Greypower

There is a large cohort of grey hairs that take my train line after the morning rush every so often. They seem to know what carriage to take and their numbers progressively increase as the train nears the city, until they have reached critical mass and everyone under the age of 65 has given up their seat.

Now don't get me wrong, I have absolutely no problem with giving up my seat to my elders, in fact one of my pet peeves is when people do not give up their seats, but it fascinates me how the grey hairs (I assume some sort of glee club or 'over x age' social group) flex their collective muscles on these outings. I have watched on a couple of occasions as the train will pull up at a stop and Doreen, Charlie, Shirl and Mavis get on, chirpily greeting the others who are already on board. At this point, woe betide the younger person who is messing up their seating plan. If there are 2 oldies in a seat for 4, the oldies will proceed to smile sweetly but pointedly while their mates stand around looking distressed, until the younger passengers move. This is regardless of whether the train is full or not and you should see them grin and settle into their newly claimed seats once the young uns have been evicted.

It reminds me of some great quotes that I aspire to:

"I hope I grow old disgracefully. That's very important.
Thankfully, the older I get, the sillier I become." Phyllida Law.

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we have no money for butter.
And I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth."

And finally, a nice one for anyone foolish enough to be undertaking post-grad study:

"The longer I live the more I see that I am never wrong about anything, and that all the pains that I have so humbly taken to verify my notions have only wasted my time."
George Bernard Shaw.

Amen to that!

Big sister is now watching y'all :-)

In order to maintain the consistently geeky tone of this nerdy corner of cyberspace I have installed a web counter today. Funny how many people pass through - thought there were only about 4 people (myself included) that read it, but turns out that in the last 15 minutes 2 people from the US, 1 from Canada and 3 from Oztrailer have popped by, no doubt intently procrastinating as much as I do when I write it!

"Bitch!"

Heading home on a Friday afternoon, sitting near the front of the tram. The tram pulls up to a stop as usual but screeches to a halt unexpectedly, accompanied by another screech from the driver who yells 'bitch!!!'. The culprit is an elderly Indian woman who had somehow managed to run in front of the tram from behind another tram, appearing from nowhere.

Our tram takes off again, faster than before and we screech to another halt in the middle of a busy intersection, not standard practice for trams at rush hour. The driver, also of indian descent but mid-30s, gets out, stomps round to the front of the tram and twiddles with the tracks with the special track twiddling tool (typical female description eh?) and stomps back to the tram as traffic piles up around us. She stands in the door of the tram, hurling the large metal track twiddling tool back into the driver's area with such force that we all have a clanging noise ringing in our ears for a few minutes after.

She then gets back into her seat and accelerates head first towards an oncoming car so fast that we are all pretty sure we're going to die. Her technique, no doubt taught as part of tram driver stress relief in trammie school, involves ringing the ineffectual tram bell (no doubt intentionally so: there's only so much road rage you can cause with repeated 'ding ding ding ding's) as much as she can while driving at full speed towards oncoming cars.

It is a small miracle that we avoid being the tram-flavoured meat in a car sandwich and a disproportionate number of passengers get off at the next stop, favouring a small delay over going to their graves with a seriously pissed off trammie.

Not cute.

The inlaws are visiting from Noo Zulland. I have been on my best behaviour and things are going pretty well.

Last night, returning from a very pleasant meal with the inlaws and a good friend (also visiting) we were pleasantly surprised when the tram pulled up and the driver leant out and said 'mind the step'. I thought 'wow, how nice, a tram driver really looking after his passengers' and felt a twang of pride in my adopted city's transport service.

It was only as I stepped up on to the tram and he repeated it louder that I realised he was speaking in transport provider language, that fabulous downplaying language where trains are slightly delayed, planes require minor repairs, taxi drivers are momentarily unsure of where they are heading and women are a bit pregnant.

What our mullet-adorned trammie in fact meant, was 'mind the pile of puke on the step'. Very similar.

We managed to all avoid it (no mean feat in itself) and headed as far away as possible, towards the empty seats at the back of the tram. Upon arrival we realised that they were empty for a reason, whoever had deposited the first pile had been a very busy boy indeed ('scuse the inherent gender bias but you know it was a bloke!).

We hastily retreated to the middle of the tram and spent the rest of the journey trying not to look (or smell) forwards or backwards. Maybe a rental car's not such a bad idea for when the inlaws are next in town.

Sooooooo CUTE!

Standing at the platform waiting for a late afternoon train from the city when a young asian couple catch my eye.

You know the type: young, urban, uber-trendy and probably studying at one of the central universities or language schools. What caught my eye with this pair was that she was perched on his lap, legs crossed with dainty feet enclosed in a diabolically expensive and fashionable version of the Barta-bullet velcro-strap shoes we all lusted after as kids (they helped you walk up walls don't you know).

What's more, she was concentrating on her (no doubt equally trendy) pink knitting as she sat perched there, looking asian-cute and super cool. Not sure that it would work so well if I tried it.

The last train.

Taking the last train from the city on a Friday night is always a bit of a gamble. As Forrest Gump said, you never know what you're gonna get.

We caught the 12.09 from the central station after a great evening out at a super-sexy jazz club, feeling very grown-up and sophisticated. But all it took was a 12-minute train ride for any of those feelings to evaporate like drugs being boiled on a teaspoon.

The star performer in our carriage was a late 20s Australian guy who was amped to the teeth on something quite spectacular. He was pacing like a caged animal from one end of the carriage to the other. When he got to either end, he would smack the wall and pace around the end section like he had been trapped. After 30 seconds or so he would sit down and do his best "who me? paranoid? nooooooo....." look - but this wouldn't last for more than 30 seconds before he was up and pacing back towards us - hands hitting the backs of the seats as he passed. You could actually see everyone cringe and pretend not to be there as he approached. After he had repeated this three times, he opened the door between the carriages (whoever thought allowing passengers to move between the carriages of a moving train was a good idea must have been on something equally strong) and stood, angst-ridden, on that tiny little metal platform between the two carriages for more than 5 minutes, head in hands, staring intently at the tracks. I swear that every single person in that carriage thought he was going to jump off - I have to admit to being quite pleased that I was facing the other way, insensitive wuss that I am. After this, he opened the door to the next carriage and proceeded to repeat the entire pacing, wall-smacking, chair-hitting , between-carriage-standing process in reverse. We all watched, fascinated from afar, secretly glad that we no longer had to avoid eye contact with psycho drug guy.

At this stage, I became aware that two of the people in my carriage were also competing for attention in their own way. Two young Somalian guys were sitting together, 'talking' (and I use that word in an exceptionally understated way) at the loudest volume possible. High-speed and high-volume, the pair looked to the untrained eye (ear?) like they were having a huge argument...I, however, have seen enough testosterone-fuelled young Somali guys to know that they were in fact just discussing the issues of the day. The entire conversation was in pure Somali, with the one exception, somewhere in the middle, of "are you fucking stupid man?!"

English is such a beautiful language that some things simply can't be translated.

I wanna be a tram driver!

Okay, how cool is this?!

Last night 2 people got shot in the suburb down the road from us (no, that's not the cool part) - one of the guys got shot in the lower back and escaped by hailing a tram!!! I have always had idle daydreams about bank robbers and cops doing impossibly slow 'follow that cab!'-type chases on trams but this is just as cool!

The tram he caught is on my line and I know exactly where he got on - I was at badminton at the time and would have caught that tram back about an hour after it happened, had we not won the final (my first ever sporting trophy BTW! - reasonably surprising as i'm not really an elite athlete kind of gal) and decided to hit the town instead, resulting in a helpful mate dropping me home at some decidedly non-tram hour of the morning.

The best part is that the news story ends by saying that paramedics attended the victim on the tram, before taking him to the main hospital...which is also on the tram line. I wonder if they bothered using an ambulance or whether the tram driver just dropped them off?

And who said being a tram driver would be boring?!

Look both ways twice.

My partner saw someone get smooshed by a tram last night.

Not nice.

I am pleased that this is an entry that is not from my direct experience as I am a bit of a wuss when it comes to blood and guts and icky things (although I have to admit that spiders and worms rank even higher on my personal 'ick scale').

Anyone who has seen a tram on the move around any city knows that, especially in the CBD, they ain't no bullet trains. But if you're in a hurry to cross the road and aren't looking where you're going then, yes, it is conceivable that you could get whupped by a tram. The bloke that my partner saw was doing exactly that - a student type in a hurry to get somewhere; crossing the road and walking right into the path of a tram coming from his right. Result: one person bleeding on the ground and one tram driver, no doubt following extremely sensible company policy, staying inside his metal cage in the tram and calling for help on his radio. No one wants a lynch mob on their ass when they're trying to help someone.

Apparently some well-meaning people thought the tramee was in better shape than he was and tried to lift him up - but his legs weren't in the mood for holding up anything and he landed back on the ground. His head was not a pretty sight but hopefully he was ok - living to walk another day, only this time looking both ways twice before crossing the road.

Crouching tiger & the olympic spirit on a Friday night.

Coming back from the cheap movie theatre at the end of the tram line (they make the tickets cheaper in recognition of effort expended in getting there) late on a Friday night.

An impressionable young chap (13ish?), no doubt inspired by the antics of the buff gymnasts on the box at the moment (well, either that or inspired by the urge to be an annoying monkey) decided that the handholds on the tram were perfect for doing flips with. He grabbed one in each hand on either side of the aisle and spent about 5 minutes happily going round and round in circles like the cute olympic boys do, only he was much less cute. His mate who looked much older and more than old enough to know better decided to join in after a short time - and, as we all know when 2 boys play together it is only a matter of time before one sees who can do it faster, higher etc than the other.

On this occasion the only logical progression from going round in circles (not a lot of competition to be had there as the judging panel (themselves) were somewhat less discerning than the olympic judges on matters of technique) was of course to use the handholds to fight each other - Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon style. Cue: 2 boys swinging from one end of the tram to the other, swinging wildly at each other with their feet looking somewhat less serene and graceful than Chow Yun Fat. The highlight was the associated chop sockey noises they made. Television and film have a lot to answer for.

Vestis virum reddit.

Whoever said that clothes maketh the (wo)man - and i'm pretty sure it was some old latin codger by the name of Quintilianus - was full of crap in some respects and on to it in others. If there is an absolute lack of human substance to begin with then not even the 'queer eye' guys can salvage someone.

Was musing on exactly this as I shared my morning train in to the city with some sulky Avril Lavigne wannabe that had mutated into something much more:

White trendy 'rusty' brand hoodie jumper, black calf length tights with a lime green rock and roll 80s style skirt on top (sarah jessica parker ish?) complete with extremely expensive 'vintage' converse boots and a bizarre Wilma Flintstone-size pink and white beaded necklace.

Now this is all very well and good - I was equally guilty of trying to express my personality through clothing as a kid - but this bird was trying to create a personality through her clothing...because she sure as hell didn't have one otherwise. She had an absolutely blank expression and personality deficit that no amount of clothing or anything else could have compensated for. Maybe i'm being bitchy and old-fashioned but a smile or slightest expression of interest in the world around her would have done miles more for her 'image' than any amount of clothing.

If a man already exists then sure, maybe clothes will enhance the man - but clothes cannot make a man if there is nothing to work with in the first place.

Two bananas

Took the tram again for old time's sake. Tram people are more fun than train people. Different times of the day attract different people. After the morning commuting rush where people look grumpy or asleep and read each other's newspapers while they're crushed in like sardines the next shift takes over. Around mid-morning, public transport is the exclusive domain of oldies, single parents, university students and the unemployed (you may as well count the last two as one). There also a few of that rare and happy breed - the 'flexible hours' worker - the corporate bunnies who have earnt the right to turn up to work when they damn well like it.

On this trip, there wasn't anything hugely unusual - just a really nice mix. The young Somalian mother with unfeasibly large pushchair who got helped on to the tram, the usual oldies (who always seem to travel at least in pairs, usually much bigger posses), uni students, a distinctly unemployed couple (sometimes you can just tell) and some blissfully happy corporate-types.

I watched as one of the oldies stared in confused amazement at the fashionable young female uni student wearing knee-high ugg boots (what is with THAT?!!!) and listened in on the inane conversation between the unemployed couple. An especial treat was the young guy in a suit, who seemed to be travelling to work but was carrying only his tram pass and 2 bananas...given the chronic back problems that my bag containing laptop, books, wallet, mobile, gloves, tissues, scarf, music player etc gives me I was extremely tempted to ask what his secret was...who cares what the job is: if you can perform it with only a suit, a tram ticket and 2 bananas then it's GOT to be all good! :-)

Books and mortar.

The central train station is opposite the State Library, a compact but majestic building with the sort of distinguished interior that should have a cameo in all good lawyer movies. At 8.15am this morning I walked out of the station and was a bit disorientated by the sight of more than a hundred men in work clothes and white hard hats mooching around in front of the library. It looked like a scene out of a monty python movie: a gaggle of construction workers. They were standing in approximate groups spread across the lawn and a few of them were wandering around with clipboards.

Sometimes the space is used for political protests but there were no placards to be seen and the men looked quite happy. There is a construction site next door though so I my best guess is that some sort of siren had sounded and the State Library was the agreed meeting place. It made for an interesting juxtaposition - men of action in front of a place of learning, in a funny way it seemed to fit together quite nicely.

Hey, no offence man...

Saturday night: Tram on the way back to the city following dinner at an Italian restaurant with friends.

The tram is waiting at a stop while the light is red. From the adjacent road comes the sort of blood curdling screeching of tyres that can only happen when someone is not only about to run a red light but also take a pedestrian with them.

Everyone rushes to one side of the tram and looks out, including a charming young man with wildly flitting eyes that are beautifully accessorised by the track marks on his arm. A mid-20s guy gets on board (presumably the cause of the screeching tyres) and grins as he says 'it's ok, he missed me'. Everyone chuckles along...except for young Master Track Marks, who says, "hey no offence man but it would have been fucking AWESOME if he hit you!"

Cue: Deafening silence on tram as everyone gapes in disbelief and then shuffles a bit further away from Track Marks.

Track Marks sits down in the seats on the other side of the aisle from us by himself. At the next stop some poor bugger gets on, oblivious to what he is letting himself in for, and sits down opposite him. The bloke must have scratched his head or something because Track Marks picks him as his next target. "Hey man, don't you do no fucking hand signals at me - what's that supposed to mean?!"

He carries on in this manner until we get to the next stop - when anyone within a few seats of him with half a brain either moves or gets off.

A new route.

My partner walks a slightly different route to the train station than me (I?). Last night while out for a walk with our silly sausage dog he took me along his route to show me something that has brightened up his commuting stroll every day for the last few weeks.

There, nestled under a small tree on the footpath outside the local Old People's Home, was an empty box of Viagra.

Beautiful.

Australis Slappicus

I have to admit that, whilst I generously think of myself as a person with reasonably broad general knowledge, I am not at all 'au fait' with the world of cosmetics. Don't get me wrong, I know basic hygiene, but beyond washing, deodorant, moisturiser, perfume and the concealment of any offending blemishes my 'beauty regime' is non-existent.

Not so for one of my companions on my train journey this morning.

I boarded the train at my now usual stop and was greeted with the sight of a glorious specimen of that not so rare or beautiful species known as 'Australis Slappicus'.

Resplendent in the uniform of black bootleg pants and white hoodie cardigan (probably not the trendy way to describe it at all), open to display a bright pink singlet whose main function I suspect was the use of colour to attract attention to cleavage. This sartorial elegance was further enhanced by the tasteful display of a large playboy bunny logo necklace and matching bright pink 'playboy brand' handbag.

Her hair, as is required for all members of this species, was long, straight and bright blonde with gorgeous dark regrowth flourishing at the top.

But enough with descriptions. What caught my eye was that Ms Slappicus was intently focussed on her beauty regime - specifically her eyelashes. I watched, enthralled for the ENTIRETY (I kid you not) of the 15 minute train ride as she, bright pink cut-throat nails delicately clasping her compact mirror, primped and preened her eyelashes. At first I thought, 'fair enough, you're obviously running late' - it's not uncommon to see women hastily doing their makeup as they catch their breath on the train on the way to work. As the minutes ticked by however, and Ms S produced first a black (mascara?) thing and then a white one from her bag, I realised that this was no normal hasty makeup sesh. She would use one then the other, and then repeat the process (forgive me for drawing on my basic knowledge of the colour spectrum but I thought this might have been somewhat pointless - unless grey was her desired result?). About halfway through she produced from her pink bag something that looked like an old-fashioned torture device but which she used to (curl?) her eyelashes. She then started the whole process again - repeating it at least twice more before we arrived in the city.

As she neared her stop, Ms S carefully placed her tools back in her bag, checked her bright pink mobile for text messages (in case she hadn't heard the messages from the hordes of admirers) and then - wait for it - placed her extremely fashionable post-Anastacia/ current-Posh Spice brown and clear sunglasses on....completely covering her eyes with the brown half. Good to see that the youth of today are spending their time on worthwhile pursuits.

(I'm probably just jealous).

Changing allegiances.

Well, I have had to bid farewell to Tourettes Man and the other regulars on Route #59. I moved house on Saturday and am now splitting my public transport loyalties between tram AND train (i'm such a rebel).

It is interesting being able to 'compare and contrast' the two modes - and the accepted social standards on both.

On tram, for example, on an empty booth of 2 lots of 2 seats, many people will rather sit next to each other than have to sit opposite one another and risk - god forbid - eye contact. On the upside, if someone with a pram or trundler gets on, others will move to help them without fail.

On a train, however, people seem to consider it their solemn duty to studiously pretend that no one else in the carriage exists...even when they are busy reading the back of those other people's newspapers - a popular past-time for morning commuters. The increased noise also seems to cover a lot of the 'quirks' of many people - you mostly can't hear them talking to themselves. I have often thought though that people with this tendency could just put a hands-free mobile phone earpiece in their ear and blend right in with the rest of the phone enthusiasts - who i personally think look a damn sight more silly because they are CHOOSING to look like they are talking to themselves.

But enough rambling, I have a lecture to prepare and an early train to catch tomorrow. Goodnight.

That'll learn you!

Rush-hour tram on my way to check out a possible place to rent (on a different tram line from my usual - que horror!). Temperature: approx 8 degrees - feels colder. We stop at a set of traffic lights in town, where a tram employee is doing something official (not sure what) by the side of the tram. The tram bloke, who looks like a nicer version of John Howard, complete with silly hat (doubt that Johnny's have tram company logos on them but you never know...), starts chatting to the driver through the tram door, complaining about the weather.

A mid-20s woman onboard calls out to tram bloke, asking if he remembers her. Apparently she went to school with his daughter. Seems like he doesn't remember her but he happily updates her (and the rest of the tram) about what his daughter is up to - 'finished uni, working in x place, dog, cat, 2.5 kids etc' - finishes on a beautiful note, laughing as he says, "I wish i'd gone to uni now so that I'm not stuck by a tramstop on a freezing night age 56".

Light turns green and we move off,

We all have regrets.

Nice one

8.30pm tram from the city. Just as we're passing the hospital, a young woman wearing a pharmacist's jacket (shirt?) gets off - handing her (what I would assume was 2-hour long) tram ticket to the pleasantly surprised young asian man getting on.

'Innocence TM'

On a major intersection on my tram line there has been, for the last month or so, a large billboard advertising 'Shelly Innocence' and her website. I generally don't pay a lot of attention to billboards but this one stuck out for its spectacular cheesyness and the fact that it had a picture of its covergirl sitting in a field of flowers with the beautifuly obtuse line 'Trust - only believe' on it. It also had a link to the website - www.shellyinnocence.com . For weeks I would idly look at it and wonder if perhaps it was advertising a self-improvement seminar or self-help tapes 'a la Anthony Robbins' or something equivalent.

Turns out its much funnier - 'Shelly' (who, if I had looked closely, I would have realised is not quite all she appears to be) is marketing the real deal - Happiness TM, Trust TM, Risk TM, Truth TM and Innocence TM among others. Unfortunately, Committment TM, Joy TM and some other exciting products have been discontinued, so I had to make do with purchasing Integrity TM (strapline: 'It's not for everyone') instead. Got it on special!

Thoroughly recommend Shelly's products to anyone who is in need of a pick me up.

For every action...

There is a lovely (Indian?) tram driver who often works on my route. Middle-aged, with bushy 70s-style sideburns that remind me of a teacher I had in high school, he seems to take real pride in his profession. Whenever he is driving on my route he is always announcing every stop, making sure that old ladies have enough time to sit down properly before moving off etc.

Today he got on at the tram depot which is about halfway down my line, as a passenger, presumably having finished a shift on another route. He bounced on board, shaking hands with the driver and making jokes. He then spied Tourettes Man (who I was sitting opposite from).

I suspect that most routes have a sort of 'mascot' passenger that the drivers keep an eye on and make sure that they are ok because the driver was exceptionally pleased to see him and shook hands with him before sitting down next to him. He then listened patiently as Tourettes Man enthusiastically lectured him on the finer points of every single budget buffet restaurant in town - providing a sort of cost/benefits analysis, in combination with a laborious but thorough description of every food item offered.

The off-duty tram driver listened, enraptured, helping out every now and then when Tourettes Man got stuck listing food types, until he had to get off to catch his connection, when he shook hands with Tourettes Man and bade him farewell. By choosing to use his tram journey in this manner, the driver had consierably brightened up Tourettes Man's day, and calmed him down a fair bit (he was getting pretty agitated by the time the driver got on) as well. Nice one.

Walking the block from the tram to university, however, I saw a very 'American Beauty'-type scene. Two slightly deflated heart-shaped helium balloons with 'I love you' written on them were fluttering in the wind...attached by long strings to a pretty solid and unromantic-looking municipal rubbish bin. Whoever said that pictures speak a thousand words was on to it - just wish I had a camera with me.