby, has become a way to decompress at the start of every day. And as a woman, being up and out when it’s often dark, but seeing people I now recognise, means my neighbourhood has become less intimidating. For the first time in London, I feel safe and comfortable even late at night.

Beyond the confines of my neighbourhood, Martha has made me see London, not for what it does for me, but for what it provides for her. Never have I ever had such an appreciation for London’s public transport system than when I got my dog, who wears a big stupid grin at all times when riding the bus. (Her internal monologue honestly appears to be an endless loop of, “ALL OF THIS STUFF WOW MORE STUFF OH GOD REALLY COULD THERE ACTUALLY BE MORE STUFF HELLO EVERYONE HI OH HI WOULD YOU LIKE TO PET MY HEAD?”)

Even long journeys are now a delight, because watching your puppy be amazed, fascinated, and happy at all times, eventually passing out from exhaustion at all the energy expended, is incredibly heart-warming. Faced from the bus, London, even at its busiest, feels far better with my dog than on my own: her pure, unadulterated excitement is enough to make holding a wild animal on a packed motor vehicle worthwhile.

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

dad taught me love • dad taught me patience • dad taught me pain

A post shared by Martha The Dog (@heythereitsmartha) on

I’m almost certain I will never love London. I don’t think I will ever feel charmed enough by the charming parts to outweigh the onslaught of the, often, literal shit it brings with it. Not everything about having a dog in London is great, of course: there is trash everywhere, trash I used to pass nonchalantly but now have to heave my dog away from in case she eats a used condom or even another dog’s shit. And, obviously, living in a city is probably never great for an animal compared to, say, a suburb or the countryside.

But through my dog I’ve learned what’s actually around me, not just what I narrowly perceive on my begrudging walk to work. Doing that has made London feel a lot less like my own personal hell. Slowly, Martha is making London like some kind of twisted, imperfect, home for me.

Sarah Manavis is the digital culture and tech writer at the New Statesman. She tweets as @sarahmanavis.

Martha Ross-Manavis is small and cute dog. You can follow her on Instagram at @heythereitsmartha.