Jane Routley's Blog, page 13
February 4, 2012
Three Men
Station Stories
Three men.
I wish this were some chic lit. fantasia, (how will Jane choose between 3 handsome hunks) but alas it’s just a story of my Friday.
The Thunderbirds man was back from holidays and of course he came to say hello which meant ranting intensely at us the outrage of the fares going up. He doesn’t know what this country is coming too and those politicians need some serious retribution and he tells us what! one day he’s going to go and see them and break their necks with a good rugby tackle and give them what for. He shouts and waves his arms and if you’re not careful spittle hits you.
When I first met the Thunderbirds man 6 years ago he used to be much more odder. He would fulminate noisily at me about how people walked across the tracks at Jacana and how it was a scandal and how it was dangerous and how at the first sign of danger he was going to get out his Thunderbird because he was a member of the Tracey family and how his thunderbird could go 150,000 miles and hour and get people out of danger.
You can imagine when he turned up again last year, and seemed to have some regular journey to take, how my heart sank. You talk to these kind of people because it keeps them from haranguing the other customers, but for twenty minutes or so you really feel like you’re earning your wages. However he’s settled down a bit over the 6 years and even seems to be holding down some kind of job and we are used to him even if we dread him coming during a cancellation.
Today I tried to lead him onto happier topics. He loves rugby. He tells me he’s gong to Paris this weekend to call the Irish/ French game, but the distraction doesn’t last.
“I tell you what if my neck was out here and my thighs were as big as the French rugby players, I’d go down to parliament and show those politicians a bit of surge mentality. I tell you what they’re ruining this country.
By the way,” he says to my work mate and his voice is almost conversational “I like your hair like that.”
The second man who stood out on Friday was my bus driver on the way home. Seeing me in my uniform he took the opportunity to give me some hints on handling customers because:
“sometimes they ask me such stupid questions, I like to give them stupid answers.”
“For instance if they ask me how long the train is, I used to answer 6 carriages.” (oh big chortle I think. Just the kind of thing to calm me down when I’m anxious about missing my train. Not)
“Or if they ask me if this is the Werribee bus, I say no. And when the stupid fools go to get off, I laugh and say why would I be sitting in the Werribee bus bay, if I wasn’t?
Or when they ask me if this is the bus down Moreland Rd I like to say no this is the bus up Moreland rd. That really confuses them. Half the time they ask where the bus down Moreland road is. (This is because not everyone knows that yours is the first stop on Moreland Rd, I think.)
I laugh politely and hold my tongue. Personally I can’t think of a better way to wind up with a black eye.
And the third man in my day, I hear you ask. Only my old (and daily friend) Local Mental Health Issue, the one with the great arse who today decided to yell good advice from the opposite platform about better ways to use toilet paper to wipe my behind. Oh Joy! Even his companion shook his head and hid his face in his hand.
Three men.
I wish this were some chic lit. fantasia, (how will Jane choose between 3 handsome hunks) but alas it’s just a story of my Friday.
The Thunderbirds man was back from holidays and of course he came to say hello which meant ranting intensely at us the outrage of the fares going up. He doesn’t know what this country is coming too and those politicians need some serious retribution and he tells us what! one day he’s going to go and see them and break their necks with a good rugby tackle and give them what for. He shouts and waves his arms and if you’re not careful spittle hits you.
When I first met the Thunderbirds man 6 years ago he used to be much more odder. He would fulminate noisily at me about how people walked across the tracks at Jacana and how it was a scandal and how it was dangerous and how at the first sign of danger he was going to get out his Thunderbird because he was a member of the Tracey family and how his thunderbird could go 150,000 miles and hour and get people out of danger.
You can imagine when he turned up again last year, and seemed to have some regular journey to take, how my heart sank. You talk to these kind of people because it keeps them from haranguing the other customers, but for twenty minutes or so you really feel like you’re earning your wages. However he’s settled down a bit over the 6 years and even seems to be holding down some kind of job and we are used to him even if we dread him coming during a cancellation.
Today I tried to lead him onto happier topics. He loves rugby. He tells me he’s gong to Paris this weekend to call the Irish/ French game, but the distraction doesn’t last.
“I tell you what if my neck was out here and my thighs were as big as the French rugby players, I’d go down to parliament and show those politicians a bit of surge mentality. I tell you what they’re ruining this country.
By the way,” he says to my work mate and his voice is almost conversational “I like your hair like that.”
The second man who stood out on Friday was my bus driver on the way home. Seeing me in my uniform he took the opportunity to give me some hints on handling customers because:
“sometimes they ask me such stupid questions, I like to give them stupid answers.”
“For instance if they ask me how long the train is, I used to answer 6 carriages.” (oh big chortle I think. Just the kind of thing to calm me down when I’m anxious about missing my train. Not)
“Or if they ask me if this is the Werribee bus, I say no. And when the stupid fools go to get off, I laugh and say why would I be sitting in the Werribee bus bay, if I wasn’t?
Or when they ask me if this is the bus down Moreland Rd I like to say no this is the bus up Moreland rd. That really confuses them. Half the time they ask where the bus down Moreland road is. (This is because not everyone knows that yours is the first stop on Moreland Rd, I think.)
I laugh politely and hold my tongue. Personally I can’t think of a better way to wind up with a black eye.
And the third man in my day, I hear you ask. Only my old (and daily friend) Local Mental Health Issue, the one with the great arse who today decided to yell good advice from the opposite platform about better ways to use toilet paper to wipe my behind. Oh Joy! Even his companion shook his head and hid his face in his hand.
January 10, 2012
Station Stories
Getting off at the station near home a young man is hanging around asking for 2 dollars. He’s the same guy I saw the day before staggering off a train with a plastic bag full of paint leaving behind a carriage full of paint fumes and middle class shock. Chroming is not illegal, but it can’t be good for you. Chromers aren’t dangerous just stoned , but once I was standing on my work station and the train couldn’t go because the customers were holding the doors and refusing to travel any further with the chromer in the carriage with them. The smell of paint was eyestinging and they wanted me to throw the chromer off. The testy train driver came and did the job for me in the end.
“Just let her go on the next train,” said my Station Master when I called to ask what to do about her. So I did. She was well known at our junction station and if she got too difficult, the police would come and drive her home. I say was because she’s passed away now.
“Just let her go on the next train,” said my Station Master when I called to ask what to do about her. So I did. She was well known at our junction station and if she got too difficult, the police would come and drive her home. I say was because she’s passed away now.
Station Stories
The Holiday season seems pretty much over with the trains full of people who don’t have children on school holidays. Today was as similar and as different as any day here. While my workmate and I were discussing the rights and wrongs of arresting whaling protestors and the Kardashians predilection for oil enemas (Gah!) the JD Ceaux Street furniture man showed up to change our poster. Then another showed up and another until there were four. We were worried that our offering them cups of tea may have lead to our having racy reputations among the JD Ceaux poster community but it turned out that three of them were there to change over a broken poster case for a newer and beauter one with extra back lighting.
The retired jazz pianist showed up and brought us chocolate cake. He likes to cook but lacks sufficient cake eaters at home and we like to be public spirited here. Another lady brought us delicious peaches from her garden. The smiling lady told us she was off for a medical procedure. The walking frame lady was off for her doctor’s appointment. A very elegant lady got of the train and told us that a man reading aloud from Koran with a big bag clasped in his arms had give her the hebbe gebbes.
We checked out the tall lawyer’s new wife. Late last year he and the kiosk man were having one of those annoying conversations men have. You know the kind -
“I’m getting married next week.”
“You poor bastard.”
Lucky bastard you mean! She was A TOTAL DISH! and seemed very sweet.
The local mental health issue came round scrounging. I never buy him anything, but the Sudanese cleaner often buys him a coke. The LMHI is my one man campaign against smoking. You can’t light up anywhere around the station without him asking you for a smoke. His size and the tattoes on his face make him look scary and he tends to leer at the nice looking women customers but if you get aggressive at him, he backs down. I’ve known him for almost five years now and he’s never done anything bad, unless you count the leering and the dancing and loudly singing along with his walkman. He’s like a big chaotic dog. Everyone knows him.
“You know you love me,” he says today.
“Not after yesterday,” I tell him.
Yesterday he was leering too loudly at the female passengers and I told him to stop bugging them as I often do. So he mooned me. A low moment and before my sustaining plate of breakfast porridge too. You have to tough to work on the railways
“Come on,” he says. “My girlfriend says I’ve got the best arse around.” And he swishes off to platform two where he continues to tell me that I love him. Guess that’s me outed.
Funny thing is he has a girlfriend, a new one every other month.
The retired jazz pianist showed up and brought us chocolate cake. He likes to cook but lacks sufficient cake eaters at home and we like to be public spirited here. Another lady brought us delicious peaches from her garden. The smiling lady told us she was off for a medical procedure. The walking frame lady was off for her doctor’s appointment. A very elegant lady got of the train and told us that a man reading aloud from Koran with a big bag clasped in his arms had give her the hebbe gebbes.
We checked out the tall lawyer’s new wife. Late last year he and the kiosk man were having one of those annoying conversations men have. You know the kind -
“I’m getting married next week.”
“You poor bastard.”
Lucky bastard you mean! She was A TOTAL DISH! and seemed very sweet.
The local mental health issue came round scrounging. I never buy him anything, but the Sudanese cleaner often buys him a coke. The LMHI is my one man campaign against smoking. You can’t light up anywhere around the station without him asking you for a smoke. His size and the tattoes on his face make him look scary and he tends to leer at the nice looking women customers but if you get aggressive at him, he backs down. I’ve known him for almost five years now and he’s never done anything bad, unless you count the leering and the dancing and loudly singing along with his walkman. He’s like a big chaotic dog. Everyone knows him.
“You know you love me,” he says today.
“Not after yesterday,” I tell him.
Yesterday he was leering too loudly at the female passengers and I told him to stop bugging them as I often do. So he mooned me. A low moment and before my sustaining plate of breakfast porridge too. You have to tough to work on the railways
“Come on,” he says. “My girlfriend says I’ve got the best arse around.” And he swishes off to platform two where he continues to tell me that I love him. Guess that’s me outed.
Funny thing is he has a girlfriend, a new one every other month.
Station Story
As the 8.14 am pulled in this morning, one of the carriage doors opened and a pair of hands in blue business suit stuck out. The hands parted and a butterfly flew out and free up into the sun.
On a different note, yesterday a woman came up around 9.00 am complaining that there was beer in the coin return slot. I checked and sure enough it was full of beer. Strange thing was it had probably been there since 6.30 am (and before) when I had tidied up the nights beer bottles – which meant that everyone that morning had collected their change out of a puddle of stale beer AND NOT COMPLAINED. Note to self – in future check coin return slots.
Even the passing school kids who regularly check the coin return slot in hopes of forgotten change had said nothing.
On a different note, yesterday a woman came up around 9.00 am complaining that there was beer in the coin return slot. I checked and sure enough it was full of beer. Strange thing was it had probably been there since 6.30 am (and before) when I had tidied up the nights beer bottles – which meant that everyone that morning had collected their change out of a puddle of stale beer AND NOT COMPLAINED. Note to self – in future check coin return slots.
Even the passing school kids who regularly check the coin return slot in hopes of forgotten change had said nothing.
Station Story
So its Christmas time again and this year my work mate has encouraged me into a frenzy of Christmas activities. ( I told her it was great to have kids around at this time of year and even though she’s only 21 she wasn’t v appreciative of this. I wonder why not? ) We have decorated the station with tinsel (up high so that it can’t be stolen when we’re not there. (oh the black hearts of some people. They WILL steal your tinsel if they can) and she is wearing a Santa hat of surpassing furriness. It falls to me to wear the reindeer ears (the senior partner gets the toughest job) I have three sets which I vary. The set with the bells is my favourite but its structurally unsuited to windy conditions so sometimes I have to wear a shorter pair. I have yet to wear all three at once. Should I? Xmas is a time for the big questions.
October 21, 2011
Station Stories
Station Story
Today strolling along Swanston St witnessed the police evicting the take over the city 99 percent protesters from the City Square. I felt guilty for not being there and wished them all the best. More power to them I say. Thank you for going to all this trouble I say. From the number of police there I'd say it was a pretty satisfactory bit of civil disobedience. Thing was I saw a couple of my station customers among the protestors. They usually just give me a disdainful look them when I speak to them at the station. I guess in my uniform I'm the representative of a repressive multinational capitalist company (who's policies I actually have little control overe and not one of the 99 per cent of hard working stiffs who are being ripped off by large companies during this GFC. Odd how activists often forget the individuals whose rights that are fighting for.
Today strolling along Swanston St witnessed the police evicting the take over the city 99 percent protesters from the City Square. I felt guilty for not being there and wished them all the best. More power to them I say. Thank you for going to all this trouble I say. From the number of police there I'd say it was a pretty satisfactory bit of civil disobedience. Thing was I saw a couple of my station customers among the protestors. They usually just give me a disdainful look them when I speak to them at the station. I guess in my uniform I'm the representative of a repressive multinational capitalist company (who's policies I actually have little control overe and not one of the 99 per cent of hard working stiffs who are being ripped off by large companies during this GFC. Odd how activists often forget the individuals whose rights that are fighting for.
Station Stories
Station Story
One of my workmates tells me that as he was locking up his station at 2.00 am Sunday morning he saw a naked woman get off the last train from the city. (Every male railway workers dream come true I suspect) She was with a group of friends and walked calmly down the platform and went out. I hope very much that he wasn’t hallucinating. Ah me! Enquiring minds would love to know.
One of my workmates tells me that as he was locking up his station at 2.00 am Sunday morning he saw a naked woman get off the last train from the city. (Every male railway workers dream come true I suspect) She was with a group of friends and walked calmly down the platform and went out. I hope very much that he wasn’t hallucinating. Ah me! Enquiring minds would love to know.
Station Story
Come outside and look a these boots, said my work mate. They were worth it. High heeld and lace up and best of all made of GREEN LUREX!!! They looked like they belonged on a Circus ring master. Instead they were attached to a rather dumpy looking dark haird young woman soberly dressed in black and grey as if she was going to work in the council rates office. Perhaps she needed them to get through the day.
October 20, 2011
State Library Pictures
Another Friday with my father. This time since it was raining we had a squiz at the State Library Art Gallery which is collection of landscapes of Melbourne which my father loves and Melbourne portraits which is my favourite. I love the portrait of art dealer Georges Mora (husband of Mirka and father of Phillipe and Georges) painted in the same position as Whistlers Mother. And since I was last there they've added and very attractive portrait of writer Leigh Hobbes (a bit of a dish really) by Anne Spudvilas and another by Leigh himslef of his creation old Tom.
But the portrait I liked best was that of poet and academic Chris Wallace-Crabbe. I've met him and it seems very appropriate to me to that Kristin Headlam should do a painting of him in his bathers laughing as someone squirts water on his chest.
But the portrait I liked best was that of poet and academic Chris Wallace-Crabbe. I've met him and it seems very appropriate to me to that Kristin Headlam should do a painting of him in his bathers laughing as someone squirts water on his chest.
Dressing for Sunburn 30's style
For over fifty years, my father has been a devoted member of the Melbourne Walking Club. Yesterday we went to see The Melbourne Walking Club – Pioneers of Bushwalking- exhibition at the Royal Historical Society. I garnered this useful advice on clothing for women walkers published in the Dec 1932 copy of the Hiker Magazine
Blouses:
“Silk makes the most serviceable hiking blouse. Colour is very important. Remember sunburn when selecting colour. A striped silk in soft tones of beige, sand and wood browns, with a tie in harmony, is flattering to ones sunburn.”
Blouses:
“Silk makes the most serviceable hiking blouse. Colour is very important. Remember sunburn when selecting colour. A striped silk in soft tones of beige, sand and wood browns, with a tie in harmony, is flattering to ones sunburn.”
