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.

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

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.........

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'.