It was only a matter of time before someone got hurt over that ‘yellow line rule’ they have on all the railway platforms.
You know the one…the announcement comes over the PA system about 5 times a minute to ‘please stand behind the yellow line’
It isn’t a silly rule. The yellow line runs down the platform about 3 feet from the edge as a guide to stay away from the edge and the incoming trains.
I always stand behind the line, not because I’m a goody two shoes but because I don’t want to have a close up look at the underside of an approaching train. In fact, I’m paranoid about it. I usually stand behind other people so that I don’t have to be near the edge of the platform, it’s really scary sometimes, people push as the train comes into the station, they don’t care if you are worried that they might be pushing a little too hard all they are concerned about it getting onto the carriage as quickly as possible to procure a seat. They don’t even let people off the train first, they just push and elbow to get on first and get that valuable seat.
So, there I am, at Wynyard. Its 5.50 pm and (unusually for this time of night) the platform is almost barren of waiting passengers. Fearfully I approach the ‘yellow line’ and stand with the toes of my shoes barely touching the edge. I stand with my left leg forward and my (not inconsiderable) weight being taken by my right leg which is positioned behind me. I figure that this posture, whilst being pretty uncomfortable, will secure me on the platform in case of a stray elbow in the back. (I told you I was paranoid) A crowd started to gather around the spot I was waiting, my train was next and there was about 2 minutes until it arrived. I looked around nervously, there must have been about 30 people hanging around me, I thought to myself “ I’m outa here” but I couldn’t move, no one was letting me out they were all in lemming mode and no one was getting out alive!
There were so many people by this stage that anyone that wanted to walk further down the platform had to push past, this was almost impossible so they started walking in front of the yellow line.
Now for some this might be an expedient way to get from A to B but for a person who is concerned about having to watch someone being minced by train wheels it isn’t really a smart thing to do.
My anxiety levels increased 10 fold as people started walking on the wrong side of the line. After the first 2 or 3 it became really annoying as they didn’t really have enough room to walk unless they turned side on (which they didn’t) so of course they kept bumping into the people who were on the right side of the line.
A girl of about 25 walked past me and shouldered me in the chest, if you are a regular reader I refer you to my entry entitled ‘a Jonah day’ and you will understand why being nudged in that particular spot was not pleasant for me.
I am not particularly proud of my reaction here but in my defense, I was in considerable pain and I did react instinctively and not with malice. I gave her a shove right back. Her foot got caught on my left foot and she tripped. Her arms failed about, her hand bag went flying and all I could see was that she was going to fall backwards down onto the tracks. Before I could grab onto her a hand shot out of nowhere and managed to grab her around the sleeve of her shirt. I’m not sure who was whitest, me, the rescuer or the tripper and I’m still not sure how much of my lack of colour was to do with anger and pain rather than the enormity of what I had done.
I handed her, her bag (someone had rescued it), she said nothing. She didn’t thank her rescuer, she didn’t yell at me for shoving her, nothing. She just walked off.
By this time I was contrite and suffering from adrenalin overload and upset, the man who had just saved that lady’s life gave me a little pat on the arm and told me not to worry about it he could see she was an agro little so and so as she was walking down the platform.
Here is the twist, I’m guessing here but it makes sense. She was angry because she couldn’t get down the platform to where she wanted to be because it was so crowded. As she was ‘walking the line’ she decided to push her way through all those inconveniently placed people who were in her way. Anyone who didn’t move was shouldered aside. Her rescuer reckoned that she didn’t yell at me because she deliberately smacked into me.
She really should have thanked him, I really don’t think she would have recovered her balance in time to stop herself from falling and the train came in just seconds after.
I did thank him, if it wasn’t for him I would be living with the thought that I had contributed to her being injured or killed, as it is I have a guilty conscience at almost causing an accident.
I really do believe in being assertive, but there is a fine line between being assertive and just plain aggressive. Young women in particular, these days don’t know the difference. That person deliberately hit me and aimed for a place that would hurt just because I was in her way. I would have moved if she had asked but she chose to use aggression.
I have had some time to reflect on her behavior, and mine. If she had hit me in the arm or shoulder I would have been surprised and probably would have mouthed off but I would never have pushed back. Her deliberate cruelty, bad manners and foul temper could have put her under a train. I hope she thinks about that next time she is in a bad mood but I doubt it.
Sunday 16 December 2007
Tuesday 13 November 2007
Doug
This story started about 8 months ago
Is there anything more frustrating than just getting to the bottom of the stairs on the train platform and the train doors close?
The guard watches you doing a ‘Raelene Boyle’ up the ramp and over the top of the lines, down the stairs and just as you think that:
a) you have made it and
b) what a nice train guard
he/she has meticulously timed the door closure to the exact moment that you land on the bottom step. Your momentum takes you to within a poofteenth of the closing doors which have a gap, just big enough for you to (foolishly) fit your hand into.
Thankfully the door is surrounded by rubber so it is a matter of just reefing your hand out of the door before the airlock traps it otherwise you will be running alongside that train at 80 kms per hour because the guard is not going to open those doors no matter what!!
I have even seen people smash into the doors, a combination of not having brakes and frustration at having been foiled by the conductor.
Then the train pulls out and the guard stares at you, actually locks eyes, with a look of belligerence/wry humour/triumph. And as the train gathers momentum he/she (if they are a particularly cruel breed) will look back and give you a wave and a smile.
Usually, I find there are 5 stages you must go through when this occurs;
Denial – “OMG!!!! This isn’t happening!!!!” “I cant believe he/she just closed the doors in my face” “I was right there, one second more……”
Anger – that little @#$%^hole, short, fat ^&*() bald *&^”:+ moronic +=:;#@ faced &^%$ sucker…..
Bargaining/threatening – with the Station Master…..” pulease can you make the fast train stop here, I’ll give you money, I’ll give you my first born, I have a fork I, I’ll poke your eye out, don’t make me get nasty, I’ll sue….
Depression – Oh why didn’t they wait, I should have left home earlier, I’m useless, I can’t even get a train to wait for me, what’s the use? I may as well go home and go back to bed because the next train will only be cancelled….
Acceptance – oh well, I’ll be a little late. Oooooooh look at that bird flying overhead, is that a rose I can smell, I wonder where it is, hmmmmmm what a nice day, I might get a fair bit of reading done here in the nice warm sun on the platform, gee that bird's song is beautiful….
BUT on this particular morning, as I was pelting up the ramp a bout of lethargy overtook me. Do I care if I’m 10 minutes late? Should I pull a muscle or have a heart attack for the cause? Do I need to turn up for work sweating like a marathon runner? Will the legal world fall apart if I’m not there for a few minutes? Hang on a minute!! I’m becoming “Stepfordised”!!!
I stop running, the train is sitting at the platform, the carriage doors are open, beckoning me, I can hear them whispering to me to hurry. The Guard is smiling encouragingly at me. The urge to run is frighteningly strong. I force myself to walk calmly and with dignity down the steps. The doors close with a hiss of disappointment and an angry snap. Ha! I think, I’m no mindless lemming, you can go find another victim, I’m in control here, I’m calm, peaceful, and happy.
As I step onto the platform filled with a feeling of inner peace, clarity and sense of oneness with the natural world, I glance at the guard expecting to see a look of vanquishment on his face. Strange, he is beckoning to me to come closer. In my clarity of mind I can see that this could be a foolish thing to do, he is obviously going to abuse me or make me run over only to shut the door in my face or something worse. But I think ‘what the hey’. If he needs to vent or if his universe is out of alignment then it’s ok, I’ll cop the flack, I’ve just had an epiphany, I’m immune.
I ventured closer, the guard spoke….’hurry up you stupid bugger, get on’. Instinct took over, epiphany flew out the window and I jumped aboard into the guards’ compartment just as the train started to pull out.
This was new!!! Now that we had crossed the us/them barrier, what do we do now? We eyed each other suspiciously, after all we are a totally different species, communication between this divide is almost unheard of.
He pointed to his chest and said ‘Doug’. I reciprocate and say ‘Deb’. That was easy. We both smile and relax a bit.
Doug says that he is not normally allowed to have passengers in the guards van but he is feeling very magnanimous this morning.
I thank him profusely for letting me ride with him and not leaving me on the platform.
He says not to worry and If I don’t mind a bit of a chatterbox he would love to have company all the way into Central Station.
The train is packed, there are no seats in the carriages (this sways me more than anything I must admit) and he seems like a really nice man (if a little on the rough side) SO I take my life in my hands and decide to stay where I am.
I ask Doug why he is feeling so generous when he obviously loves giving passengers a hard time. Turns out his wife has been suffering from kidney failure and has been on dialysis for a number of years. She has been on the transplant list for a long time but for one reason or another there have been no compatible kidneys for her. Apparently their 3 children aren’t a match either so her Doctor assumed that Doug would be a total mismatch and didn’t have him tested at all.
She went to a new specialist a few weeks ago because her condition had deteriated. He decided to test Doug and they found a 1 in 200 000 000 miracle. (his words not mine)
Doug got the letter last night that he is a 95% match to his wife and both his kidneys are happy and healthy. He told me that it is almost unheard of for a husband/wife match at that high a percentage.
So last night they celebrated 25 ¾ years of marriage with a glass of champagne and Doug’s vow to donate a kidney to his wife.
When he saw me running for the train and then give up, he decided that he had to pass on his euphoria as it seemed to be a mean, small thing to leave me stranded.
His joy at being able to save her was infectious and moving, and I told him that he had definitely passed on his good vibes to me and that he should keep doing so as it was obviously doing a bit of good in the world.
As we pulled into Central Station he also explained the procedure regarding the train doors, apparently once the doors are shut, the guard is unable to re-open them unless there is some kind of emergency. (That still doesn’t explain why they shut them in our faces, but I guess they have to get some enjoyment out of a rotten job)
I wish Doug all the best, thank him and leave the train thinking, thanks to his random act of kindness my epiphany feeling was back, I was alive and strong and I felt good even knowing that I’ll never know the outcome of his story.
Until today…as I stand on the platform waiting for the train to stop who should I see hanging out of the guard’s compartment but my friend Doug.
I go over to him and remind him of the day he gave me a lift. He remembered me and asked me to jump in.
I only travelled a couple of stops with him but I found out that his wife had had her operation, he showed me his scar (quite a big cut and very painful he tells me) and said that his wife was exceptionally well and they had booked a trip overseas in a few months to celebrate her newfound health.
He is so obviously in love with his wife still, it is lovely to see him drag out a photo of a nice looking lady (who looks as if she hasn’t seen a sick day in her life) and lovingly look at it before handing it to me.
Just goes to show, that mongrel who hangs out of the door and flips you the bird as you bend over double sucking in oxygen, your lungs pumping like a blacksmith’s bellows, could just be having a bad day…..
Is there anything more frustrating than just getting to the bottom of the stairs on the train platform and the train doors close?
The guard watches you doing a ‘Raelene Boyle’ up the ramp and over the top of the lines, down the stairs and just as you think that:
a) you have made it and
b) what a nice train guard
he/she has meticulously timed the door closure to the exact moment that you land on the bottom step. Your momentum takes you to within a poofteenth of the closing doors which have a gap, just big enough for you to (foolishly) fit your hand into.
Thankfully the door is surrounded by rubber so it is a matter of just reefing your hand out of the door before the airlock traps it otherwise you will be running alongside that train at 80 kms per hour because the guard is not going to open those doors no matter what!!
I have even seen people smash into the doors, a combination of not having brakes and frustration at having been foiled by the conductor.
Then the train pulls out and the guard stares at you, actually locks eyes, with a look of belligerence/wry humour/triumph. And as the train gathers momentum he/she (if they are a particularly cruel breed) will look back and give you a wave and a smile.
Usually, I find there are 5 stages you must go through when this occurs;
Denial – “OMG!!!! This isn’t happening!!!!” “I cant believe he/she just closed the doors in my face” “I was right there, one second more……”
Anger – that little @#$%^hole, short, fat ^&*() bald *&^”:+ moronic +=:;#@ faced &^%$ sucker…..
Bargaining/threatening – with the Station Master…..” pulease can you make the fast train stop here, I’ll give you money, I’ll give you my first born, I have a fork I, I’ll poke your eye out, don’t make me get nasty, I’ll sue….
Depression – Oh why didn’t they wait, I should have left home earlier, I’m useless, I can’t even get a train to wait for me, what’s the use? I may as well go home and go back to bed because the next train will only be cancelled….
Acceptance – oh well, I’ll be a little late. Oooooooh look at that bird flying overhead, is that a rose I can smell, I wonder where it is, hmmmmmm what a nice day, I might get a fair bit of reading done here in the nice warm sun on the platform, gee that bird's song is beautiful….
BUT on this particular morning, as I was pelting up the ramp a bout of lethargy overtook me. Do I care if I’m 10 minutes late? Should I pull a muscle or have a heart attack for the cause? Do I need to turn up for work sweating like a marathon runner? Will the legal world fall apart if I’m not there for a few minutes? Hang on a minute!! I’m becoming “Stepfordised”!!!
I stop running, the train is sitting at the platform, the carriage doors are open, beckoning me, I can hear them whispering to me to hurry. The Guard is smiling encouragingly at me. The urge to run is frighteningly strong. I force myself to walk calmly and with dignity down the steps. The doors close with a hiss of disappointment and an angry snap. Ha! I think, I’m no mindless lemming, you can go find another victim, I’m in control here, I’m calm, peaceful, and happy.
As I step onto the platform filled with a feeling of inner peace, clarity and sense of oneness with the natural world, I glance at the guard expecting to see a look of vanquishment on his face. Strange, he is beckoning to me to come closer. In my clarity of mind I can see that this could be a foolish thing to do, he is obviously going to abuse me or make me run over only to shut the door in my face or something worse. But I think ‘what the hey’. If he needs to vent or if his universe is out of alignment then it’s ok, I’ll cop the flack, I’ve just had an epiphany, I’m immune.
I ventured closer, the guard spoke….’hurry up you stupid bugger, get on’. Instinct took over, epiphany flew out the window and I jumped aboard into the guards’ compartment just as the train started to pull out.
This was new!!! Now that we had crossed the us/them barrier, what do we do now? We eyed each other suspiciously, after all we are a totally different species, communication between this divide is almost unheard of.
He pointed to his chest and said ‘Doug’. I reciprocate and say ‘Deb’. That was easy. We both smile and relax a bit.
Doug says that he is not normally allowed to have passengers in the guards van but he is feeling very magnanimous this morning.
I thank him profusely for letting me ride with him and not leaving me on the platform.
He says not to worry and If I don’t mind a bit of a chatterbox he would love to have company all the way into Central Station.
The train is packed, there are no seats in the carriages (this sways me more than anything I must admit) and he seems like a really nice man (if a little on the rough side) SO I take my life in my hands and decide to stay where I am.
I ask Doug why he is feeling so generous when he obviously loves giving passengers a hard time. Turns out his wife has been suffering from kidney failure and has been on dialysis for a number of years. She has been on the transplant list for a long time but for one reason or another there have been no compatible kidneys for her. Apparently their 3 children aren’t a match either so her Doctor assumed that Doug would be a total mismatch and didn’t have him tested at all.
She went to a new specialist a few weeks ago because her condition had deteriated. He decided to test Doug and they found a 1 in 200 000 000 miracle. (his words not mine)
Doug got the letter last night that he is a 95% match to his wife and both his kidneys are happy and healthy. He told me that it is almost unheard of for a husband/wife match at that high a percentage.
So last night they celebrated 25 ¾ years of marriage with a glass of champagne and Doug’s vow to donate a kidney to his wife.
When he saw me running for the train and then give up, he decided that he had to pass on his euphoria as it seemed to be a mean, small thing to leave me stranded.
His joy at being able to save her was infectious and moving, and I told him that he had definitely passed on his good vibes to me and that he should keep doing so as it was obviously doing a bit of good in the world.
As we pulled into Central Station he also explained the procedure regarding the train doors, apparently once the doors are shut, the guard is unable to re-open them unless there is some kind of emergency. (That still doesn’t explain why they shut them in our faces, but I guess they have to get some enjoyment out of a rotten job)
I wish Doug all the best, thank him and leave the train thinking, thanks to his random act of kindness my epiphany feeling was back, I was alive and strong and I felt good even knowing that I’ll never know the outcome of his story.
Until today…as I stand on the platform waiting for the train to stop who should I see hanging out of the guard’s compartment but my friend Doug.
I go over to him and remind him of the day he gave me a lift. He remembered me and asked me to jump in.
I only travelled a couple of stops with him but I found out that his wife had had her operation, he showed me his scar (quite a big cut and very painful he tells me) and said that his wife was exceptionally well and they had booked a trip overseas in a few months to celebrate her newfound health.
He is so obviously in love with his wife still, it is lovely to see him drag out a photo of a nice looking lady (who looks as if she hasn’t seen a sick day in her life) and lovingly look at it before handing it to me.
Just goes to show, that mongrel who hangs out of the door and flips you the bird as you bend over double sucking in oxygen, your lungs pumping like a blacksmith’s bellows, could just be having a bad day…..
Wednesday 7 November 2007
A Jonah Day
It all started when my hair just wouldn’t sit right.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of these girls who primp and pout in the mirror every morning to make sure everything is perfect, I don’t expect or have time for perfection. Today my hair was just full of static, instead of my usual Shirley Temple curls I had a Michael Jackson afro, I sprayed water on it and it went flat, I put ‘product’ in it and it looked greasy. Great I had to have another shower and wash it. This time it can air dry and lump it.
As I was getting dressed I put my foot into what I thought was a leg hole in my underwear and ripped off the waist band.
I spilt cereal all over the floor by bumping my bowl as I was putting the cereal box on the table (the dog got to eat that) then I poured milk on top and it ricocheted out of the bowl and straight into my lap. Went in and changed my clothes…..
I was making my husband’s lunch and as I was cutting a bread roll in half I sliced my hand on the bread knife (mental note here: bread rolls should be included in all first aid kits, the absorption is terrific) grabbed a band aid then promptly forgot about the cut and chopped up a tomato. When I was able to get down off the top of the overhead cupboard I had a fight with the glad wrap and used about 10 meters to wrap one bread roll.
Our dog was being very persistent this morning for me to have a quick game with the tennis ball before I left for work. I grabbed the ball and the throwing stick, (a brilliant contraption that allows you to pick up the ball and throw it without getting slobber on your hands) and headed out into the back garden.
After the 3rd ball went over the fence I decided that she will have to take up scrabble, I chucked her a bone and had to carry the guilt and the sight of that little disappointed face with me all day.
Ok, now I’m at the front door, drop my keys 3 TIMES!!!!!! Walk out and lock the front door and trip down the last step. Now there are two schools of thought here as to whether this was good or not, I’m a little unsure myself as I would have preferred not to have tripped at all…..anyway, my car, which is parked outside the front door, saved me from falling flat on my face. I splatted into the passenger side window using my PMT afflicted breasts to break my fall. As I tottered, blind with pain, around the side of the car I dropped my *^#@ keys again.
I took as deep a breath as broken ribs and smashed boobs will allow and soldiered on to the driver’s side and after opening the door fell gratefully into the driver’s seat whacking my head on the door frame as I dropped. I sat looking at the pretty stars and nursing my girls tenderly until the pain subsided into a dull manageable ache.
I put the key into the ignition and turn. NOTHING!!!!!!!!! “:@#$*!!*”’/ car….@#!$%^* flat battery.
By the way, I think we need to come up with some new swear words, those old ones I used just didn’t hit the spot at all and I used the royal family too.
RIGHT, so now it’s p*#@$%^&g down and I have to walk up to the station. *&^%$#@ swearing is still not helping and neither is slamming the car door 4 times.
My !@#$%^&*_+ house alarm key isn’t working now, I cant get back into the house without setting off the alarm. My umbrella is just inside the foyer right under the alarm sensor. FINE.
All my self control is now focused on me not smashing the alarm key, every car window and the entire front garden.
I patio hop all the way up the street, the rain is not too heavy but I need to get out of it a bit or I’ll get soaked. I was given the third degree by 2 people upon whose patio’s I was sheltering, I’m really struggling for calm here as it is raining quite heavily now. After being asked what I’m doing on the veranda I said that as they could see I had no umbrella and it was raining really heavily and I thought that no one would mind if I stopped here until the rain stopped. ‘no umbrella eh?’ says the patio owner.
My response....‘Oh my God, I’m in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. Your powers of observation are uncanny” I force a smile on my dial to take away the sting of my contempt for this Einstein of the obvious. Then I have to pretend that I find my situation as funny as he thinks it is.
Those swear words are creeping back up my throat when I notice the sun had come out and there was a rainbow hanging over us. I bolted before the urge to strangle him with the straps of my shoulder bag was too strong to resist and continued to the train station. If I hurried I would just make the train.
So I have the train station in sight, the rain has started again but is only light and I spot a big white dog running around in the park next to the station. I automatically look around for his owner but I’m the only human around.
Bugger it, look away! It’s not my problem! I’m going to be late for work! *&%$#@!
He’s going up the ramp to the station, I call out, dog turns around and pelts over to me.
Aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh the stupid bugger has a huge padlock on his collar and is dragging a bit of broken chain behind him. I can’t pretend he isn’t lost now can I? And I can’t leave him there either.
I grab the chain, in between being licked and jumped on, and wrap it around my hand so he won’t get away and because dogs are the body language masters, I have to Tai Chi myself into a relaxed, calm state so that I can manage him. Our local vet is just near the station and takes in strays, so we head on over there. Just as we are leaving the station ramp my train pulls in. I’m beyond caring.
The chain is about a foot long so I have to walk bent over double. The dog is a cross Cattle Dog/Labrador and is very strong (both in mind and body). I feel a bit like Jerry Lewis in one of his skits, I’m being dragged along wherever this hulking great dish licker wants to go and no amount of my being relaxed and calm is making any difference SO against the dog whisperer’s advice I find myself in a towering rage, Rewanda the Great takes over my body and I drag that poor hapless beast across the road, in the pouring rain to the dreaded vet’s surgery.
Here my luck changes for the better, dish licker is micro chipped and I leave him in the capable hands of the Vet who is going to call his Mum to come and get him.
My hands and back are killing me as I walk back up to the station in the pouring rain, again. I’m soaked right through to my aching tits. I ask the station master for the key to the ladies room but he informs me that it hasn’t been cleaned yet and by the way the next train has been cancelled, for today only. I lean in gently and ask for the key to the men’s room….he hands that over without much fight.
I turn on the tap in the washbasin and water shoots out all over me, I can feel a big hysterical laugh welling up in my throat. (what do you reckon they would do if they could hear a woman laughing maniacally in a men’s restroom? Hmmmm) I decide that I’m too tired to go mad so I mop up as best I can with the kind of paper towel that leaves lint all over your black pants so that they look like they have dandruff, then sit quietly on the platform to wait out the 25 minutes til the next train comes to get me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of these girls who primp and pout in the mirror every morning to make sure everything is perfect, I don’t expect or have time for perfection. Today my hair was just full of static, instead of my usual Shirley Temple curls I had a Michael Jackson afro, I sprayed water on it and it went flat, I put ‘product’ in it and it looked greasy. Great I had to have another shower and wash it. This time it can air dry and lump it.
As I was getting dressed I put my foot into what I thought was a leg hole in my underwear and ripped off the waist band.
I spilt cereal all over the floor by bumping my bowl as I was putting the cereal box on the table (the dog got to eat that) then I poured milk on top and it ricocheted out of the bowl and straight into my lap. Went in and changed my clothes…..
I was making my husband’s lunch and as I was cutting a bread roll in half I sliced my hand on the bread knife (mental note here: bread rolls should be included in all first aid kits, the absorption is terrific) grabbed a band aid then promptly forgot about the cut and chopped up a tomato. When I was able to get down off the top of the overhead cupboard I had a fight with the glad wrap and used about 10 meters to wrap one bread roll.
Our dog was being very persistent this morning for me to have a quick game with the tennis ball before I left for work. I grabbed the ball and the throwing stick, (a brilliant contraption that allows you to pick up the ball and throw it without getting slobber on your hands) and headed out into the back garden.
After the 3rd ball went over the fence I decided that she will have to take up scrabble, I chucked her a bone and had to carry the guilt and the sight of that little disappointed face with me all day.
Ok, now I’m at the front door, drop my keys 3 TIMES!!!!!! Walk out and lock the front door and trip down the last step. Now there are two schools of thought here as to whether this was good or not, I’m a little unsure myself as I would have preferred not to have tripped at all…..anyway, my car, which is parked outside the front door, saved me from falling flat on my face. I splatted into the passenger side window using my PMT afflicted breasts to break my fall. As I tottered, blind with pain, around the side of the car I dropped my *^#@ keys again.
I took as deep a breath as broken ribs and smashed boobs will allow and soldiered on to the driver’s side and after opening the door fell gratefully into the driver’s seat whacking my head on the door frame as I dropped. I sat looking at the pretty stars and nursing my girls tenderly until the pain subsided into a dull manageable ache.
I put the key into the ignition and turn. NOTHING!!!!!!!!! “:@#$*!!*”’/ car….@#!$%^* flat battery.
By the way, I think we need to come up with some new swear words, those old ones I used just didn’t hit the spot at all and I used the royal family too.
RIGHT, so now it’s p*#@$%^&g down and I have to walk up to the station. *&^%$#@ swearing is still not helping and neither is slamming the car door 4 times.
My !@#$%^&*_+ house alarm key isn’t working now, I cant get back into the house without setting off the alarm. My umbrella is just inside the foyer right under the alarm sensor. FINE.
All my self control is now focused on me not smashing the alarm key, every car window and the entire front garden.
I patio hop all the way up the street, the rain is not too heavy but I need to get out of it a bit or I’ll get soaked. I was given the third degree by 2 people upon whose patio’s I was sheltering, I’m really struggling for calm here as it is raining quite heavily now. After being asked what I’m doing on the veranda I said that as they could see I had no umbrella and it was raining really heavily and I thought that no one would mind if I stopped here until the rain stopped. ‘no umbrella eh?’ says the patio owner.
My response....‘Oh my God, I’m in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. Your powers of observation are uncanny” I force a smile on my dial to take away the sting of my contempt for this Einstein of the obvious. Then I have to pretend that I find my situation as funny as he thinks it is.
Those swear words are creeping back up my throat when I notice the sun had come out and there was a rainbow hanging over us. I bolted before the urge to strangle him with the straps of my shoulder bag was too strong to resist and continued to the train station. If I hurried I would just make the train.
So I have the train station in sight, the rain has started again but is only light and I spot a big white dog running around in the park next to the station. I automatically look around for his owner but I’m the only human around.
Bugger it, look away! It’s not my problem! I’m going to be late for work! *&%$#@!
He’s going up the ramp to the station, I call out, dog turns around and pelts over to me.
Aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh the stupid bugger has a huge padlock on his collar and is dragging a bit of broken chain behind him. I can’t pretend he isn’t lost now can I? And I can’t leave him there either.
I grab the chain, in between being licked and jumped on, and wrap it around my hand so he won’t get away and because dogs are the body language masters, I have to Tai Chi myself into a relaxed, calm state so that I can manage him. Our local vet is just near the station and takes in strays, so we head on over there. Just as we are leaving the station ramp my train pulls in. I’m beyond caring.
The chain is about a foot long so I have to walk bent over double. The dog is a cross Cattle Dog/Labrador and is very strong (both in mind and body). I feel a bit like Jerry Lewis in one of his skits, I’m being dragged along wherever this hulking great dish licker wants to go and no amount of my being relaxed and calm is making any difference SO against the dog whisperer’s advice I find myself in a towering rage, Rewanda the Great takes over my body and I drag that poor hapless beast across the road, in the pouring rain to the dreaded vet’s surgery.
Here my luck changes for the better, dish licker is micro chipped and I leave him in the capable hands of the Vet who is going to call his Mum to come and get him.
My hands and back are killing me as I walk back up to the station in the pouring rain, again. I’m soaked right through to my aching tits. I ask the station master for the key to the ladies room but he informs me that it hasn’t been cleaned yet and by the way the next train has been cancelled, for today only. I lean in gently and ask for the key to the men’s room….he hands that over without much fight.
I turn on the tap in the washbasin and water shoots out all over me, I can feel a big hysterical laugh welling up in my throat. (what do you reckon they would do if they could hear a woman laughing maniacally in a men’s restroom? Hmmmm) I decide that I’m too tired to go mad so I mop up as best I can with the kind of paper towel that leaves lint all over your black pants so that they look like they have dandruff, then sit quietly on the platform to wait out the 25 minutes til the next train comes to get me.
Tuesday 30 October 2007
Hair today
I was just reading my book when a long black hair dropped onto the page.
What the??
The girl in front of me is brushing her hair, vigorously, and is flinging scalp flakes, vermin eggs, hair and God knows what else all over me.
I can’t believe this!!! The inconsiderate little creep.
I gave her my ‘do you mind’ look - mixed in with a healthy dose of my incredulity look and she stops brushing immediately, with bad grace mind. THEN she cleans the brush, drops the hair ball on the floor and puts the brush back into her bag. What a grub.
But she hasn't finished. Now she has the foundation out, it’s liquid and she is applying it with a sponge. This task cannot be completed without elbowing the poor lady next to her, nor without blotting with a tissue (which joins the hair on the floor).
Blush is next. She is putting it on with a long handled brush with short bristles and she is flicking it backwards in my direction. The sun is coming through the window and the dust particles from the brush can be seen hurtling through the air to be filtered through the nostrils of anyone within a 5 metre radius. The poor lady next to her has a skin coloured film all over the left shoulder of her suit jacket.
Mascara is next. This is my opportunity to inflict some revenge for the hay fever attack that I’m sure to have in about ½ hour. Just as she puts the mascara brush up to her eye my leg becomes weary of staying still and starts to jump all over the place. I accidentally hit the back of the seat with my knee. Whoops, she has just smacked the mascara brush under her eye. Heeeeeee. She takes out another tissue and dabs away at the smudge (has to resort to a bit of spit on the tissue) then lines up for another go. This time the train jolts suddenly to the right. Wow that was a near miss, she nearly took out an eye. Another tissue, more spit, train hits a corner at 100 kms, hmmmmm nice moustache. Ahahahahahahahahahaa. Tissue, spit, throw tissue after the first one.
She gives up on the mascara for the time being and concentrates on patching up the damage. You know, if she gets this wrong she will end up looking like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.
Here we go with lipstick now….this should be good. I could be a real bastard here but I refrain from trying to make her look like Bozo the clown. It’s killing me…..
She manages that one ok, how many lipsticks do you wear at once these days? This is her third colour.
I tell you, she really loves that mirror she’s holding onto too. I’m wondering if she should go and get herself a room the way she is carrying on.
By this time I’m not the only one who is fascinated and, lets face it, slightly revolted. The lady next to her is watching from the corner of her eye and a fellow over the way is watching in morbid facination. She has been ‘doing’ her face for a good 40 minutes. If she did this before she left for work she would have to get up a 4am just to be on time. The worst thing is that it doesn’t make her look any better, in fact she looks like a whore.
Argh, she is back to the hair! She is being careful to brush it away from me though.
This is just another case for the argument that the fabric of society has a big hole in it. What happened to consideration for others? By today’s standards I’m the one who’s a crackpot because I am angered by this behaviour. How does that work???
People never used to groom themselves in public. The main reason was because they had too much pride to go out the front door unless they were fully dressed and groomed. But it didn’t stop there, consideration for others was another factor. You didn’t propel your hair, makeup or skin flakes all over others and you certainly didn’t get all snooty if someone was offended by your filthy behavour. It was considered the height of bad manners to brush your hair, pick your teeth or sneeze, cough or yawn without covering your mouth. Not anymore. No wonder we have disease coming back tenfold.
So armed with my self righteousness and my anger I decided not to put up with this little arrogant toe rag’s bad manners anymore.
I tapped her on the shoulder and said in a nice clear voice…
‘Would you mind putting that brush away please love, you are showering me in dandruff’
No come back to that one folks. The brush went back in the bag and the girl sunk down in her seat until only the top of her head is visible.
Beauty, now I have a seat with a view.
What the??
The girl in front of me is brushing her hair, vigorously, and is flinging scalp flakes, vermin eggs, hair and God knows what else all over me.
I can’t believe this!!! The inconsiderate little creep.
I gave her my ‘do you mind’ look - mixed in with a healthy dose of my incredulity look and she stops brushing immediately, with bad grace mind. THEN she cleans the brush, drops the hair ball on the floor and puts the brush back into her bag. What a grub.
But she hasn't finished. Now she has the foundation out, it’s liquid and she is applying it with a sponge. This task cannot be completed without elbowing the poor lady next to her, nor without blotting with a tissue (which joins the hair on the floor).
Blush is next. She is putting it on with a long handled brush with short bristles and she is flicking it backwards in my direction. The sun is coming through the window and the dust particles from the brush can be seen hurtling through the air to be filtered through the nostrils of anyone within a 5 metre radius. The poor lady next to her has a skin coloured film all over the left shoulder of her suit jacket.
Mascara is next. This is my opportunity to inflict some revenge for the hay fever attack that I’m sure to have in about ½ hour. Just as she puts the mascara brush up to her eye my leg becomes weary of staying still and starts to jump all over the place. I accidentally hit the back of the seat with my knee. Whoops, she has just smacked the mascara brush under her eye. Heeeeeee. She takes out another tissue and dabs away at the smudge (has to resort to a bit of spit on the tissue) then lines up for another go. This time the train jolts suddenly to the right. Wow that was a near miss, she nearly took out an eye. Another tissue, more spit, train hits a corner at 100 kms, hmmmmm nice moustache. Ahahahahahahahahahaa. Tissue, spit, throw tissue after the first one.
She gives up on the mascara for the time being and concentrates on patching up the damage. You know, if she gets this wrong she will end up looking like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz.
Here we go with lipstick now….this should be good. I could be a real bastard here but I refrain from trying to make her look like Bozo the clown. It’s killing me…..
She manages that one ok, how many lipsticks do you wear at once these days? This is her third colour.
I tell you, she really loves that mirror she’s holding onto too. I’m wondering if she should go and get herself a room the way she is carrying on.
By this time I’m not the only one who is fascinated and, lets face it, slightly revolted. The lady next to her is watching from the corner of her eye and a fellow over the way is watching in morbid facination. She has been ‘doing’ her face for a good 40 minutes. If she did this before she left for work she would have to get up a 4am just to be on time. The worst thing is that it doesn’t make her look any better, in fact she looks like a whore.
Argh, she is back to the hair! She is being careful to brush it away from me though.
This is just another case for the argument that the fabric of society has a big hole in it. What happened to consideration for others? By today’s standards I’m the one who’s a crackpot because I am angered by this behaviour. How does that work???
People never used to groom themselves in public. The main reason was because they had too much pride to go out the front door unless they were fully dressed and groomed. But it didn’t stop there, consideration for others was another factor. You didn’t propel your hair, makeup or skin flakes all over others and you certainly didn’t get all snooty if someone was offended by your filthy behavour. It was considered the height of bad manners to brush your hair, pick your teeth or sneeze, cough or yawn without covering your mouth. Not anymore. No wonder we have disease coming back tenfold.
So armed with my self righteousness and my anger I decided not to put up with this little arrogant toe rag’s bad manners anymore.
I tapped her on the shoulder and said in a nice clear voice…
‘Would you mind putting that brush away please love, you are showering me in dandruff’
No come back to that one folks. The brush went back in the bag and the girl sunk down in her seat until only the top of her head is visible.
Beauty, now I have a seat with a view.
Thursday 4 October 2007
Invasion of the westies
This is a photo of a 'few' Bogong Moths on the morning after the night before. This particular building, I'm guessing because it's white, seems to be a very popular resting place for these little guys early in the mornings.
It’s that time of the year again when Sydney becomes a party ground for the most unpopular of Westies, the Bogong Moth.
They arrive in their millions, ready to let down their antennae and celebrate the end of pupation.
The Gold Coast has Schoolies fortnight, Sydney has Moth Month.
These pubescent moths climb out of their cocoons at the beginning of summer, look down from their mountainous homes at the bright city lights and just don’t seem to be able to resist the call of the neon.
The Bogong Moth should not be confused with that other Westie of ill repute – the Bogan.
I’m not sure if a Bogan has moth like tendencies and I have never seen a Bogong wearing a mullet and black stovepipe Levi's but the similarities between the two are worth noting.
Both are attracted to the city (if you’ll pardon the pun) like moths to a flame. Both are socially inept, daggy, congregate in numbers, willfully and randomly damage property, lie around all day because they have been up partying all night and are a drain on the economy.
However I digress, for the long suffering residents of the Harbour City it is a month of being buzzed by these teenage kamikaze moths who know no respect for life or limb in their quest for bright lights.
The daily newspapers are full of stories of the violence and intimidation that these moths seem to generate. There are often photos of hundreds of thousands of Moths, crushed underfoot on the footpath by callous pedestrians, as they lie there in a stupor after a night of bashing their heads against a florescent light.
Many cars and trucks, and yes, trains, drive around with the carcasses of Young Moths (who were foolish enough to mix light euphoria and speeding steel objects) paraded like trophies, stuck to their bumper bars and grills.
This afternoon as I enter the train carriage I espy about 50 of these silly young things bashing into the florescent lights. They are quite chunky so they make a really loud ‘thunk’ as they hit the casing around the light. They are dropping the ‘dust’ from their wings all over the people below them and as they beat themselves into a near stupor those humans who are obviously Mottephobic (afraid of moths) (and you can spot them a mile off) are having a fit in case a moth touches them.
There is one girl who is going to be beaten about the head with a rolled up newspaper by at least 4 passengers in her vicinity if she screams at the top of her lungs again. One man has had a miss hit and smacked the man in front on the shoulder with his hand, (heeeeeeeee) lucky there wasn’t blood let over that one, and every now and again someone stands up and swats ineffectually at the air or cowers under the seat with the paper covering their head.
Even the Security Guards seem to be at a loss at what to do, some passengers try appeal to their civic duty and ask them to remove the moths as they are annoying and scary.(you know, if I was the guard I would have told them to stick it but this guy was really nice and diplomatic about it).
I opened the window and any moths that came my way were surreptitiously released into the slipstream until one lady gave me a ‘you scum bag, you are touching the most disgusting creature God ever breathed a breath into’ look. That motivated me, I gave up all pretence of covert rescue and openly hunted, caught and released moths all the way home.
Just looking after my karma
Thursday 20 September 2007
Faces
Isn’t it funny how some things amuse some and not others.
This morning when I got on the train I was in a daydream , sunnies on, very sleepy and not at all with the program.
I heard a woman come down the steps behind me, exclaim rather loudly and then tsk tsk, loudly make a comment that went something like ‘disgusting things’ and footsteps stomping back up the stairs. I looked up and firstly noticed that I was the only one in the carriage and secondly that there was a Kotex personal hygiene pad, stuck, in a vertical position, to the back of each and every seat.
My first reaction was to check that I was actually seeing this then I just had to laugh out loud; all the pads were ‘new’ and stuck there by their adhesive strip with their little wings unfurled and they all had faces drawn on them in coloured crayon.
There were Asian faces, Caucasian faces, Negro faces, Middle Eastern faces, men and women the odd dog and cat, even a fish or two. It was wonderful, the artist/s was/were very talented and obviously had a great sense of humour.
The most amusing thing about the whole episode was the reaction of my fellow travellers.
Some, like me, were amused and delighted to have their morning train decorated with colour and humour. Some looked but didn’t react at all. Others reacted with embarrassment (like when you are talking to someone and they fart and they don’t want to let on you have heard it) but the best were the disgusted ones.
A few, (mostly women) took one look and bolted. There was the odd person who made their disgust and displeasure known quite loudly, but only if they had a friend with them.
Lordy, if those little artists only knew the stir they had caused.
One woman grabbed a tissue out of her bag, gingerly peeled the offending pad off the back of the seat, dropped it on the floor and kicked it under the seat in front.
A nicely dressed man sat down, looked, studdied and then ripped it off, screwed it up and threw it on the floor. (How funny would the cleaner's reaction be to finding all those pads lying on the floor of the train, what am I saying....what cleaner!!!)
I don’t have issues with sanitary napkins, they have a purpose and most of the adult population either uses them or knows of them. The idea that you would carry on about a pad with a face drawn on it as though it was toxic waste is a little foreign to me.
In fact if someone can find a better, more aesthetic use for them, then all power to them.
I guess its confrontational seeing a Kotex pad out in the open air for all to see but what about this multi skilling that everyone keeps going on about?
I stopped to help at an accident once, there was a man bleeding from a head wound. I had no first aid kit in those days so I just got a pad out of the glove box, unwrapped it and placed it over the cut. The fellow didn’t seem to mind, in fact he held it there himself. His face was red but I’m pretty sure that was from the blood rather than embarrassment. The ambulance driver told me that he prefers to use pads as a dressing as they are more absorbent and they are hygienically sealed. Bargain! I have a couple in our first aid kit now. I was in hospital recently and this medical opinion was confirmed for me by a nurse who told me they use sanitary napkins often as a dressing.
I also used to use them as a shin guard when I was playing softball. Seriously, I was a pitcher and if that ball came back at me, off the bat, harder and faster than I threw it down, the last thing you want to do is stop it with a flimsy sock covered shin.
I got a packet of Tenna Lady pads and shoved them down my socks, no more problems. Later, when the plastic shin guards came in, I still used the Tenna’s because the padding on the shin guard was thin and didn’t absorb shock like the pads did. I copped lots of stick from my team mates over it but when they stopped a ball with their leg they soon lost their aversion to them.
I also have a friend who uses panty liners to clean her silver. I’m not sure how that came about but her silver looks nice and shiny.
So I’m quite open to new and interesting ways to utilise pads.
Perhaps society isn’t ready to embrace pad art? Maybe all that purple dye in the commercials has created a bunch of ignoramuses? These artists may even have been misled by the feminine hygiene commercials, I mean they are rather obscure aren’t they? “that time of the month”, "your cycle", "the times you can't do what you want to"and my favourite "when friends come calling"….all really rather gray aren’t they. And the ads on TV are really confusing, happy smiling girls running into the surf, laughing and chatting over an ice-cream cone, splatting each other with pillows, wearing slips of material that wouldn't cover a postage stamp, everyone hugging and being bestest friends…no wonder they are confused.
Then there is the purple dye, the absorbency, the wings...what does all that have to do with your period? It looks more like a male fantasy to me. Where’s the reality??
Do you really want to play tennis and swim when you feel like you are dragging your uterus around by the ovaries? Your smile a rictus on your face as you feel your reason and sanity fly out the window on a hormone fuelled rage. Do you grab a packet of Modess and sling them into a beaker of purple dye? Do your friends hang around and laugh and smile as you binge eat a small convenience store dry of anything with a hint of chocolate in it? And who wears skimpy little clothes on 'heavy days' anyway?
Maybe the ads should feature a greasy headed, blotchy girl in a food stained track suit who is being held down with a broom by her best friend who is trying to stop her from devouring a 250 gram block of Cadbury’s chocolate. As she cramps up she could grab the purple dye and squirt her friend in the eye, snatch the broom and beat the crap out of the cow for not giving her the chocolate. Then when the dust settles they could go down to the beach, sit on the pillows, use one pad as a cold compress on the broom wounds, one to staunch the bleeding nose, another as a serviette for when they eat the chocolate and another as a tissue when the mood swings come on.
This morning when I got on the train I was in a daydream , sunnies on, very sleepy and not at all with the program.
I heard a woman come down the steps behind me, exclaim rather loudly and then tsk tsk, loudly make a comment that went something like ‘disgusting things’ and footsteps stomping back up the stairs. I looked up and firstly noticed that I was the only one in the carriage and secondly that there was a Kotex personal hygiene pad, stuck, in a vertical position, to the back of each and every seat.
My first reaction was to check that I was actually seeing this then I just had to laugh out loud; all the pads were ‘new’ and stuck there by their adhesive strip with their little wings unfurled and they all had faces drawn on them in coloured crayon.
There were Asian faces, Caucasian faces, Negro faces, Middle Eastern faces, men and women the odd dog and cat, even a fish or two. It was wonderful, the artist/s was/were very talented and obviously had a great sense of humour.
The most amusing thing about the whole episode was the reaction of my fellow travellers.
Some, like me, were amused and delighted to have their morning train decorated with colour and humour. Some looked but didn’t react at all. Others reacted with embarrassment (like when you are talking to someone and they fart and they don’t want to let on you have heard it) but the best were the disgusted ones.
A few, (mostly women) took one look and bolted. There was the odd person who made their disgust and displeasure known quite loudly, but only if they had a friend with them.
Lordy, if those little artists only knew the stir they had caused.
One woman grabbed a tissue out of her bag, gingerly peeled the offending pad off the back of the seat, dropped it on the floor and kicked it under the seat in front.
A nicely dressed man sat down, looked, studdied and then ripped it off, screwed it up and threw it on the floor. (How funny would the cleaner's reaction be to finding all those pads lying on the floor of the train, what am I saying....what cleaner!!!)
I don’t have issues with sanitary napkins, they have a purpose and most of the adult population either uses them or knows of them. The idea that you would carry on about a pad with a face drawn on it as though it was toxic waste is a little foreign to me.
In fact if someone can find a better, more aesthetic use for them, then all power to them.
I guess its confrontational seeing a Kotex pad out in the open air for all to see but what about this multi skilling that everyone keeps going on about?
I stopped to help at an accident once, there was a man bleeding from a head wound. I had no first aid kit in those days so I just got a pad out of the glove box, unwrapped it and placed it over the cut. The fellow didn’t seem to mind, in fact he held it there himself. His face was red but I’m pretty sure that was from the blood rather than embarrassment. The ambulance driver told me that he prefers to use pads as a dressing as they are more absorbent and they are hygienically sealed. Bargain! I have a couple in our first aid kit now. I was in hospital recently and this medical opinion was confirmed for me by a nurse who told me they use sanitary napkins often as a dressing.
I also used to use them as a shin guard when I was playing softball. Seriously, I was a pitcher and if that ball came back at me, off the bat, harder and faster than I threw it down, the last thing you want to do is stop it with a flimsy sock covered shin.
I got a packet of Tenna Lady pads and shoved them down my socks, no more problems. Later, when the plastic shin guards came in, I still used the Tenna’s because the padding on the shin guard was thin and didn’t absorb shock like the pads did. I copped lots of stick from my team mates over it but when they stopped a ball with their leg they soon lost their aversion to them.
I also have a friend who uses panty liners to clean her silver. I’m not sure how that came about but her silver looks nice and shiny.
So I’m quite open to new and interesting ways to utilise pads.
Perhaps society isn’t ready to embrace pad art? Maybe all that purple dye in the commercials has created a bunch of ignoramuses? These artists may even have been misled by the feminine hygiene commercials, I mean they are rather obscure aren’t they? “that time of the month”, "your cycle", "the times you can't do what you want to"and my favourite "when friends come calling"….all really rather gray aren’t they. And the ads on TV are really confusing, happy smiling girls running into the surf, laughing and chatting over an ice-cream cone, splatting each other with pillows, wearing slips of material that wouldn't cover a postage stamp, everyone hugging and being bestest friends…no wonder they are confused.
Then there is the purple dye, the absorbency, the wings...what does all that have to do with your period? It looks more like a male fantasy to me. Where’s the reality??
Do you really want to play tennis and swim when you feel like you are dragging your uterus around by the ovaries? Your smile a rictus on your face as you feel your reason and sanity fly out the window on a hormone fuelled rage. Do you grab a packet of Modess and sling them into a beaker of purple dye? Do your friends hang around and laugh and smile as you binge eat a small convenience store dry of anything with a hint of chocolate in it? And who wears skimpy little clothes on 'heavy days' anyway?
Maybe the ads should feature a greasy headed, blotchy girl in a food stained track suit who is being held down with a broom by her best friend who is trying to stop her from devouring a 250 gram block of Cadbury’s chocolate. As she cramps up she could grab the purple dye and squirt her friend in the eye, snatch the broom and beat the crap out of the cow for not giving her the chocolate. Then when the dust settles they could go down to the beach, sit on the pillows, use one pad as a cold compress on the broom wounds, one to staunch the bleeding nose, another as a serviette for when they eat the chocolate and another as a tissue when the mood swings come on.
Friday 13 July 2007
Hot Chips
Hmmmmmm hot chips. Someone has sat down nearby with hot chips. Where are they? They don’t smell like McDonalds poor excuse for a chip, they smell divine.
Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since 12 noon, well except for a monte carlo biscuit and a cuppa at 3. Au de fresh hot chips can send you mad on the train home especially if you only have a Jila mint to sustain you til dinner.
I can see the little blighter sitting two seats up, awwww they are wrapped up in butchers paper, I can smell vinegar too. Steam is coming up out of the small hole he has punched in the top of the paper.
My stomach is growling really loudly and I think I’m going to drown on the saliva I’m producing.
They are really hot too, he is burning his fingers just getting them out of the wrapper.
Oooops he has dropped one, did I just see someone move as if to grab it. Heeeeeeee obviously there are some other sufferers in here with me, boy you would have to be desperate to eat that one on the floor. Does the 3 second rule apply to train carriage floors. Oh……too late his boot heel just smashed it.
Cant concentrate, wonder if he would notice if I walked past and fell on him as the train rocked and snitched one? Maybe I could lead the All Stations to E H chip revolt of 07. As the leader I would be entitled to the bulk of the spoils but I would be generous and toss hot chips to my loyal revoltees as we crawl home.
We could grab chip eater and stake (hmmmmm steak) him out on the floor and whip a chip past his nose on it’s way to our mouth. We could open up the bag and place it on his chest while we all help ourselves to his chips, the 3rd degree burns to his nipples should be a reminder not to bring his instruments of torture among the hungry homeward bound.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo he has just eaten the last chip and is licking his fingers. Damn, I should have moved quicker, there goes the wrapper into his bag. At least he isn't a tosser.
7 stations to go til I'm home, I might have to stop for something to take the edge off............sniff...hmmmmmmmmmm sniff sniff juicy fruit chewing gum.......
Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since 12 noon, well except for a monte carlo biscuit and a cuppa at 3. Au de fresh hot chips can send you mad on the train home especially if you only have a Jila mint to sustain you til dinner.
I can see the little blighter sitting two seats up, awwww they are wrapped up in butchers paper, I can smell vinegar too. Steam is coming up out of the small hole he has punched in the top of the paper.
My stomach is growling really loudly and I think I’m going to drown on the saliva I’m producing.
They are really hot too, he is burning his fingers just getting them out of the wrapper.
Oooops he has dropped one, did I just see someone move as if to grab it. Heeeeeeee obviously there are some other sufferers in here with me, boy you would have to be desperate to eat that one on the floor. Does the 3 second rule apply to train carriage floors. Oh……too late his boot heel just smashed it.
Cant concentrate, wonder if he would notice if I walked past and fell on him as the train rocked and snitched one? Maybe I could lead the All Stations to E H chip revolt of 07. As the leader I would be entitled to the bulk of the spoils but I would be generous and toss hot chips to my loyal revoltees as we crawl home.
We could grab chip eater and stake (hmmmmm steak) him out on the floor and whip a chip past his nose on it’s way to our mouth. We could open up the bag and place it on his chest while we all help ourselves to his chips, the 3rd degree burns to his nipples should be a reminder not to bring his instruments of torture among the hungry homeward bound.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo he has just eaten the last chip and is licking his fingers. Damn, I should have moved quicker, there goes the wrapper into his bag. At least he isn't a tosser.
7 stations to go til I'm home, I might have to stop for something to take the edge off............sniff...hmmmmmmmmmm sniff sniff juicy fruit chewing gum.......
Thursday 12 July 2007
a cold wind blows
I’ve been reliably informed that it’s about 8 degrees outside today with a wind chill factor of minus 2.
Winter attire is a must; it’s a difficult task finding something to wear on a winter’s day in Sydney's climate as on most days it is relatively mild.
The dressing task is made all the more problematic when traveling into work on a train. On my line we have mostly the old silver double decker trains with no air conditioning. On a stinking hot, 40 degree day it is like sitting in an oven without any ventilation and on a freezing cold day it becomes a freezer box which has a cold breeze blowing through it. How does this happen? You can never get a hint of a breeze in summer but in winter the train walls may as well be made out of lattice.
Anyway I digress
I am wearing every stitch of warm clothing I own; coat, scarf, gloves, spencer, I am even risking hat head with a beanie. As I walk from my car to the station I have to keep up a brisk pace as it feels like I will freeze to the asphalt if I slow down. On the station we are up high, looking down onto the shopping centre, so there aren’t any buildings or trees to shelter us from the wind. I hide behind a person who is waiting for the train but they get the dirts and move. Everyone is flapping their arms and stamping their feet to keep warm – guess what!!!!! YES. The train is 10 minutes late!
Finally the damn thing arrives and what good luck we have been blessed with a ‘millennium train’ the pride of the cityrail fleet, the most modern, the best , the crème de la crème. Well on this train the crème was curdled due to the excessive heat. It hit you as the door opened. As I walked in I started peeling off my layers thinking that I was feeling hot because it was so bloody cold outside but soon realized that it was really really hot it there. Lordy it must be 40 degrees. I’m still stripping and having trouble finding room in my bag for all the extra clothing, I even manage to wriggle out of my spencer under my shirt without losing modesty. A couple of passengers check the two carriages either side of ours and report back that they are in a similar situation. We send a delegation to the guard, who says that he cannot change the temperature as he is new and doesn’t know how. Ok for him he can open the door and let in some fresh air, which he is doing!
This is just ridiculous, what sort of idiot just lets the passengers cook like this? Why doesn’t he use the mobile phone they keep telling us the guard has and ask someone how to turn down the heat? I’m sure the driver would know. Don’t they have an emergency person they can talk to? I’m sure that if I stay on this train a moment longer I am going to faint, so I gather up my scattered clothing and make for the door and get out onto the station. As the train is pulling out I am franticly trying to get my spencer back on without removing my shirt (nowhere as easy as getting it off) bugger it I put it on over the shirt, put the coat on over that and wrap my scarf back around my neck, put on the gloves and the beanie and sit on another freezing cold station waiting for the next enthralling ride. Hope the train comes before my buns freeze to the seat.
Winter attire is a must; it’s a difficult task finding something to wear on a winter’s day in Sydney's climate as on most days it is relatively mild.
The dressing task is made all the more problematic when traveling into work on a train. On my line we have mostly the old silver double decker trains with no air conditioning. On a stinking hot, 40 degree day it is like sitting in an oven without any ventilation and on a freezing cold day it becomes a freezer box which has a cold breeze blowing through it. How does this happen? You can never get a hint of a breeze in summer but in winter the train walls may as well be made out of lattice.
Anyway I digress
I am wearing every stitch of warm clothing I own; coat, scarf, gloves, spencer, I am even risking hat head with a beanie. As I walk from my car to the station I have to keep up a brisk pace as it feels like I will freeze to the asphalt if I slow down. On the station we are up high, looking down onto the shopping centre, so there aren’t any buildings or trees to shelter us from the wind. I hide behind a person who is waiting for the train but they get the dirts and move. Everyone is flapping their arms and stamping their feet to keep warm – guess what!!!!! YES. The train is 10 minutes late!
Finally the damn thing arrives and what good luck we have been blessed with a ‘millennium train’ the pride of the cityrail fleet, the most modern, the best , the crème de la crème. Well on this train the crème was curdled due to the excessive heat. It hit you as the door opened. As I walked in I started peeling off my layers thinking that I was feeling hot because it was so bloody cold outside but soon realized that it was really really hot it there. Lordy it must be 40 degrees. I’m still stripping and having trouble finding room in my bag for all the extra clothing, I even manage to wriggle out of my spencer under my shirt without losing modesty. A couple of passengers check the two carriages either side of ours and report back that they are in a similar situation. We send a delegation to the guard, who says that he cannot change the temperature as he is new and doesn’t know how. Ok for him he can open the door and let in some fresh air, which he is doing!
This is just ridiculous, what sort of idiot just lets the passengers cook like this? Why doesn’t he use the mobile phone they keep telling us the guard has and ask someone how to turn down the heat? I’m sure the driver would know. Don’t they have an emergency person they can talk to? I’m sure that if I stay on this train a moment longer I am going to faint, so I gather up my scattered clothing and make for the door and get out onto the station. As the train is pulling out I am franticly trying to get my spencer back on without removing my shirt (nowhere as easy as getting it off) bugger it I put it on over the shirt, put the coat on over that and wrap my scarf back around my neck, put on the gloves and the beanie and sit on another freezing cold station waiting for the next enthralling ride. Hope the train comes before my buns freeze to the seat.
The smorgasbord
I’m vestibuling today.
Opposite are 2 young ladies with a smorgasbord of food. Extra large Gloria Jean’s coffees, packets of Smith’s Crisps, donuts & chocolate. All the food is in 2 plastic grocery bags, they had been shopping at Woolies for morning tea at work it seems.
To my astonishment they start opening packets and stuffing their faces. THIS IS THEIR BREAKFAST! Donuts first then the chips, a big swill of coffee and then a packet of tim tams (a whole packet between them) a bread roll with cheese and bacon on top, more coffee and now dessert……chocolate. This is their start to the day? whatever happened to a muesli bar and an apple? Their gluttony is really offensive, not only are they eating enough food to feed an orphanage in Bangladesh for a week they are eating it with all the decorum of a pack of seagulls outside a fish and chip shop. Screaming and laughing and snatching food off each other. A decline in your personal respectability must be being sprayed with ½ masticated chips while jamming a whole donut in your face to stop your friend taking it.
I must add here that neither are Twiggy and after what I’ve just witnessed I would say that they will be more like Hoss in a couple of years.
After the orgy the wrappers, polystyrene cups, bags etc are scattered over the seat and floor. Neither girl put the rubbish in the plastic bags that they had handy.
As we pulled into Central station both rose and made to walk to the exit. One of them actually looked behind her to check for something…..who knows…..maybe she was sitting on a chip. She sure didn’t seem to see the litter she had left there.
I’m in outrage mode by now and prepare myself to launch into a tirade, I even had my mouth open ready to take a big deep breath when a man sitting a few seats up from me stands in front of the girls and shows them his badge. YES a railway cop incognito. Heeeeee. He gives them the option of a $200 fine or pick up the litter. They opt for picking up (with bad grace I might add) 200 bucks buys a lot of junk food.
Opposite are 2 young ladies with a smorgasbord of food. Extra large Gloria Jean’s coffees, packets of Smith’s Crisps, donuts & chocolate. All the food is in 2 plastic grocery bags, they had been shopping at Woolies for morning tea at work it seems.
To my astonishment they start opening packets and stuffing their faces. THIS IS THEIR BREAKFAST! Donuts first then the chips, a big swill of coffee and then a packet of tim tams (a whole packet between them) a bread roll with cheese and bacon on top, more coffee and now dessert……chocolate. This is their start to the day? whatever happened to a muesli bar and an apple? Their gluttony is really offensive, not only are they eating enough food to feed an orphanage in Bangladesh for a week they are eating it with all the decorum of a pack of seagulls outside a fish and chip shop. Screaming and laughing and snatching food off each other. A decline in your personal respectability must be being sprayed with ½ masticated chips while jamming a whole donut in your face to stop your friend taking it.
I must add here that neither are Twiggy and after what I’ve just witnessed I would say that they will be more like Hoss in a couple of years.
After the orgy the wrappers, polystyrene cups, bags etc are scattered over the seat and floor. Neither girl put the rubbish in the plastic bags that they had handy.
As we pulled into Central station both rose and made to walk to the exit. One of them actually looked behind her to check for something…..who knows…..maybe she was sitting on a chip. She sure didn’t seem to see the litter she had left there.
I’m in outrage mode by now and prepare myself to launch into a tirade, I even had my mouth open ready to take a big deep breath when a man sitting a few seats up from me stands in front of the girls and shows them his badge. YES a railway cop incognito. Heeeeee. He gives them the option of a $200 fine or pick up the litter. They opt for picking up (with bad grace I might add) 200 bucks buys a lot of junk food.
Friday 22 June 2007
cacophony of bad manners
Just observing the fella’s today
What a noisy, wriggly bunch they are.
On my immediate right is an older man with a rather pronounced sniff. This is accentuated with the back of his hand to either wipe away excessive snot or to make the noise more annoying. I haven’t figured that out just yet. He then wipes the back of his hand on the leg of his trousers. He has left his tissues on the dresser at home with his manners. Sniffer is also enjoying drinking a can of Coke Zero. The whole bloody train can hear him slurping the coke down his gullet. Then there is the big (trying to be silent but not quite making it) burp and the big coke infused sigh of relief at releasing all that pressure.
Across the isle are two Blokes sitting in a two seater. Both are over 6 feet tall and built like the proverbial brick outhouse. Very squishy. Both are reading the SMH. One is a folder, the other is in the open heart surgery pose. Folder is by the window and is so miffed about his space being invaded that he is tsking and wriggling and elbowing Open Heart in the ribs. I don’t think either of them are reading their paper they are locked in a power struggle for air space.
In front and to the right is a bloke who has a mate on the train in a seat about 5 seats back. They both got on together, chatting away, one sat in front of me the other sat up the back. There was plenty of room for them to sit in the same seat but I think they both wanted to read their papers and didn’t want to sit together, rather weird. Anyway, this bloke is reading the Tele propped up on the back of the seat in front of him. Sports pages of course. Every page turn makes the paper slap onto the back of the seat and makes the girl’s hair in that seat move quite a lot. She keeps turning around and fixing him with a filthy look but he thinks its hilarious. His mate up the back is texting him and egging him on, I can hear him laughing and giggling every time paper slapper texts back.
Directly in front of me is a man in his mid 40’s, balding, bad posture, a little pudgy. At first look he appears to be an office worker, suit, tie, neat hair etc. on closer inspection however one notices that the suit is very crushed and ill made of some kind of gross scratchy looking material. He does have a shirt and tie on but the shirt is a polo shirt and the tie isn’t matching and is a bit stained. He had a hair cut recently but his hair is really greasy (could be product but it just don’t look right) and the back of his neck is covered in a really bad razor burn. He also appears to have an itch in a very private place that requires some pretty intensive attention. There is something disturbing about someone who can scratch a personal spot in public with no reservations. He is grabing the offending article in his pointer finger and thumb and is squeezing and ripping at himself like a man posessed. Dont get me wrong here, this isn't pervert type behavour. (I dont think)
A couple of seats up ahead is a young man with a pimple picking mission. So far he is bleeding profusely from several large craters on his neck and chin. One pimple has bled onto his collar and his handkerchief is covered in blood. If he starts to pass out I’ll use ‘tinea testicles’ tie as a tourniquet around his neck, that should stop the bleeding nicely. The girl sitting opposite him is turning green, but then she can see a hell of a lot more than I can.
Nearby another bloke has commandeered a whole 3 seater for his computer and accessories. I can hear the annoying blips and beeps of a computer game emanating from his laptop. He refuses to move anything so there are people standing around him seething, watching him play his game. Funny how no one will say anything to him, and even funnier is how he is (supposedly) oblivious to his selfishness. I wonder if his computer gear has a ticket.
Somewhere behind me is a cougher. Sounds like he has a bad cold or emphysema. Doesn’t come close to ‘Mr Coffin’ but its very phlegmy and it does make your toes curl. Doesn’t cover his mouth, of course. Someone registers disgust every time he coughs by saying ewwwww, really loudly.
So, all this noise and mucking up, all on one carriage. A cacophony of male bad manners.
I’m sure the girls will let me down in the near future but today it’s the boys.
By now I’m yelling in my head…..get a tissue you jerk, by the time you get to work you will look like you have been attacked by a gang of snails you’ll have so much snot all over you. Stop slurping your drink like some pig in a trough and I’ll slap you stupid the next time you burp and send all those coke fumes over me.
Stand up and belt that bastard over the head with your folded paper!! His legs must be open at a 180 degree angle. Push his legs shut and elbow his arms out of your way.
Move over and shut your legs you inconsiderate turd. If your testicles are that big and you can’t sit with your legs together then maybe there is something wrong with them. Or are they swollen because someone smashed them for you for being such a jerk?
Hey moron, stop hitting that girl. If you like her try talking to her, all you are doing now is paving the way for a size 8 to be inserted violently into an orifice
Stop egging your mate on, you goon. Act your age not your shoe size and you sound like a drunken baboon with that laugh.
If you pick one more pimple mate, your face will look like you were thrown through your windscreen on the way to work. God knows how clean your hands are and I’m pretty sure gangrene isn’t just for extremities. You are going to look like a burns victim when that lot heals.
Oh gross, you really need to go and see about that itching you grub, the way you are digging around in there that would have to be fungal. I hope you wash your hands before you meet and greet anyone. Obviously your mother didn’t belt you around the lug hole for scratching your bits in public, if I wasn’t afraid of catching something I’d do it for her. And iron your clothes you look like a derro
Who cares if you are up to level 2003 in dungeons and dragons. Move your crap and let people sit down you inconsiderate tosser. And turn off the sound, who wants to listen to that garbage. I don’t want to hear your computer have a fit every time you make a kill or get points.
Cover your mouth, take some cough mixture and do us all a favour and walk to work, you are such a creep. How dare you cough and splutter all over people. It’s not like we can all get away from you. I’m sure the lady in front of you wishes she could just go home and wash her hair thanks to you. What on earth makes you think that we all want to share your projectile body fluids.
Ahhhhhhhhhh that feels better…..
What a noisy, wriggly bunch they are.
On my immediate right is an older man with a rather pronounced sniff. This is accentuated with the back of his hand to either wipe away excessive snot or to make the noise more annoying. I haven’t figured that out just yet. He then wipes the back of his hand on the leg of his trousers. He has left his tissues on the dresser at home with his manners. Sniffer is also enjoying drinking a can of Coke Zero. The whole bloody train can hear him slurping the coke down his gullet. Then there is the big (trying to be silent but not quite making it) burp and the big coke infused sigh of relief at releasing all that pressure.
Across the isle are two Blokes sitting in a two seater. Both are over 6 feet tall and built like the proverbial brick outhouse. Very squishy. Both are reading the SMH. One is a folder, the other is in the open heart surgery pose. Folder is by the window and is so miffed about his space being invaded that he is tsking and wriggling and elbowing Open Heart in the ribs. I don’t think either of them are reading their paper they are locked in a power struggle for air space.
In front and to the right is a bloke who has a mate on the train in a seat about 5 seats back. They both got on together, chatting away, one sat in front of me the other sat up the back. There was plenty of room for them to sit in the same seat but I think they both wanted to read their papers and didn’t want to sit together, rather weird. Anyway, this bloke is reading the Tele propped up on the back of the seat in front of him. Sports pages of course. Every page turn makes the paper slap onto the back of the seat and makes the girl’s hair in that seat move quite a lot. She keeps turning around and fixing him with a filthy look but he thinks its hilarious. His mate up the back is texting him and egging him on, I can hear him laughing and giggling every time paper slapper texts back.
Directly in front of me is a man in his mid 40’s, balding, bad posture, a little pudgy. At first look he appears to be an office worker, suit, tie, neat hair etc. on closer inspection however one notices that the suit is very crushed and ill made of some kind of gross scratchy looking material. He does have a shirt and tie on but the shirt is a polo shirt and the tie isn’t matching and is a bit stained. He had a hair cut recently but his hair is really greasy (could be product but it just don’t look right) and the back of his neck is covered in a really bad razor burn. He also appears to have an itch in a very private place that requires some pretty intensive attention. There is something disturbing about someone who can scratch a personal spot in public with no reservations. He is grabing the offending article in his pointer finger and thumb and is squeezing and ripping at himself like a man posessed. Dont get me wrong here, this isn't pervert type behavour. (I dont think)
A couple of seats up ahead is a young man with a pimple picking mission. So far he is bleeding profusely from several large craters on his neck and chin. One pimple has bled onto his collar and his handkerchief is covered in blood. If he starts to pass out I’ll use ‘tinea testicles’ tie as a tourniquet around his neck, that should stop the bleeding nicely. The girl sitting opposite him is turning green, but then she can see a hell of a lot more than I can.
Nearby another bloke has commandeered a whole 3 seater for his computer and accessories. I can hear the annoying blips and beeps of a computer game emanating from his laptop. He refuses to move anything so there are people standing around him seething, watching him play his game. Funny how no one will say anything to him, and even funnier is how he is (supposedly) oblivious to his selfishness. I wonder if his computer gear has a ticket.
Somewhere behind me is a cougher. Sounds like he has a bad cold or emphysema. Doesn’t come close to ‘Mr Coffin’ but its very phlegmy and it does make your toes curl. Doesn’t cover his mouth, of course. Someone registers disgust every time he coughs by saying ewwwww, really loudly.
So, all this noise and mucking up, all on one carriage. A cacophony of male bad manners.
I’m sure the girls will let me down in the near future but today it’s the boys.
By now I’m yelling in my head…..get a tissue you jerk, by the time you get to work you will look like you have been attacked by a gang of snails you’ll have so much snot all over you. Stop slurping your drink like some pig in a trough and I’ll slap you stupid the next time you burp and send all those coke fumes over me.
Stand up and belt that bastard over the head with your folded paper!! His legs must be open at a 180 degree angle. Push his legs shut and elbow his arms out of your way.
Move over and shut your legs you inconsiderate turd. If your testicles are that big and you can’t sit with your legs together then maybe there is something wrong with them. Or are they swollen because someone smashed them for you for being such a jerk?
Hey moron, stop hitting that girl. If you like her try talking to her, all you are doing now is paving the way for a size 8 to be inserted violently into an orifice
Stop egging your mate on, you goon. Act your age not your shoe size and you sound like a drunken baboon with that laugh.
If you pick one more pimple mate, your face will look like you were thrown through your windscreen on the way to work. God knows how clean your hands are and I’m pretty sure gangrene isn’t just for extremities. You are going to look like a burns victim when that lot heals.
Oh gross, you really need to go and see about that itching you grub, the way you are digging around in there that would have to be fungal. I hope you wash your hands before you meet and greet anyone. Obviously your mother didn’t belt you around the lug hole for scratching your bits in public, if I wasn’t afraid of catching something I’d do it for her. And iron your clothes you look like a derro
Who cares if you are up to level 2003 in dungeons and dragons. Move your crap and let people sit down you inconsiderate tosser. And turn off the sound, who wants to listen to that garbage. I don’t want to hear your computer have a fit every time you make a kill or get points.
Cover your mouth, take some cough mixture and do us all a favour and walk to work, you are such a creep. How dare you cough and splutter all over people. It’s not like we can all get away from you. I’m sure the lady in front of you wishes she could just go home and wash her hair thanks to you. What on earth makes you think that we all want to share your projectile body fluids.
Ahhhhhhhhhh that feels better…..
Friday 8 June 2007
Snorer
Its raining, it’s pouring
The man in the seat in front of me is snoring.
Actually, I reckon this fella has some major problems. For one thing this has got to be the loudest snore I have ever heard. As he drops off to sleep his mouth opens and his soft pallet drops back against his throat and voila!
He is extremely rotund, taking up two seats, he is so huge that his head doesn’t move it just sits on his neck like a golf ball on a tee. Everyone is staring and laughing at him and he is oblivious to it all.
It’s cold and windy and raining very heavily outside, people are getting on the train wet and cranky. Water is running down the stairs into the main part of the carriage as they leave their umbrellas to drain making the floor slippery. Most see a seat but realize as they get close that
a) They can’t wake him up and
b) They wouldn’t fit there anyway and
c) They couldn’t stand to sit there as they would probably have severe hearing loss by the end of their journey
The snoring is so loud. Long drawn out breaths in and out and the snore is on both the inward and outward breaths. Listening to it actually makes you a bit breathless as you cant help trying to keep up with it yourself. Incredible
Snnnnnnnnnnnork then 22 seconds silence snnnnnnnnnnneek, snnnnnnnnnnnork 22 seconds silence snnnnnnnnnnneek then a choking sound, hhhhack a swallow, gulp, 22 seconds silence– snnnnnnnnnnnork 22 seconds silence snnnnnnnnnnneek hhhack, gulp, 22 seconds etc..
I look over the top at his wedding finger. Surely not!!! No, I’m right, he is single there’s no ring. Imagine!!
Whoa, extra loud hhhaack there, he woke himself up.
Heeeeeeeeeeeee
I daren’t turn up my MP3 as I might send my eardrums through into my brain.
This has to stop. I don’t want to move, it’s cold and wet and I’m comfortable and I don’t want to stand up for the remainder of my trip.
So one annoyance deserves another I feel.
Whoops, my foot slams into the back of the seat. I can’t control it. There it goes again. Hhhhhhhhhhaaaack hark yon snorer wakes. I grab yesterdays newspaper from my bag (forgot to take it out last night thank goodness) every time he starts to drop off I give him the old herald snap right in the back of the head. So now it sounds like this….
Snnnnnnnnnnnork 22 snnnnnnnnnneek hhhhhack gulp SSSSSSSSSSMACK snort blink blink (that’s his eyes refocusing)
If I can keep this up for about 15 minutes we’ll be pulling into his station, he’ll get off and we’ll all get some peace. The lady next to me joins in with her Woman’s Weekly and clears her throat really loudly.
What a team. We should be lauded in the isles. We share a conspiritorial smile
Poor Mr Bellows never got a chance to sleep a wink after that.
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha (read maniacal laugh)
The man in the seat in front of me is snoring.
Actually, I reckon this fella has some major problems. For one thing this has got to be the loudest snore I have ever heard. As he drops off to sleep his mouth opens and his soft pallet drops back against his throat and voila!
He is extremely rotund, taking up two seats, he is so huge that his head doesn’t move it just sits on his neck like a golf ball on a tee. Everyone is staring and laughing at him and he is oblivious to it all.
It’s cold and windy and raining very heavily outside, people are getting on the train wet and cranky. Water is running down the stairs into the main part of the carriage as they leave their umbrellas to drain making the floor slippery. Most see a seat but realize as they get close that
a) They can’t wake him up and
b) They wouldn’t fit there anyway and
c) They couldn’t stand to sit there as they would probably have severe hearing loss by the end of their journey
The snoring is so loud. Long drawn out breaths in and out and the snore is on both the inward and outward breaths. Listening to it actually makes you a bit breathless as you cant help trying to keep up with it yourself. Incredible
Snnnnnnnnnnnork then 22 seconds silence snnnnnnnnnnneek, snnnnnnnnnnnork 22 seconds silence snnnnnnnnnnneek then a choking sound, hhhhack a swallow, gulp, 22 seconds silence– snnnnnnnnnnnork 22 seconds silence snnnnnnnnnnneek hhhack, gulp, 22 seconds etc..
I look over the top at his wedding finger. Surely not!!! No, I’m right, he is single there’s no ring. Imagine!!
Whoa, extra loud hhhaack there, he woke himself up.
Heeeeeeeeeeeee
I daren’t turn up my MP3 as I might send my eardrums through into my brain.
This has to stop. I don’t want to move, it’s cold and wet and I’m comfortable and I don’t want to stand up for the remainder of my trip.
So one annoyance deserves another I feel.
Whoops, my foot slams into the back of the seat. I can’t control it. There it goes again. Hhhhhhhhhhaaaack hark yon snorer wakes. I grab yesterdays newspaper from my bag (forgot to take it out last night thank goodness) every time he starts to drop off I give him the old herald snap right in the back of the head. So now it sounds like this….
Snnnnnnnnnnnork 22 snnnnnnnnnneek hhhhhack gulp SSSSSSSSSSMACK snort blink blink (that’s his eyes refocusing)
If I can keep this up for about 15 minutes we’ll be pulling into his station, he’ll get off and we’ll all get some peace. The lady next to me joins in with her Woman’s Weekly and clears her throat really loudly.
What a team. We should be lauded in the isles. We share a conspiritorial smile
Poor Mr Bellows never got a chance to sleep a wink after that.
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha (read maniacal laugh)
A study of the mating rituals of the acne studed, binge drinking chain smoking pre pubescent
3 boys, 3 girls, angel faces, all seated in the vestibule area facing each other. Boys on one side and girls on the other.
I am reminded a bit of the Virginia Reel here. One boy visually targets a girl on the other side of the train, he starts to wrestle with the boy next to him making sure that the girl he likes is watching, then wrenching free from his mate he stands, walks to the centre and turns side on so that he can watch both parties. The girl giggles and cops a few elbows from her friend. She looks out the window nonchalantly then slowly slides her bum off the seat, slinks over near the boy and stands facing the opposite way to him, never taking her eyes off the scenery out of the window of the train. He offers a piece of Extra chewing gum with (he thinks) a manly demeanour, she takes it and (she thinks) seductively unwraps it and puts it her mouth. Both turn and face their respective friends, cover their mouths, bend at the waist and splutter (one supposes in mirth) before returning to their seats.
These kids are probably about 13 and in drab school uniforms so you would think it would hamper their mating ritual somewhat but it doesn’t.
The boys are in maroon uniforms, all have a hairstyle that looks like it took lots of primping in front of the mirror with wax or gel to make it stand up like they had just put their finger in an electric socket. All three have tri-coloured streaks in their hair and pretend side burns. (gotta wait til they get some hormones happening for the real McCoy)
They have a silver chain around their necks that looks like it came off the local car park gates and leather wrist bands with buckles and complicated looking straps. A bit like the gladiators used to wear. Unfortunately none have the accompanying muscle bound bodies to set off the chain and the wrist band.
The lack of bright plumage is more than compensated for with the colourful language emanating from their little angelic mouths. All conversation is bellowed at 50 decibels louder than a bingo caller so that any prospective babes in the neighbouring carriages will know that there is talent in this carriage. The swearing and bragging is obviously part of a complex verbal foreplay that has the sole aim to impress and excite the girls and make the boys feel really tough and big and masculine.
The girls, instead of being affronted, giggle at the ef word and hide their faces in pretend shock at the c word and exclaim in all the right places. Keep in mind here that not one of them has made eye contact and nor have they spoken directly to each other.
Most of the boys chatter is about how they, single handed, saved the rugby game on Saturday by scoring 4 field length tries and kicking 8 goals or how they are smoking up to ½ a pack of Horizons a day and only for the fact that they have to go to school for 7 hours of the day they would be smoking a full pack or how legless they were on Friday night and how hung over they were on Saturday when they saved the day on the rugby field or, the best one, how good a French kisser they are because the last 16 girls that they kissed told everyone that they were tongue gymnists. Ho hum.
Every sentence is punctuated with several hundred swear words so that the actual context of what they are saying is lost.
The girls, in navy blue uniforms, have meticulously straightened hair also with the tri colour streaks and they have it tied back with very glitzy hair clips. They have shiny wet glossed lips that are in constantly smacking together as they chew their gum (with their mouths open of course). As they chew they tap in time with their false fingernails on the metal hand rails. This entrances the boys so much that they lose the thread of their boasting. All three girls flick their hair constantly, rearrange their colourful scarves, cross and uncross their legs and giggle and squirm and whisper to each other non stop. (boys get louder in order to cover their lost threads)
Now the boys move into the mating dance. We start with lots of elbowing and slapping each other over the back of the head, then all three start pushing and shoving each other as a kind of chant begins…’you do it’ ‘you do it’ ‘you do it’.
The whole thing is quite energetic and comes to a climax when one boy is forced off the seat onto the floor and is deemed to be the loser. He is then expected to approach the girls and ask the all important question……’what school you from’?
He then launches himself backwards into his seat and the relative safety of his mates and their rather sharp elbows as the girls giggle and scream with mirth.
There is quite a bit of colour now, he is red faced, possibly from his exertions but more likely from embarrassment.
The boys wait – there is a reciprocal dance starting on the girls side of the carriage. They huddle up, hands and nails moving to the rhythm of the gum chewing and the hair flicking. The volume of the giggling increases, one girl sticks her head out of the scrum, takes the chewing gum out of her mouth and says….’who wants to know’?
All six sit back in satisfaction, they have made contact, words have been exchanged and eyes have met. This is the start of great things.
The next 10 minutes are quiet as they all reflect on the momentousness of the moment.
Stay tuned…..same time. Same station
I am reminded a bit of the Virginia Reel here. One boy visually targets a girl on the other side of the train, he starts to wrestle with the boy next to him making sure that the girl he likes is watching, then wrenching free from his mate he stands, walks to the centre and turns side on so that he can watch both parties. The girl giggles and cops a few elbows from her friend. She looks out the window nonchalantly then slowly slides her bum off the seat, slinks over near the boy and stands facing the opposite way to him, never taking her eyes off the scenery out of the window of the train. He offers a piece of Extra chewing gum with (he thinks) a manly demeanour, she takes it and (she thinks) seductively unwraps it and puts it her mouth. Both turn and face their respective friends, cover their mouths, bend at the waist and splutter (one supposes in mirth) before returning to their seats.
These kids are probably about 13 and in drab school uniforms so you would think it would hamper their mating ritual somewhat but it doesn’t.
The boys are in maroon uniforms, all have a hairstyle that looks like it took lots of primping in front of the mirror with wax or gel to make it stand up like they had just put their finger in an electric socket. All three have tri-coloured streaks in their hair and pretend side burns. (gotta wait til they get some hormones happening for the real McCoy)
They have a silver chain around their necks that looks like it came off the local car park gates and leather wrist bands with buckles and complicated looking straps. A bit like the gladiators used to wear. Unfortunately none have the accompanying muscle bound bodies to set off the chain and the wrist band.
The lack of bright plumage is more than compensated for with the colourful language emanating from their little angelic mouths. All conversation is bellowed at 50 decibels louder than a bingo caller so that any prospective babes in the neighbouring carriages will know that there is talent in this carriage. The swearing and bragging is obviously part of a complex verbal foreplay that has the sole aim to impress and excite the girls and make the boys feel really tough and big and masculine.
The girls, instead of being affronted, giggle at the ef word and hide their faces in pretend shock at the c word and exclaim in all the right places. Keep in mind here that not one of them has made eye contact and nor have they spoken directly to each other.
Most of the boys chatter is about how they, single handed, saved the rugby game on Saturday by scoring 4 field length tries and kicking 8 goals or how they are smoking up to ½ a pack of Horizons a day and only for the fact that they have to go to school for 7 hours of the day they would be smoking a full pack or how legless they were on Friday night and how hung over they were on Saturday when they saved the day on the rugby field or, the best one, how good a French kisser they are because the last 16 girls that they kissed told everyone that they were tongue gymnists. Ho hum.
Every sentence is punctuated with several hundred swear words so that the actual context of what they are saying is lost.
The girls, in navy blue uniforms, have meticulously straightened hair also with the tri colour streaks and they have it tied back with very glitzy hair clips. They have shiny wet glossed lips that are in constantly smacking together as they chew their gum (with their mouths open of course). As they chew they tap in time with their false fingernails on the metal hand rails. This entrances the boys so much that they lose the thread of their boasting. All three girls flick their hair constantly, rearrange their colourful scarves, cross and uncross their legs and giggle and squirm and whisper to each other non stop. (boys get louder in order to cover their lost threads)
Now the boys move into the mating dance. We start with lots of elbowing and slapping each other over the back of the head, then all three start pushing and shoving each other as a kind of chant begins…’you do it’ ‘you do it’ ‘you do it’.
The whole thing is quite energetic and comes to a climax when one boy is forced off the seat onto the floor and is deemed to be the loser. He is then expected to approach the girls and ask the all important question……’what school you from’?
He then launches himself backwards into his seat and the relative safety of his mates and their rather sharp elbows as the girls giggle and scream with mirth.
There is quite a bit of colour now, he is red faced, possibly from his exertions but more likely from embarrassment.
The boys wait – there is a reciprocal dance starting on the girls side of the carriage. They huddle up, hands and nails moving to the rhythm of the gum chewing and the hair flicking. The volume of the giggling increases, one girl sticks her head out of the scrum, takes the chewing gum out of her mouth and says….’who wants to know’?
All six sit back in satisfaction, they have made contact, words have been exchanged and eyes have met. This is the start of great things.
The next 10 minutes are quiet as they all reflect on the momentousness of the moment.
Stay tuned…..same time. Same station
Wednesday 6 June 2007
Charity begins on the morning train
When is collecting for charity illegal? Surely it must be wrong to try to solicit money on public transport.
This morning we had two young collectors all suited up in their red cross track suits trying to get commuters to sign up for direct debit payments to their cause.
In Martin Place in the 7 blocks from Barrack Street to Macquarie Street I often have to avoid these pond scum as I walk to and fro. They are mostly backpackers making a quick buck so that they can keep travelling but I'm offended by the fact that they are being paid to collect for various charities. I give to 3 charities regularly. The creeps in the street don't know this of course (dont worry I have thought about wearing a sign) but they should take no for an answer. We are harrassed and chased and cajoled as we walk along and it is really annoying. I feel that if the charities have to pay these people then it's less money going to whoever needs it. The marketing strategies are quite intense too. You see them every morning in a little huddle...red cross, cancer research, sids, greenpeace etc all with uniforms on (another expense) getting instruction from their 'group leader' being given their quota for the day and being given lessons on how to entrap people who are just walking in the street trying to get to and from work.
I absolutely hate being approached by one of these insincere little twerps with their "HI" "HOW IS THIS LOVELY LADY TODAY?" They open their arms out wide (all the better to catch you with) smile this big, white, even toothed smile (all the better to talk you to death with) and look hurt if you ignore them or tell them to P*** off. Worse, they want you to sign up to have funds directly debited out of your account each month. Yeah like that's going to happen.
Soooooo imagine my annoyance at being confronted on my way to work on my favourite mode of transport. The worst part is that they are counting on you being too embarrassed to be rude to them. I could hear them coming down the isle of the train asking people if they were having a nice day and wouldn't it make them feel nicer if they signed up for a lifetime of being harrassed by money grubbing, feel nothing management companies that would sell their own mother to a Lebonese brothel if it would make them a dollar.
My only defence, I decided, was to be totally and unequivically filthily rude.
I looked up at my annoyer as she was speaking to me, I said nothing, I just stared at her with all the anger and frustration at her interuption showing on my face and kept staring at her until she faltered in her spiel and decided that it was not a good idea to keep talking.
I will give her 10 points for tenacity, she moved on to the next person without really skipping a beat.
A phone call to the charity involved a lot of 'holding' and no satisfaction at all. I had some goober telling me that it was not their policy to have people harass others at all let alone on public transport and that we should report any behaviour like that to someone who cares.
Couldn't give me a number to call of course.
Oh well I guess it is just another colourful thread in the rich tapestry of life. (retch)
This morning we had two young collectors all suited up in their red cross track suits trying to get commuters to sign up for direct debit payments to their cause.
In Martin Place in the 7 blocks from Barrack Street to Macquarie Street I often have to avoid these pond scum as I walk to and fro. They are mostly backpackers making a quick buck so that they can keep travelling but I'm offended by the fact that they are being paid to collect for various charities. I give to 3 charities regularly. The creeps in the street don't know this of course (dont worry I have thought about wearing a sign) but they should take no for an answer. We are harrassed and chased and cajoled as we walk along and it is really annoying. I feel that if the charities have to pay these people then it's less money going to whoever needs it. The marketing strategies are quite intense too. You see them every morning in a little huddle...red cross, cancer research, sids, greenpeace etc all with uniforms on (another expense) getting instruction from their 'group leader' being given their quota for the day and being given lessons on how to entrap people who are just walking in the street trying to get to and from work.
I absolutely hate being approached by one of these insincere little twerps with their "HI" "HOW IS THIS LOVELY LADY TODAY?" They open their arms out wide (all the better to catch you with) smile this big, white, even toothed smile (all the better to talk you to death with) and look hurt if you ignore them or tell them to P*** off. Worse, they want you to sign up to have funds directly debited out of your account each month. Yeah like that's going to happen.
Soooooo imagine my annoyance at being confronted on my way to work on my favourite mode of transport. The worst part is that they are counting on you being too embarrassed to be rude to them. I could hear them coming down the isle of the train asking people if they were having a nice day and wouldn't it make them feel nicer if they signed up for a lifetime of being harrassed by money grubbing, feel nothing management companies that would sell their own mother to a Lebonese brothel if it would make them a dollar.
My only defence, I decided, was to be totally and unequivically filthily rude.
I looked up at my annoyer as she was speaking to me, I said nothing, I just stared at her with all the anger and frustration at her interuption showing on my face and kept staring at her until she faltered in her spiel and decided that it was not a good idea to keep talking.
I will give her 10 points for tenacity, she moved on to the next person without really skipping a beat.
A phone call to the charity involved a lot of 'holding' and no satisfaction at all. I had some goober telling me that it was not their policy to have people harass others at all let alone on public transport and that we should report any behaviour like that to someone who cares.
Couldn't give me a number to call of course.
Oh well I guess it is just another colourful thread in the rich tapestry of life. (retch)
Young love
Can you think of anything funnier than this.
In one of my previous entries I mentioned Halitosis Boy with the breath that would sink a battleship.
His latest victims were a young couple who only had eyes and lips for each other.
They were lip locked on a three seater, bodies pressed close, limbs entwined when Hally Boy saw the isle seat and threw his considerable weight backwards into it. The young loves were torn apart violently as the air in the seat was displaced by this massive force. They looked at their interrupter with distain and slowly turned their gaze back to each other, smiled slowly, puckered up and resumed 'pashing'.
Now as most of you devoties of the pash will know, there aint no breathing through your mouth. It's all nasal. Can you imagine how bad it would be to be in the warm snuggly smooching place with your beloved and cop a whiff of 'ol garbo breath. The bile rises in my throat just thinking of it. The girl broke first, she looked at the soles of her shoes then made her boyfriend check his. Then looked over the back of the seat to see if there was something on the floor, checked in front, really checked out her boyfriend by sniffing his hair and his shoulder....heeeeeeeee...
I could see some of my fellow travellers (fellow former victims) watching in amusement as the girl realised that it was coming from Hally Boy. The boyfriend turned his head to look just as the girl said "its coming from him" and copped it full in the face as the gates of hell opened and HB yawned.
A lady a few seats down lost it and started laughing. I was smiling like the village idiot and had to smother a chuckle as Hally Boy started to settle into a big long open mouthed sleep.
I guess one shouldn't laugh at others misfortunes, I certainly suffered when I sat next to him so I should be more sympathetic. Ah stuff it.
I'm sure that one day the young lovers will sit back a few seats and watch with glee as another poor sod is tortured by the slow suffocation that is the breath of Hally Boy.
In one of my previous entries I mentioned Halitosis Boy with the breath that would sink a battleship.
His latest victims were a young couple who only had eyes and lips for each other.
They were lip locked on a three seater, bodies pressed close, limbs entwined when Hally Boy saw the isle seat and threw his considerable weight backwards into it. The young loves were torn apart violently as the air in the seat was displaced by this massive force. They looked at their interrupter with distain and slowly turned their gaze back to each other, smiled slowly, puckered up and resumed 'pashing'.
Now as most of you devoties of the pash will know, there aint no breathing through your mouth. It's all nasal. Can you imagine how bad it would be to be in the warm snuggly smooching place with your beloved and cop a whiff of 'ol garbo breath. The bile rises in my throat just thinking of it. The girl broke first, she looked at the soles of her shoes then made her boyfriend check his. Then looked over the back of the seat to see if there was something on the floor, checked in front, really checked out her boyfriend by sniffing his hair and his shoulder....heeeeeeeee...
I could see some of my fellow travellers (fellow former victims) watching in amusement as the girl realised that it was coming from Hally Boy. The boyfriend turned his head to look just as the girl said "its coming from him" and copped it full in the face as the gates of hell opened and HB yawned.
A lady a few seats down lost it and started laughing. I was smiling like the village idiot and had to smother a chuckle as Hally Boy started to settle into a big long open mouthed sleep.
I guess one shouldn't laugh at others misfortunes, I certainly suffered when I sat next to him so I should be more sympathetic. Ah stuff it.
I'm sure that one day the young lovers will sit back a few seats and watch with glee as another poor sod is tortured by the slow suffocation that is the breath of Hally Boy.
I'd rather have a bottle in front of me...
On the train yesterday evening.
We had been informed just before getting on the train that all trains were late and arriving out of timetable order (just the thing to get you in a good mood for the evening). Consequently the platform was crowded with cranky tired people who just wanted to get home. I managed to get a seat (whew) in the vestibule area and because the Tangarra is especially geared for peak hour in Tokyo I was quite squished up in the corner. The angle I was sitting at gave me a front row seat so to speak, to a spectacle that was occuring in between the carriages.
For those who don't catch trains in Sydney (oh you are so fortunate) the area I'm talking about is roughly 2 metres square, the floor is a couple of round steel plates, one over the other that grind together and cover the coupling joining the carriages. The space is totally enclosed and has double glass sliding doors leading into each carriage.
Two men and a woman were sitting on the steel plates, pretending that they were on a roller coaster or a surf board perhaps, screaming with laughter, falling over each other and generally having a good time. At first it was moderately funny, in the way that it's fun to watch people laughing and having fun, then it became a bit scary as they were puting their hands next to the plates and playing 'chicken' as the floor moved. Of course they were drunk, there were two bottles of spirits that they were drinking from and of course someone got hurt. One of the men got his sleeve caught in the floor as it moved, then it ripped his shirt across the back and he started screaming that his hand was caught. Passengers who were close to him tried to open the doors to get in there to help him but the idiots had locked the door somehow and we couldn't get in.
He managed to free himself and stood up to show us all that he was ok and didn't need help. One couldn't help but notice that he had soiled himself (in fright no doubt) and wet himself.. Not to be outdone his friend decided that he needed to relieve himself, so he did, right there. Because the train was moving quite fast and he was pretty drunk he fell, right into his puddle and then slid over to his friend and into the mess he had left on the floor. At that point I was hoping that his appendage would get caught in the floor. Unfortunately that didn't happen. The woman in the mean time was hooking into the left over grog.
We passengers had a quick vote and decided that we would keep that part of the train locked until we could get out, so the three of them had to stay in there. Last I saw of them they were sitting on the floor smoking and finishing off their bottles and singing and laughing. Obviously the simpler things in life are often the best
Go figure.....
We had been informed just before getting on the train that all trains were late and arriving out of timetable order (just the thing to get you in a good mood for the evening). Consequently the platform was crowded with cranky tired people who just wanted to get home. I managed to get a seat (whew) in the vestibule area and because the Tangarra is especially geared for peak hour in Tokyo I was quite squished up in the corner. The angle I was sitting at gave me a front row seat so to speak, to a spectacle that was occuring in between the carriages.
For those who don't catch trains in Sydney (oh you are so fortunate) the area I'm talking about is roughly 2 metres square, the floor is a couple of round steel plates, one over the other that grind together and cover the coupling joining the carriages. The space is totally enclosed and has double glass sliding doors leading into each carriage.
Two men and a woman were sitting on the steel plates, pretending that they were on a roller coaster or a surf board perhaps, screaming with laughter, falling over each other and generally having a good time. At first it was moderately funny, in the way that it's fun to watch people laughing and having fun, then it became a bit scary as they were puting their hands next to the plates and playing 'chicken' as the floor moved. Of course they were drunk, there were two bottles of spirits that they were drinking from and of course someone got hurt. One of the men got his sleeve caught in the floor as it moved, then it ripped his shirt across the back and he started screaming that his hand was caught. Passengers who were close to him tried to open the doors to get in there to help him but the idiots had locked the door somehow and we couldn't get in.
He managed to free himself and stood up to show us all that he was ok and didn't need help. One couldn't help but notice that he had soiled himself (in fright no doubt) and wet himself.. Not to be outdone his friend decided that he needed to relieve himself, so he did, right there. Because the train was moving quite fast and he was pretty drunk he fell, right into his puddle and then slid over to his friend and into the mess he had left on the floor. At that point I was hoping that his appendage would get caught in the floor. Unfortunately that didn't happen. The woman in the mean time was hooking into the left over grog.
We passengers had a quick vote and decided that we would keep that part of the train locked until we could get out, so the three of them had to stay in there. Last I saw of them they were sitting on the floor smoking and finishing off their bottles and singing and laughing. Obviously the simpler things in life are often the best
Go figure.....
Thursday 10 May 2007
The Coffins
I hardly ever catch the same train two mornings running. I try to get a different train each day as I like the uncertainty of being routineless. I can't stand the hum drum of everyday peak hour travel, the trip to and from the city is boring enough without being on the same carriage in the same seat of the same train every single morning of every single day of the working week. See You got bored just reading that, imagine living it! Besides, if you watch enough crime time on TV you would know that to vary your movements is to confuse everybody, my kind of kaos.
Anyway, there are only so many trains to a timeslot so in order to get to the salt mine on time one must create ones own boredom busters, different carriage, sit on the left, sit on the right, sit in the vestibule area, upstairs - downstairs and yes if there was a ladies chamber I'd sit there too.
Of course there are numerous commuters who don't share my eccentricity and would shudder at the thought and absolutely tremble at the execution of 'my routine'. It would take a momentous calamity to make them change.
Which brings me to the Coffins.
The Coffins (not their real name, I have Christened them this for obvious reasons) first came to my attention about 3 years ago because of the violent, barking hack coming from Mr Coffin as he struggled to regain his breath from running for the train.
I spotted the Coffins as I was waiting for the train one morning. They are a middle aged couple well into their 50's, not exactly a poster girl and boy for fit and healthy magazine (not that I am either) but they were running hard up a very steep ramp because the train was coming and if they didn't hurry they would miss it.
Not only did they make it but they made sure that they got into the carriage they wanted by walking through 2 carriages to the one I was sitting in. I was obviously in 'their' seat because they said as they came through. "Oh, that lady is in our seat" As I was the only one in the carriage I couldn't assume that they were talking about anyone else! So they sat in the seat behind me with some bad grace. Blimey if they had had their name on the damn seat I wouldn't have sat there!!
There was some heavy breathing going on there for a while (I didn't look around in case I was wrong but I reckon it was from the running) as they were dividing up the Herald between them and then the coughing started. Mr Coffin had a handkerchief held up to his mouth (thank Goodness for that small consideration to others) and was coughing his lungs up, loud, long and graphic. Have you ever heard a moulting Persian Cat throw a hairball through a loud speaker? Magnify that by 10! Oh my God it was just dreadful.
At first My sympathetic gene came to the fore, I offered him my unopened water bottle but he signalled that he was fine. Mrs Coffin was totally oblivious to the rib breaking convulsions happening in the seat next to her and just kept reading her Herald. (these Herald readers keep coming up, I might have to do a study here) She was the only person in the carriage that didn't want Mr Coffin dead by the time we got to Central Station. I must say that I have never found the newspaper so interesting that I am completely unaware that my Husband was choking on his own lung but hey if it happens every day then why worry.
Mr Coffin was with each hack, coming ever closer to being euthanased by a bunch of stressed out commuters. Couldn't get worse could it? Right. Coughing violently makes your eyes water, then your nose runs. No big deal. Well if you have a hack like that you must have a nasal gust to compliment it and Mr Coffin could mix quite comfortably with a flock of Canadian Geese judging by the volume.
Everyone was on a knifes edge waiting for the next incredibly loud expulsion from either his nose or his mouth, you couldn't relax. I'd have to say it was one of the most stressful train trips I have ever taken.
I caught that same train a couple of weeks later. Sat down (in a different seat) and sure enough they got on the train exactly the same way. Rushing down the stairs just as the train got in, walking through to the 3rd carriage and sitting in the (right one this time) same seat. Two sets of heavy breathing was followed by the rustling of Herald sharing, that incredibly foul cough and (the piece de resistance) the mating call of the slung arsed goose.
Being further back in the carriage I had an excellent view of the effect his persistant barking and honking was having on my fellow travellers. They went from concerned to sympathetic to annoyed to murderous in about 20 minutes.
I was intrigued so I caught the same train the next day. Same entrance and same behavour. Incredible!
Interestingly I noticed that there were mostly new people in the carriage. I'd say that you would only need a couple of trips to figure that those two were completely oblivious to the weirdness and annoyingness of it all. There didn't seem to be any other passengers in that part of the carriage that were regulars. Maybe someone really annoying can break that routine of same seat same carriage.
I often see them in the mornings, running hell bent for leather for the train but I don't feel the need to observe the ritual clearing of the pipes. There is only so much I can stand and if he did throw a lung I'd probably give him a standing ovation.
Anyway, there are only so many trains to a timeslot so in order to get to the salt mine on time one must create ones own boredom busters, different carriage, sit on the left, sit on the right, sit in the vestibule area, upstairs - downstairs and yes if there was a ladies chamber I'd sit there too.
Of course there are numerous commuters who don't share my eccentricity and would shudder at the thought and absolutely tremble at the execution of 'my routine'. It would take a momentous calamity to make them change.
Which brings me to the Coffins.
The Coffins (not their real name, I have Christened them this for obvious reasons) first came to my attention about 3 years ago because of the violent, barking hack coming from Mr Coffin as he struggled to regain his breath from running for the train.
I spotted the Coffins as I was waiting for the train one morning. They are a middle aged couple well into their 50's, not exactly a poster girl and boy for fit and healthy magazine (not that I am either) but they were running hard up a very steep ramp because the train was coming and if they didn't hurry they would miss it.
Not only did they make it but they made sure that they got into the carriage they wanted by walking through 2 carriages to the one I was sitting in. I was obviously in 'their' seat because they said as they came through. "Oh, that lady is in our seat" As I was the only one in the carriage I couldn't assume that they were talking about anyone else! So they sat in the seat behind me with some bad grace. Blimey if they had had their name on the damn seat I wouldn't have sat there!!
There was some heavy breathing going on there for a while (I didn't look around in case I was wrong but I reckon it was from the running) as they were dividing up the Herald between them and then the coughing started. Mr Coffin had a handkerchief held up to his mouth (thank Goodness for that small consideration to others) and was coughing his lungs up, loud, long and graphic. Have you ever heard a moulting Persian Cat throw a hairball through a loud speaker? Magnify that by 10! Oh my God it was just dreadful.
At first My sympathetic gene came to the fore, I offered him my unopened water bottle but he signalled that he was fine. Mrs Coffin was totally oblivious to the rib breaking convulsions happening in the seat next to her and just kept reading her Herald. (these Herald readers keep coming up, I might have to do a study here) She was the only person in the carriage that didn't want Mr Coffin dead by the time we got to Central Station. I must say that I have never found the newspaper so interesting that I am completely unaware that my Husband was choking on his own lung but hey if it happens every day then why worry.
Mr Coffin was with each hack, coming ever closer to being euthanased by a bunch of stressed out commuters. Couldn't get worse could it? Right. Coughing violently makes your eyes water, then your nose runs. No big deal. Well if you have a hack like that you must have a nasal gust to compliment it and Mr Coffin could mix quite comfortably with a flock of Canadian Geese judging by the volume.
Everyone was on a knifes edge waiting for the next incredibly loud expulsion from either his nose or his mouth, you couldn't relax. I'd have to say it was one of the most stressful train trips I have ever taken.
I caught that same train a couple of weeks later. Sat down (in a different seat) and sure enough they got on the train exactly the same way. Rushing down the stairs just as the train got in, walking through to the 3rd carriage and sitting in the (right one this time) same seat. Two sets of heavy breathing was followed by the rustling of Herald sharing, that incredibly foul cough and (the piece de resistance) the mating call of the slung arsed goose.
Being further back in the carriage I had an excellent view of the effect his persistant barking and honking was having on my fellow travellers. They went from concerned to sympathetic to annoyed to murderous in about 20 minutes.
I was intrigued so I caught the same train the next day. Same entrance and same behavour. Incredible!
Interestingly I noticed that there were mostly new people in the carriage. I'd say that you would only need a couple of trips to figure that those two were completely oblivious to the weirdness and annoyingness of it all. There didn't seem to be any other passengers in that part of the carriage that were regulars. Maybe someone really annoying can break that routine of same seat same carriage.
I often see them in the mornings, running hell bent for leather for the train but I don't feel the need to observe the ritual clearing of the pipes. There is only so much I can stand and if he did throw a lung I'd probably give him a standing ovation.
Wednesday 9 May 2007
The Herald
Most times sitting (or standing - see yesterday's blog) next to a Herald reader (HR) is an excercise in patience. The fact that the Herald is as big as a 6 seater tablecloth does not daunt the HR. I know people who are budding retail assistants who use HRs on public transport as a training excercise in anger management. HRs tend to have no consideration for the persons in their vicinity by spreading their arms to their greatest width, their legs likewise (I think this is a balance thing actually. Obviously if your arms are spread and the train jolts suddenly you have to have your legs spread to stop you from falling off your perch). The turning of a page results in most of the passengers within a five seat radius getting a fright from the SNAP as the HR turns into something that resembles two children fighting under a sheet. The people in the seats in front are constantly being tortured by being hit in the head with sheets of paper, fists, knees and even on rare occasions stomachs and breasts as Mr or Mrs inconsiderate contorts themselves into knots in order to turn to page 4. And let's not mention the hurricane that follows the athletic page turn, on a cold morning it's a chill that can kill. Obviously there is a price to pay for being seen as an intellectual and not some pleb who reads the Tele. It's just that the person who pays isn't the reader.
I am watching a man reading the Herald. Three things come to mind as I watch. He is obsessive compulsive or he is a control freak or he is very very aware of the annoyance he could cause other passengers. Maybe it's all three.
He has a page turning ritual.
The paper is never opened fully. First we separate the news section from the rest of the paper. The other sections go into his brief case (neatly). The news section is then folded in half. The fold must be even and sharp so we put the paper on our brief case, take out our trusty Gold Parker Pen and iron the crease. Then the paper gets folded in half again, line up the pages neatly and we iron that crease. We can then read page 1 in a clockwise direction turning to the quarterly bits as we need to . To turn the page we open the paper and fold the front page in half lengthwise, iron and fold back into quarters etc until we have read the whole paper. I may have missed a step or two here but I think you can get the gist of what I'm saying.
It's brilliant, the paper isn't the messy lump that most Heralds end up in, he doesn't annoy anyone (except maybe mess freaks) and he is an endless source of amusement for those of us who can appreciate it.
A good look at the man himself discloses a bit about him, he is very nicely ironed. Creases in his pants and shirt are razor sharp. Hair is almost like it is painted on. Somehow he hasn't got black ink all over his hands and he sits with both knees together with his feet slightly elevated at the heel. June Daly Watkins must be proud.
I wonder what he does on Saturday? Does he break out and have bits of Herald all over the house? Does he lie on the floor in a curry stained track suit and spread out all over the lounge room only changing position when he wants to read a new section?
That brings me to another set of questions....How does a dedicated scruncher read the Herald,
is a folder necessarily an obsessive compulsive and can a scruncher and a folder read the same Herald and if so who reads first ? Hmmm
I am watching a man reading the Herald. Three things come to mind as I watch. He is obsessive compulsive or he is a control freak or he is very very aware of the annoyance he could cause other passengers. Maybe it's all three.
He has a page turning ritual.
The paper is never opened fully. First we separate the news section from the rest of the paper. The other sections go into his brief case (neatly). The news section is then folded in half. The fold must be even and sharp so we put the paper on our brief case, take out our trusty Gold Parker Pen and iron the crease. Then the paper gets folded in half again, line up the pages neatly and we iron that crease. We can then read page 1 in a clockwise direction turning to the quarterly bits as we need to . To turn the page we open the paper and fold the front page in half lengthwise, iron and fold back into quarters etc until we have read the whole paper. I may have missed a step or two here but I think you can get the gist of what I'm saying.
It's brilliant, the paper isn't the messy lump that most Heralds end up in, he doesn't annoy anyone (except maybe mess freaks) and he is an endless source of amusement for those of us who can appreciate it.
A good look at the man himself discloses a bit about him, he is very nicely ironed. Creases in his pants and shirt are razor sharp. Hair is almost like it is painted on. Somehow he hasn't got black ink all over his hands and he sits with both knees together with his feet slightly elevated at the heel. June Daly Watkins must be proud.
I wonder what he does on Saturday? Does he break out and have bits of Herald all over the house? Does he lie on the floor in a curry stained track suit and spread out all over the lounge room only changing position when he wants to read a new section?
That brings me to another set of questions....How does a dedicated scruncher read the Herald,
is a folder necessarily an obsessive compulsive and can a scruncher and a folder read the same Herald and if so who reads first ? Hmmm
Tuesday 8 May 2007
Train etiquette?
Earlier train this morning. Very crowded. I had to stand in the vestibule area smashed up with all the other desperates trying to get into the city. Because this train is a fast train ( I'm not sure that fast is really the word that I would use to describe it but hey, City Rail has to have poetic licence with some of it's adjectives) you expect that if you get on at a station closer to the destination then there will be lots of other people doing the same thing, a seat is a luxury rather than a given. So I'm fine, I'm standing and trying to avoid any steaming humanity actually touching me by crinkling myself up in a corner of the carriage. Now, is there some kind of crowded train etiquette for reading whilst standing in an upright sardine can? I think there is. You dont. How can you possibly read a book, mag or newspaper when you don't have the room? I must admitt that when I have been in the throws of reading a really exciting book I have entertained myself with the idea that the person in front of me mightn't mind if I rested the spine of the book on their spine, back to back you might say but have never actually put that one into practice. So, A book? No. A magazine? No, not enough room. A newspaper? forget it. The Herald? are you deranged!!
In steps The Suit, a nicely dressed young man, baby face, well groomed ( I suspect manicured as well) someone that looks like he is a professional, a highly thought of member of the establishment. He has the Herald under his arm and as he stands next to me I give a silent 'thankyou' to the Train God that he has it folded and isn't going to read it. Wrong. He unfolded the paper holding it in both hands and leaned back until he was resting comfortably against my back using me as his handy stopper everytime the train jolted, accelerated or braked. I actually put up with this for about 3 jolts because I was so taken aback by his affrontery, then held my elbow in position so that the next jolt would give his kidneys a bit of a rough up. This resulted in a shrug of the shoulders but no other reaction (like putting the paper down and hanging on). Sterner measures needed here. I tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to hang on and stop leaning on me. Totally ignored me. I was getting some attention from bored commuters who were enjoying the show. I rolled my eyes at a man opposite me who returned the roll and mimicked a shove in the back. We both silently laughed but then I thought 'why not?' so I did. Not hard, just a nudge. Unfortunately the train accelerated at the same time and 'baby face' became a projectile and ended up at the foot of the stairs with his paper crumpled up in a ball in front of him. Ooooops. Incredibly he didn't fall, I reckon if he isn't a surfer or skate board rider then he should be. I'm not sure who laughed most but the man who gave me the idea in the first place looked like he was going to wet himself. As for 'baby face' he wasn't fazed, he took to his new position with gusto, leaning comfortably on the man next to him and opening his Herald.........
In steps The Suit, a nicely dressed young man, baby face, well groomed ( I suspect manicured as well) someone that looks like he is a professional, a highly thought of member of the establishment. He has the Herald under his arm and as he stands next to me I give a silent 'thankyou' to the Train God that he has it folded and isn't going to read it. Wrong. He unfolded the paper holding it in both hands and leaned back until he was resting comfortably against my back using me as his handy stopper everytime the train jolted, accelerated or braked. I actually put up with this for about 3 jolts because I was so taken aback by his affrontery, then held my elbow in position so that the next jolt would give his kidneys a bit of a rough up. This resulted in a shrug of the shoulders but no other reaction (like putting the paper down and hanging on). Sterner measures needed here. I tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to hang on and stop leaning on me. Totally ignored me. I was getting some attention from bored commuters who were enjoying the show. I rolled my eyes at a man opposite me who returned the roll and mimicked a shove in the back. We both silently laughed but then I thought 'why not?' so I did. Not hard, just a nudge. Unfortunately the train accelerated at the same time and 'baby face' became a projectile and ended up at the foot of the stairs with his paper crumpled up in a ball in front of him. Ooooops. Incredibly he didn't fall, I reckon if he isn't a surfer or skate board rider then he should be. I'm not sure who laughed most but the man who gave me the idea in the first place looked like he was going to wet himself. As for 'baby face' he wasn't fazed, he took to his new position with gusto, leaning comfortably on the man next to him and opening his Herald.........
Monday 7 May 2007
Shallow Breathing
I am sitting by the window in a 3 seater on the 7.35 to the City. It is a beautiful day. One of those crispy autumn mornings that I love so much. I am a bit tired as it is the Monday morning after a rather busy weekend. I decide to hide behind my sunglasses and have a bit of a snooze whilst Cityrail whisks me into the Sydney CBD for another day at the grindstone.
I snuggle down into the seat and lean into the window, shut my eyes and start to allow the hypnptotising effect of the warm sun coming through the window, the rocking motion and the sound of the wheels on the tracks to pull me into a deep sleep.
I am only just aware of the train pulling to a stop at the next station and the dead weight of a 200k body dropping from a great height into the seat alongside of me.
"That's cool" I think, as I am rocked from side to side in the manner of a leaf in a pool suddenly disturbed by a child throwing a large rock into it. I keep my eyes shut and prepare to be lulled into nirvana.
Hmmmm, what is that smell? Some grub has farted. I keep my eyes shut and concentrate on oblivion but this stench keeps dragging me back, it's sort of rythmic - smell - no smell - smell - no smell. I open my eyes, there is a young man sitting next to me on the isle. He looks my way and as our optics meet I am assailed by a waft of such rancidity from him that it takes my breath away and I'm wrong, it is not his back end that the smell is coming from. I look away and quickly bury my nose into my hand. Oh my God!! It's on my tastebuds it's that foul, my hand isn't running interference either, this is one serious smell, it's creeping through the cracks in my fingers. I'm suffocating, I open the window in a panic trying not to gulp too much air or I'll be sick. The lady behind me makes a comment to her fellow traveller about the arseholes that open windows on cold mornings, if I could only take enough breath to tell her to rack off. I settle for a quick scathing look. I aint closing my only ventilation port let me tell you!
I text my friends to let them know that I'm sitting next to someone who's breath smells like they have shit themselves just in case I die from asphyxiation. I dont want my autopsy to be inconclusive. I'm starting to panic, I can feel my chest constricting, can you die from being at the front end of a halitosis sufferer? I dont get that anyway - they dont suffer - we do!!! I look at the scenery out of the window to try to reclaim my calm state. I have a revelation for you!! It is impossible meditate if you cant deep breathe.
By now the train is filling up and as each passenger sees the seat next to me they come down the isle and stop to ask him to let them in. But as they do they cop a whiff and recoil in revulsion. They move away and I'm alone, trapped.
I sneak a look at my assailant, THE BASTARD IS ASLEEP!!!!! And horror of horrors he is a mouth breather. I cant take it any more, I am 1 stop away from Central Station, the train is packed. I take a deep breath, I stand, I gather my belongings, I kick him awake, squeeze past his legs and with lungs bursting I reel to the stairs and make it to the door just as it opens at Green Square.
I fall to my knees on the platform sucking in the sweet carbon monoxide laden fumes, my lungs working like a blacksmiths bellows. I look through watering eyes as the train pulls away from the station and see 'road kill' (as I'm sure his acquaintances call him) moving to the window as another victim sits down. My last thought as the train disappeared was' I hope that open window blows his stinking breath back on that bitch behind me'.
I snuggle down into the seat and lean into the window, shut my eyes and start to allow the hypnptotising effect of the warm sun coming through the window, the rocking motion and the sound of the wheels on the tracks to pull me into a deep sleep.
I am only just aware of the train pulling to a stop at the next station and the dead weight of a 200k body dropping from a great height into the seat alongside of me.
"That's cool" I think, as I am rocked from side to side in the manner of a leaf in a pool suddenly disturbed by a child throwing a large rock into it. I keep my eyes shut and prepare to be lulled into nirvana.
Hmmmm, what is that smell? Some grub has farted. I keep my eyes shut and concentrate on oblivion but this stench keeps dragging me back, it's sort of rythmic - smell - no smell - smell - no smell. I open my eyes, there is a young man sitting next to me on the isle. He looks my way and as our optics meet I am assailed by a waft of such rancidity from him that it takes my breath away and I'm wrong, it is not his back end that the smell is coming from. I look away and quickly bury my nose into my hand. Oh my God!! It's on my tastebuds it's that foul, my hand isn't running interference either, this is one serious smell, it's creeping through the cracks in my fingers. I'm suffocating, I open the window in a panic trying not to gulp too much air or I'll be sick. The lady behind me makes a comment to her fellow traveller about the arseholes that open windows on cold mornings, if I could only take enough breath to tell her to rack off. I settle for a quick scathing look. I aint closing my only ventilation port let me tell you!
I text my friends to let them know that I'm sitting next to someone who's breath smells like they have shit themselves just in case I die from asphyxiation. I dont want my autopsy to be inconclusive. I'm starting to panic, I can feel my chest constricting, can you die from being at the front end of a halitosis sufferer? I dont get that anyway - they dont suffer - we do!!! I look at the scenery out of the window to try to reclaim my calm state. I have a revelation for you!! It is impossible meditate if you cant deep breathe.
By now the train is filling up and as each passenger sees the seat next to me they come down the isle and stop to ask him to let them in. But as they do they cop a whiff and recoil in revulsion. They move away and I'm alone, trapped.
I sneak a look at my assailant, THE BASTARD IS ASLEEP!!!!! And horror of horrors he is a mouth breather. I cant take it any more, I am 1 stop away from Central Station, the train is packed. I take a deep breath, I stand, I gather my belongings, I kick him awake, squeeze past his legs and with lungs bursting I reel to the stairs and make it to the door just as it opens at Green Square.
I fall to my knees on the platform sucking in the sweet carbon monoxide laden fumes, my lungs working like a blacksmiths bellows. I look through watering eyes as the train pulls away from the station and see 'road kill' (as I'm sure his acquaintances call him) moving to the window as another victim sits down. My last thought as the train disappeared was' I hope that open window blows his stinking breath back on that bitch behind me'.
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