People At Bus Stops

After I saw Takva, I walked to the bus stop, the same one where a complete stranger had placed his face two inches from mine and insisted that I say hello to an apparently mutual friend.

Checking the bus timetable, I was pleased to see that my bus was due in about five minutes and proceeded to take a seat. As I turned to sit down, a man walking along the street, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, hesitated in his tracks before deciding to sit down as well.

I didn’t know if I’d imagined the man’s split second decision to change his plans upon seeing me take a seat. I tried not to look at him. I took in the streetscape around me. I glanced at the activity of the markets in the Brunswick Street Mall. I risked a quick look at the man at the other end of the bench from me. He was looking straight at me.

He took the opportunity, afforded by the briefest moment of eye contact, to strike up a conversation.

He told me, in the most prosaic way, that he was on an hour release from hospital. I absorbed that information while he continued to talk. He was out buying some caffeine drinks for a fellow patient. I wondered aloud whether the hospital encouraged the consumption of caffeinated beverages. The man explained that he couldn’t have them, but they were good for his friend who was not prone to any great bursts of activity. He said his friend enjoyed being around him because he talked a lot.

I learned the man’s name; that he was 38; that he had been in hospital for 6 out of the past 11 years; that he didn’t have an eating disorder, but was always admitted for not taking care of himself. He talked about his parents’ inability to take care of him, expressing some understanding about the difficulty he presented for them.

He asked me if I would give him my phone number, producing a pen from inside his jacket. I shook my head. He said he would call me and we’d talk. He said he didn’t like skinny women, and without taking his eyes from mine, for any more than the briefest flicker, asked me to confirm that I was ‘voluptuous’. He asked me if I was interested in having children. I replied that it wasn’t a burning ambition. He was pleased by my response, saying that differences over the question of having children had been the problem in a previous relationship he’d had. He had a sixteen year-old daughter.

The sun was shining straight into my eyes, rendering my sunglasses ineffective. He noticed and adjusted his position to block out the sun for me, observing that my ‘shades’ weren’t very shady.

At some point in the conversation he told me about a government scheme where it’s possible to get 6 free appointments with a psychologist on the recommendation of a GP.

He asked me again for my phone number. I said no, but that it had certainly been worth trying. He presented his forearm, a white expanse on which he said he could write down my number. He said how difficult it was for him to meet anyone. I agreed that it must be.

He started to look around. I followed his gaze. A woman standing nearby made eye contact with me and smiled encouragingly. My bus arrived. I said goodbye to the man and boarded my bus. He crossed the road without a backward glance.

98 Reasons For Blogging: 8

8. This week I decided to experiment with a different way of getting to and from the university. Instead of catching a bus to the CBD, then catching another one to the university, or even walking to the river, then catching a bus to the university from there, I incorporated a bit more exercise into my journey by continuing to walk along the bike and pedestrian path after I reached the river.


I walk along this path for about thirty minutes up to the Regatta ferry stop, and catch a ferry to the university.

Aside from getting my slumpy self moving, I've found it's a much more pleasant and quiet journey. There's no waiting in queues or crowds for the bus, only to have a crammed, jarring, and so irritating, ride home.

I can be calmed by the water, whether I'm walking alongside it, or skimming over it on the ferry. There's no opportunity for cobwebs to gather while my hair is whipped by the wind created by the movement of the ferry.

I can feel the sun warm my skin and anticipate the full bloom of the flame trees, which are just beginning to flower.


And I can smile at the unauthorised suggestions for ways to travel along the council-maintained bikeway.

Purple Rain

Brisbane is feeling a bit dazed and confused at the moment. Cracks are showing in the Riverside Freeway--on the Ann Street off-ramp in particular--which is exactly the route the bus to the University travels. Roads have been closed, traffic has been diverted, and people have been encouraged to take public transport, but still the chaos of peak hour in the CBD is quite unbearable.


It's quicker to walk from the CBD to inner city suburbs these days, so this is what people have been doing; there is walking and cycling in droves. It's quite exciting really from an alternative-to-cars transport perspective. It shows what's possible when people believe they have to find other ways to travel to and from work. And although the consequences of global warming may seem less imperative on a day-to-day basis than the prospect of a freeway collapsing and people tragically dying, the environment is perhaps an even more pressing concern because the number of lives affected are exponential.


And look at the beautiful sights you encounter as you walk about Brisbane in October.


The Jacarandas are blooming in full force. They treat everyone like royalty, rolling out purple carpets for all.

The Public Transport Diaries: Day 7

This is the last entry in ‘The Public Transport Diaries’. I’m not even sure if I can properly claim there was any public transport taken today. Does someone coming to pick you up so you can see a Chinese ‘Ritual Street Opera in Seven Parts’ together count as car-pooling? Does car-pooling count as public transport? It’s certainly a hassle-free way to travel, even amid the traffic congestion created by yet another football match at the Stadium—it was League this time. It’s a lot of fun to revel with someone else in your shared ignorance of contact sports and head off to see Moon Spirit Feasting or Yue Ling Jie.

Parking in the Valley on a Sunday was a snap, since the loading zone restrictions only apply Monday to Saturday. From the loading zone, it was only a matter of crossing the street and entering The Judith Wright Centre of Contemporary Arts. Past the foyer of the Centre, there was a shrine set up with various offerings to the Gods, while on a balcony, off the main room, massive sticks of incense were creating a storm of smoke outside the windows, its smell permeating the room. In the introduction to the performance we were told that the shrine was one of fertility and it had worked its effects very convincingly on the performers of Elision, who between them had borne 12 children in the past six years of performing the Opera.

I am no judge of opera, and especially Chinese opera. Was it in Raise the Red Lantern that one of the concubines was a former opera singer? She used to haunt the roof-top of her prison, singing haunted and tortured songs. When I used to work in a building off the China Town Mall, I used to hear Chinese opera while walking through it during my meal breaks. But these are my only brushes with the form. While I was watching this less than traditional Chinese opera, I wondered if I knew more about the traditional incarnation of the form, whether that would alter my experience of it. Undoubtedly.

Nevertheless, I liked it. It was challenging and mesmerising. I’m beginning to think I have a thing for experimental non-Western music. Between the music of Drawing Restraint 9 and now, the music of Elision, composed by Liza Lim, there’s something about the voices and breathing, as well as the sounds and instruments, of these pieces that commands my attention. I can listen to them again and again.

There’s also something fascinating about the demon women that inhabit so many Chinese myths. The moon-goddess was first a greedy woman who stole the Herb of Immortality from her husband. He pursued her to get it back and she fled to the moon, where, in fright, she coughed up the herb, at which point she was transformed into a rabbit. Later she gets turned into a toad by a demon goddess, the Queen Mother of the West. While the toad and rabbit are both symbols of female fertility, apparently the moon-goddess, Chang-O symbolises coldness, loneliness and beauty. She is a ‘figure of psychic nightmare’ and ‘a wish-granting heavenly creature (associated with fertility)’.

***
The journey home was decidedly hassle-free, for which I was thankful, after a week which seemed over-shadowed by petty irritations.

The tally of the various journeys is thus:
Bus: 9 Return: 7
Taxi: 1
Walk: 2 Return: 3
Car Pool: 2

The Public Transport Diaries: Day 6

I caught a bus into the city today to meet Dr H so we could see The Libertine. If you weren’t going to see this film anyway—are there people who don’t see every film that Johnny Depp stars in?—I recommend that you do. It is wonderful on every level, from the very first grainy frame. Even John Malkovich rises above, well, being John Malkovich for the first time in a long time.

***
On the way home, I’m reminded of the Bledisloe Cup between Australia and New Zealand being held at the local Stadium tonight. There’s a taxi on the road beside the bus with a man sitting on the frame of its back door window. His body is half out of the car. He is gesticulating and yelling—god knows what—at people in the taxi next to his, as well as others passing on the street, who are dressed to mark their team loyalties. Is it wrong to wish that he’d fall out of the taxi and onto the road?

It’s at times like this that I find my misanthropic tendencies rise to the fore. As the bus turns into Caxton Street, I can see that the bars are already crammed with jersey-wearing drinkers. A series of photocopied signs outside one bar warns its patrons that they shouldn’t take their drinks beyond the partitions that have been set up. It would be nice if that happened, but it’s not likely. The patrons will, as is their usual practice on these evenings, carry their drinks to every street, side-walk, domestic garden and public park in the surrounding area, where they will leave the glasses and bottles to pollute the environment for weeks and months to come. For good measure they’ll urinate in any convenient alcove.

Maybe no-one will be raped.

Already people are wandering aimlessly onto the roads, and the congested traffic is signalling its impatience. The streets will close later on to ensure the safety of the crowd when it departs the stadium en masse. Meanwhile, the dull roar of inter-Tasman rivalries rises and engulfs Suncorp’s neighbours hiding in their sleepy Queensland homes.

***
At 1.45 on Sunday morning, I was woken by a scream and some crying. I listened and listened, then heard some soothing, competent voices.

At 7.30 on Sunday morning, a car was parked on the easement driveway outside my gate, blocking access to three other properties. A parking infringement officer had placed a ticket under the car’s windscreen wiper.

The Public Transport Diaries: Day 5

It was pouring with rain when I left home this morning. Hmmm, rain and public transport... You do the maths. You already know, that irrespective of the farmers and drought-stricken people everywhere (hello Toowoomba!), I am going to bitch and moan. I suppose the good folk who maintain the buses had become so used to the lack of rain that any attempt to waterproof their vehicles had long become part of their history, a kind of mystical past that no-one need worry about too much now. This is a very feeble and self-indulgent (no!) attempt to inject some humour into relating the moment when I realised that many of the seats on the bus I caught were wet, not because anyone had forgotten to close the windows, but because there were obviously holes in the bus’s seams.

I still had my errands from yesterday to run, so I went into the city first. It was too early for the film festival again, but I sorted out the prescription debacle. You will all be pleased to know that henceforth there will be no sudden bursts of irrationality from me [insert evil laugh here].

I caught the Rocket to the University. Traffic was a nightmare. Wasn’t sure if it was on account of the wet-weather craziness or if an accident had happened. It was impossible to tell because the windows on the bus had fogged up completely. I became concerned at one point because the driver made no attempt to clear the window she was looking through. I wondered how she could see. Eventually, she succumbed. She made me nervous again when she diverted from the usual route to the University. I suppose on a Rocket it doesn’t matter how we get to our destination, but I don’t find it much fun when they take the roller coaster route in the rain. Have I mentioned the extreme hills in this part of the world before?

***
After a day of rain leaking into their interiors, the old buses reeked of mildew on the way home.


I finally got my BIFF pass on my way through the city. When I was on the bus, I became aware that I was really hungry; it was after 5.30 and I had last eaten at 11.30—three pieces of overpriced sushi (bring on the effects of VSU. Yeah. Woo. Hoo.) My stomach was grumbling and I was wet and cold, so I indulged in some hot chips in one of the city’s food courts.

I simply must report to you on the culinary habits of a girl I observed eating across the way from me. She was eating a bowl of soupy noodles, using chopsticks, while in the other hand she held a half eaten ice-cream. Every now and then, she put aside her chopsticks to take either a bite of sushi, or some pieces of fruit salad. Now, I see nothing at all wrong with any of these choices individually. I’ll concede there is a perfectly logical match between the noodles and the sushi, and the fruit and the ice-cream. But ice-cream and noodle soup? Ice-cream and sushi? Is this some culinary match—like strawberries, basil and balsamic vinegar—that makes no sense to the ear or the eye, but works its hitherto hidden magic on the tongue? I was aghast and fascinated. I had difficulty refraining from staring.

I made my way to the bus stop for home and found I had 15 minutes to wait. I thought I would wait, but then a man wearing a jacket with the logo of a company whose call centre I used to work in came and stood far too close to me. He looked at me a lot, so perhaps he recognised me—although he wasn’t familiar to me—but he didn’t say anything. Either way, I feel sick when I see that smug logo. All that, ‘How do you know if you’re ...’ makes my stomach turn. I tell you how you know, because the person on the other end of the fancy phone from you is working for pittance in an environment that sanctions your abusive phone manner and your sense of entitlement to be that way.

I decided to spend the waiting time window shopping. I returned with time to catch the bus, but it was late, no doubt due to the weather-induced traffic chaos. There were two teenage girls, who had expected the bus to be on time, indeed, whose timetable for getting where they were going was contingent on the bus being scrupulously on time. They did not cope well with the delay, thereby ensuring that I did not cope well with delay. They started almost hyperventilating with hysteria and kept saying in their high-pitched teenage girl voices ‘Oh my God!’ and every third or fourth word was ‘like’. It would have been wrong to scream ‘Shut the f*** up!’ They managed to attract the attention of a dubiously avuncular older man, who took it upon himself to offer them advice. Ewww. At that point I began to make sure he wasn’t being too creepy towards them. Then I got off at my stop, I hope the other passengers were looking out for them.

The Public Transport Diaries: Day 4

Caught bus from home to city with the intention of doing two things before heading to the University: secure a discount pass to the film festival, and fill a prescription. The BIFF office hadn't opened for the day and I brought the wrong prescription with me (I know! I'm a regular walking pharmacy.)

On the way to the University bus stop, I was asked how I felt about the environment by a Greenpeace marketer. How are you supposed to reply to that question? I just smiled and kept walking. Whenever I encounter charity marketers these days, I think of the Lenny Henry sketch, where the character only signs up to donate because if he gets past the first marketer, he's certainly not going to get past the scrum of others waiting to accost him further along on the footpath. On that train of thought, I recall a whole host of hilarious sketches and characters by Henry, including the old man who runs the convenience store, and the pirate radio announcer who broadcasts from her kitchen table, speaking a mile a minute and improvising her own sound effects and jingles. Hahahahaha.

Of course, I care about the environment, but I can only contribute to one charity on any kind of regular basis.

Help Protect Cape York

I managed to board a Rocket bus and, lo and behold, it filled up. I don't have to be concerned about the well-being of the Express passengers stranded at their stops en route to the University, at least not on account of the bus driver not doing the right thing. I almost feel warm and fuzzy, but that could be due to the close proximity of the person sitting next to me, combined with sleep deprivation.

***

It’s actually raining when I leave in the evening, after yet another Georgina Born presentation. I’m not sure if she’s tired, but I think my iron deficiency is catching up with me. The rain is all well and good for the drought situation, but my newly purchased book is getting wet.

What is it with those people who can’t organise themselves to buy discount tickets, so everyone can board the bus as quickly as possible? While the rest of us cool our heels in inclement weather, they search, apparently fruitlessly, through their bags and pockets for their student IDs to show to the bus driver, and so justify the concession ticket they’ve asked for—all the while blocking the passage of fellow travellers onto the bus.

When I get on the bus and show the driver my monthly ticket, conveniently displayed in a small plastic folder along with my student ID, the driver grins at me and says, ‘Thanks, Lovey’. Heh. Lovey. I had a friend who used to call me that. It always made me laugh.

Another woman disembarks, along with me, at my bus stop. It’s unusual for another person to get off the same bus stop and also walk practically the same way home as me. It’s kind of reassuring; we’re sort of each other’s company in the dark. I can see from her body language that she’s taking as much care to be aware of her environment as I generally do. She goes into a house that is not too far from my own.

The Public Transport Diaries: Day 3

Caught an early bus this morning. I’m totally pumped by the prospect of today’s masterclass. Haven’t had my usual 8 hours of sleep since I was up to the wee hours reading Professor Born’s work and the articles of the three attendees who will be presenting their work. As I walked to the river I could feel the coolness of the air on my neck, left bare by my decision to secure it within an inch of its life up on my head with a hair grip and bobby pins. It’s probably not the most flattering look for me, but it suited my sense of purpose about the day.

I wasn’t too sure about attending this masterclass. While I did a kind of made up ethnography in my work on zines in Australia, I didn’t apply initially because I thought I would be lingering in my previous work and so distracting from my current project. But now, after engaging with Professor Born’s work on the BBC and the importance of looking at agency in cultural production in tandem with the aesthetic and institutional mediations, I’m enthused about the opportunity it presents for a politically and philosophically informed approach to the aesthetics of television.

I have to thank M. profusely for sending an email to the reading group, urging us all to make a late application. It’s so nice to feel all effervescent, yet mindful and convinced of the importance of my work. It’s nice to be reminded about why I’m pursuing this career.

It’s spitting slightly. People are standing up on the bus, even though there are seats available. And now, I’ve just arrived at the University.

***
Left the University at 9pm after restoring my tired mind with pizza, beer and a casual debriefing of the jam packed events of the day with other masterclass attendees. Surprised by the number of people still around, but there seems to be a Dance Club function for O-Week going on.

Before getting on the bus, I struck up a conversation with an international student who resembled Martin Freeman from The Office and Hardware. He had recently arrived from Tennessee via Argentina, where he had begun a master’s on the leftist governments of South America. It’s a long story, but now he’s relocated to Australia, which he seemed quite pleased about, even if he has to reconfigure his project a bit to take advantage of the new geography in which he finds himself. He was jetlagged and still coming to terms with the whole ‘other side of the road’ thing. He asked my assistance for getting on and off the right bus at the right time. In ten short minutes he managed to extract from me explanations on the topics of both my MPhil and PhD. He commended me on coming up with a project that allowed me to watch The Sopranos, for study purposes, of course. Then we laughed about the South American fondness for melodramatic soap operas, which I gathered he’d had the advantage of actually watching. He was also interested in the percentage of US product on Australian television. I guessed about 60%.

We shook hands and wished each other luck before he disembarked at the shopping centre. I alighted at my usual stop and walked home without any event.

The Public Transport Diaries: Day 2

I walked to the river to catch the bus to the University from there. The cross-country service arrives at the stop the same time that I do. I rather like the circuitous route this bus takes, past some architecturally interesting homes—there are no McMansions or Boxes in this part of town.

***

Left my office at 5.40 to catch a bus home. The City Express isn’t able to pull into its usual departure stop because a bus, going only as far as the shopping centre, is loading passengers. The Express stops at the Rocket stop instead, where there is a queue, almost back to the main building of the campus. Those who would have taken the Rocket board the Express. I am at the usual stop and see no point in trying to get on my preferred bus since I would have to queue jump to even occupy standing room. The Rocket arrives after the Express—it leaves with ten passengers, at most.

I check the timetables and notice that there are at least 15 minutes until the next bus I can catch. All at once, approximately 300 people arrive at the bus stop, soon followed by what must be another 200 more (I’m not exaggerating. Perhaps the numbers will die down as the semester progresses and people skip classes). Another Rocket arrives. A bus to the shopping centre arrives. Both are in the process of being stuffed to the gills, when an Express arrives. The Express pulls in behind the bus to the shopping centre and blocks the departure of the Rocket. Much beeping of horns ensues as the driver of the Express tries to indicate to the driver of the bus to the shopping centre that it’s time to close his doors and move away.

Now, it’s after Six. Finally, I get on the bus. I receive a text message that asks if I’m ready for a masterclass I’m attending tomorrow. No, I have so much reading to do. While the bus is loading, I start to read one of the papers that will be presented at the class. The bus closes its doors and the light I was reading by is gone. Sigh. A girl eyes the half-seat beside me, but then she recognises me as a former tutor (or at least I recognise her as a former student of mine), so she remains standing.


I decide to listen to the music I put on my phone before I left home this morning. When will someone invent a pair of bud headphones that don’t constantly tangle without the slightest provocation? It’s dark and I can’t see precisely where to insert the headphones. At the same time, my eyes hurt from the brightness of the display on my phone. I press play and can’t hear anything. WTF. I turn the volume up, but can only hear the faintest of noises. Then I realise, from the body language of my former student, that I haven’t plugged my headphones in properly, thereby treating the bus to Natalie Merchant singing a rendition of ‘Birds and Ships’. ‘Sorry everybody’. I give up trying to soothe my irritation.

The bus stops at four stops before reaching the shopping centre. Again, would-be passengers are left stranded. The driver allows only one person on at each of the stops, replacing those who have disembarked. At the stop just before the shopping centre, the first person in line declines the driver’s offer, since he is waiting with the four other people.

I sort out the bad headphone connection while people get off at the shopping centre. The bus reaches my stop during ‘California Stars’. I think about taking my headphones out. It’s not that safe walking in the dark without listening to your surroundings. I leave my headphones in. Looking around constantly, I make sure I’m aware of my environment on a visual level.

Slowly, Jeff Tweedy’s voice begins to relax my brain. When I hear ‘Hesitating Beauty’, I can feel the tension in my face loosen and joy bubbles up in me. I’m on the verge of singing out loud:

Well I know that you are itching to get married,
Nora Lee
And I know I that I am twitching for the same thing,
Nora Lee
By the stars and clouds above, we can spend our lives in love
You’re a hesitating beauty, Nora Lee

I make it home halfway through ‘Way Over Yonder In The Minor Key’. I keep the ear buds in until the song finishes. Irrespective of any neighbours, who might be home to hear me, I sing, at the top of my lungs, in a terrible Billy Bragg/Natalie Merchant impression:

Ain’t nobody that can sing like me,
Ain’t nobody that can sing like me.

The Public Transport Diaries: Day 1

Walked thirty seconds from home up to the bus stop only to see a bus pulling into the stop to let a passenger off. Started to run, hoping the driver would see me in the side rear vision mirror, but the doors closed… Then they opened again. He must have seen me! When I got on the bus the driver said, ‘good timing’. I said, ‘I think I got lucky. Thank you’. I sat down next to someone who was doing their make-up. A girl sitting in front of me had very high heels on with a faux snake skin and suede design. I reflected that I have never worn shoes with high heels on any kind of regular basis (outside of the court shoe fashions of my sixteenth year), and that I would unlikely be able to walk in such shoes.

In the city, I made my way to the University bus stop after buying a blueberry bran muffin for breakfast. Began to walk quickly to the waiting Rocket service (no stops to the University). Saw a girl run up to its door, only to have it close in her face. The bus was only one third full. Boarded the City Express service (selected stops to the University), also waiting, and noted that it was nearly full. The driver of the Rocket service requires a smack. S/he obviously turned up at the last minute—people had already boarded the slower bus—then had taken off with no regard for the passengers that would be left behind on the way to the University because the slower service was too full with people who could have caught the Rocket.

I think that being rostered to drive on a Rocket service should be a privilege for bus drivers, since there is little work involved in filling a bus with University students who have pre-paid tickets. Where do they get these drivers who don’t want to do anything, even when they have to do very little? Why don’t they care about their colleagues who have to deal with the consequences of their laziness? As for those drivers who close the door in your face—quite deliberately—they should imagine they’re leaving their own children or other loved ones stranded on the sidewalks, running late for classes and appointments, all because they couldn’t be bothered.

***
Decided to leave the University at 5.00pm to go shopping. I am in desperate need of groceries at home. I should have left earlier to avoid the rush, but got caught up in searching recalcitrant databases and figuring out the less dubious uses of content analysis as a methodology.

Squashed onto a bus with 99 other people. I sat up the front of the bus in a seat that’s too big for one, but not enough for two and personal space as well. I have no clue why I continue to choose this particular seat to sit in. I always feel guilty—and fat—because another person can’t fit beside me. If someone sits on the seat, but with their legs in the aisle, then another seat is created. That’s what a girl with stylish glasses and beautiful skin did today. She asked, ‘You don’t mind if I sit here?’

The bus was so full it had to sail past four lots of open-mouthed would-be passengers on the side of the road, before reaching the shopping centre where the majority of passengers disgorged to catch a connecting train. I disembarked there.

I finished shopping just in time to miss a bus home. Instead of waiting for the next one, I decided to catch a taxi. I had bought a very fine specimen of cauliflower and, combined with the weight of potatoes, three tins of tomatoes, two varieties of pasta and more, I wasn’t sure I could maintain a good mood on the walk from the bus stop to my home (10 minutes further away than the 30 second distance of this morning).

The taxi driver put the meter on before he got out of his car to open the boot and stand there while I heaved my bags into it. Then when I said ‘The third street on the left’, he promptly took the first. He asked me if I wanted help getting my groceries out. I let him off the hook, for which he seemed extremely grateful—even managing a polite ‘thank you’ when I said ‘Just pop the boot; I’ll be fine’.

Of Mice and Women

I was intending to go to the University today to pick up some books on television that I’m working my way through at the moment. The plan was to work on a couple of blog posts I’ve been writing, while still doing some thesis-related thinking—a perfect combination of assignments for the weekend of someone who thinks they should have gotten to work earlier everyday last week.

The plan began to unravel when I sat at the bus stop for over half an hour, during which two scheduled buses did not appear. Of course three, nearly empty, City Express buses that don’t observe my stop went blithely past, taking no account of my pointed glares at my wristwatch. After I had called the bus service and all of its drivers and managers every new swear word I’ve recently acquired watching the series of Deadwood that Dogpossum has generously loaned me, I was about to make a phone call, in which I might have actually spoken my new vocabulary aloud, when the bus came along. I went to my seat in a foul mood, frustrated that nothing would be achieved by venting to the bus driver, except to make her day terrible as well, if it wasn’t already. Alas, nothing could spare either of us, or indeed the rest of the passengers, the shock of what happened next. A man pulled out of a driveway, without looking, and straight into the bus lane. It’s a good thing that the bus driver had her eyes open and managed to brake in time, narrowly avoiding a collision with the car, if not preventing her passengers from being thrown forward and using expletives they might otherwise have suppressed.

After I ate a lunch of miso soup, sushi and green tea ice-cream, I made my way to another bus stop to commute to the University, thinking a bus would be due to depart in a few minutes. I waited a while before I thought to check the timetable, since I realised I’d been working with the week day timetable in my head. It turned out that I’d just missed one and it would be another half an hour until the next. Meanwhile, of course, two City Express buses returning on the route that had passed me while I was going into the city were going to be departing while I waited for the bus I wanted. At that point I decided to trash my plans. I. Was. Not. Going. To. Wait. Any. Longer. For. Another. Bus. Even. If. My. Sanity. Depended. Upon. It. Especially. When. The. Other. Bus. Route. Had. More. Services. Than. Anyone. Could. Ever. Use.

So, I decided to come home (on another bus) and tell you about all the trivial, insignificant crap that didn’t make it into my previous post, and a bit more that I gathered while killing time waiting for the bus home.

I spent ten minutes, distracting myself from the torture of waiting for the bus home, looking at beauty products in a department store near the bus stop. I’m pretty fussy about the soap and other toiletries I use. I have used products from The Perfect Potion, ever since it was a small shop in the old hippy version of Elizabeth Arcade in Brisbane. Now they’ve gone on to conquer St Kilda, but I remain a loyal customer. Recently, however, I have been seduced by the charms of the Mor range. It began with the purchase of a Pomegranate candle, which smelled divine and was packaged in the most exquisite box, to say nothing of the red glass and gold painted candle holder.


I happened to buy that around mother’s day and it came with a free Cherry Blossom French-milled soap. It also smells quite amazing, and I’ve enjoyed the luxury of a long lasting soap. Yesterday, I came across a half-priced Cherry Blossom candle in the same range. I had to get it because it’s a total indulgence that’s not usually all that cheap—especially not when you reflect that it’s a candle. Today I tested the hand-cream while I waited for the bus. It’s nice too, but I don’t think I’m fully seduced, yet.

I felt better when I made it home. I’m not sure how much of my intolerance for waiting at the bus arises from reasonable annoyance, premenstrual tension or the fact that I’ve not had any thyroid hormone replacement tablets since I ran out of them on Wednesday. I tried to make an appointment with my GP to get a new prescription but she’s on holiday, and I hate seeing someone else. Wouldn’t another GP just have to take my word for it that I need them? Could the endocrinologist, who I haven’t seen for at least 18 months, give me a prescription? Probably not. I’ll admit to being a bit impatient about even needing to get a new prescription for a hormone that I’m going to have to take for the rest of my life. Can’t they just issue me with a card? Give this girl Thyroxin on demand! Then I’d probably just avoid the doctors altogether and they wouldn’t like that. I need monitoring. Maybe they’re worried I’ll start indulging in Thyroxin abuse. This is where people, especially women, I suppose, take too much of the hormone in order to lose weight. They should rest assured that they scared the bejesus out of me when I was first diagnosed with a hyperactive thyroid* about the dangers of too much thyroid hormone—osteoporosis, heart-disease etc, etc. No thanks. Trouble is, these are pretty much the problems of not having enough thyroid hormone as well, that and weight gain and general slumpiness. I really don’t need those either.

Here’s a picture of some Rastoo portions I bought out of curiosity in a clearance sale.

Rastoo is like jam, but very sugary and there’s no pectin to set it either. There are four varieties here: Lilli Pilli, Quandong, Native Lime and Bush Plum. I had the first three on some toast this morning. They all have very unique flavours and I will probably seek these Rastoos out again.

In other news, I went to a dress rehearsal of the Australian Ballet performing The Sleeping Beauty last night. I am friends with someone whose son is in the Australian Ballet so this is the second time I’ve been to a dress rehearsal. It’s pretty much like seeing a regular show, but at the end of each of the acts you have to sit very quietly while they sort out anything that needs reworking. You can only get out of your chair when the house lights come up. There was a disconcerting moment when a man wearing a t-shirt and jeans walked onto the stage to rearrange the children appearing in the final scene. ‘Hey! Red t-shirt man, you don’t match with the whimsical fairies and forest creatures!’ It was really a very lovely performance. The things those people can do with their bodies; they are so graceful while performing such physical feats—in my friend’s words, the Ivans were ‘awesome’. I have to make special mention of the sets and costume design, they conveyed the wholerange of whimsy and menace; the Carabosse Cavaliers’ costumes were positively gargoyle-ish, the Dolls were charming, and the Rats had the best quilted silver coats on.

*I’ve since had radioactive iodine treatment which got rid of part of my thyroid, so naturally, I soon had a hypo- or under-active thyroid and required the hormone replacement.

Mean Streets

Travelling on the bus has been harrowing this week. On two occasions I’ve been slightly concerned for my well-being. The first time I got on the bus and noticed a strange burning chemical smell. The bus driver clearly noticed it too; he got out of his seat and walked up the bus aisle, sniffing the air and his armpits too. ‘What’s that smell? It’s not me, is it? It’s not unbearable is it?’ One passenger didn’t appreciate his humour and said ‘Well, it’s a burning smell. Something’s obviously wrong.’ The driver got off the bus and went, I assume, to inspect the engine. At that point, I thought that the pungency of the aroma intensified and I started to get a bit concerned. The bus driver returned to his seat and announced that he couldn’t find anything wrong, at which point the woman who had not been amused earlier got off the bus, saying she’d wait for the next one. As the bus departed from the stop, the rest of the passengers exchanged a few nervous glances. I thought at that point, ‘What if this bus blows up and I’m killed, all because I couldn’t make the decision to get off the bus?’ It’s the story of my life, indecision decides my fate far too often. I was quite relieved to get off the bus at the University with all my limbs attached.

The second occasion was simply a result of the usual argy-bargy of being on the road. A delivery van travelling in front of the bus was creeping forward while waiting for pedestrians to finish crossing, before turning left. The bus driver probably took the van’s movement as a sign that it was clear to turn, only to have to brake violently when the van stopped instead. Everyone on the bus slid forward suddenly, a chorus of ‘sh—’ and ‘f—k’ punctuated the air, and I banged my knee. Again, I was glad to make it to my destination safely, and you will be too because the second bus incident happened on the day I planned to take some photographs especially to post here.

You may recall a while ago that I revealed my ignorance of the most basic computer imaging effects when I believed my brother’s story that he had encountered an image on the streets of Melbourne somewhere that featured my niece’s face embedded in a number of pink daisies. At the time I offered the excuse that I lived in an area where there was a lot of creative graffiti, so it wasn’t necessarily outside of the realm of possibility that someone had posted the image in question, somewhere in Melbourne. I was probably trying to save face when I came up with that excuse, but I’ve since been pointed and laughed at by my sister-in-law, so I’ve worked through all of my embarrassment at my naïvety, enough to show you some examples of the graffiti images I was referring to. They don’t really explain my gullibility, but that doesn’t take away from the images and words themselves.

I should disclose that I didn’t find these in my neighbourhood, but at the University. Still, I’m convinced it’s the work of the same artist I’ve seen on the footpaths and telephone poles when I’ve walked to buy the paper. Maybe the culprits have moved out of my area, since I haven’t seen any new stencils for a while now. I miss encountering these little homages to, and comments on, pop culture.