A breath of stale air

I mostly love the Dart. Ok, ok, I mostly like it.
It's green, and it's fairly regular, and it's mostly on time, and it's fairly priced, and it has to be by far the most reliable form of transport in Dublin (do not get me started on Dublin Bus - no, don't)

But today is a pint glass half empty sort of day, and I'd rather concentrate on one of my pet hates: climate control.
Why o why is the temperature throughout the whole shaggin train set to accommodate the driver up front in his cab?
I'm sure that he enjoys driving wearing a t-shirt (I can't see the bottom half of him but I'd say it's shorts and flipflops).
I, on the other hand, tend to get dressed from my house to my place of work.
This is Ireland. And even at the height of summer (yeah, that week at the end of June), flipflops and shorts and string vests are considered dangerously optimistic apparel.

I resent being squeezed with dozen of other overdressed commuter in a carriage heated at 24 degrees (Celsius, unfortunately).
Most of time I manage to remove my jacket, possibly jumper, but not without elbowing a few grumpy, hot, overdressed commuters.

So the last thing that I needed this morning, was for that nosy woman to contradict me in front of my kid (Luca- 'can Batman fly' - Raheny_Eye 'no, he can't - Nosy woman who should have concentrated on her shite book 'yes he can').
Three stops later I had managed to put my point across: Batman can run, jump, leap, somersault, dash, dive, dodge, crawl, pounce, but he cannot fly, silly nosy shite-reading woman.

Who replied 'I'd rather not' when I inquired if she's mind if I were to open the window.