My day on public transport

So, I have to be in Cranbourne for a 10am meeting. The night before, I do the right thing and check the PTV Journey Planner website. It tells me that I need to catch a train from Armadale Station, to Caulfield, catch the 8:38 to Merinda Park, get off and catch the 799 to where I need to go. Being the diligent, law-abiding citizen that I am, I top up my myki with $20 and go to bed, secure in the knowledge that my journey will be 70 minutes and I should be there, comfortably at 9:41.

Jolly good.

The next morning, Amy kindly gives me a lift to the station, kisses me goodbye and wishes me a safe trip. I’m a touch early so after I touch on my myki, I settle down on a bench, put my fully charged iPod onto shuffle and watch all the worker drones waiting for the train into the city on the platform opposite. The train to Caulfield arrives and I board it and take a seat and without incident I arrive at Caulfield station. I walk down the ramp, through the underpass, overtaking slow moving pedestrians until I get to platform 4. The sign there tells me the Cranbourne train is 5 minutes away, so I start to play Solitaire on my iPod. A barely intelligible, static-filled announcement tells me that the Cranbourne train is now delayed. Thinking to myself that there is a ten-minute space between the train’s arrival and my connecting buses departure, I sigh and hope for the best. 8 minutes later the sign is updated to let me know the train will arrive in 4 minutes.

Shit.

Knowing that the bus runs every 45 minutes, I realise that I will probably be late. I decide that as a contingency, I should probably catch a taxi, as I don’t want to be late. Remember how I topped up my myki? Well, I wasn’t sure how much money I had in each account, so I open up my banking app on my iPhone to check my balance, and I type in my password, but the app tells me there is no Internet service at one of the major public transport hubs in Melbourne and I should use phone banking instead. I call them, use the prompts as directed to find out I don’t have enough money in my savings. I then realise that my other account is not set up to use as phone banking.

Bloody shit.

I call Amy and describe my predicament, she helpfully offers to transfer me money, wishes me luck, expresses her contempt at the typical bullshit of Melbourne public transport and we say our goodbyes. I get a text from her a few minutes later letting me know the state of my finances. Cool. I’m set if I need to catch a taxi. The train arrives 14 minutes after it is scheduled to and I take a seat and continue playing Solitaire… It seems that this particular driver really, really, really wants to make it to Cranbourne on time. I mean he REALLY wants to. We proceed to rocket towards what I shall refer to euphemistically as Hell. The train shakes, and roars around corners, I get slammed into the window repeatedly as we rock back and forth, inside a hundred-metre, whistling steel tube of rattling death. Every stop is a sudden lurch forward as the driver frantically tries to stop at each platform. Every departure is a breakfast curdling explosion of G-forces that approach velocities that would enable us to leave the Earth’s orbit.

Crap.

Despite the terrifying ride to Hell, I am reassured that I just might, possibly make my connecting bus, if we continue at this rate. I send a text to Amy, joking that I considered catching an earlier train so I would get to my destination 45 minutes early instead of 20. Amy replies: “You shouldn’t have to be super early because trains are dicks”. I concur. I send another text saying the train is very fast and I might make it. Reply: “fingers crossed”. I send another text - 7 minutes to go 2 stops. The train pulls up to Lyndale station, only 1 more stop with 4 minutes to spare! The driver has pulled 10 minutes out of his arse; I reckon I might make it. Except I don’t. The train just sits there. It sits there for 5 minutes. Perhaps the brakes needed to cool down. Maybe the driver needed a smoke and a cup of tea to calm down a bit. Whatever the fuck the reason was I am now definitely going to miss that bus.

Bloody bastardy shit.

With it now being the time where I should be on the bus to go to the meeting, I decide to call them to let them know I might be a bit late. They seem fine about it and tell me not to worry and to let them know when I’m on my way. The train leaves Lyndale Station at a snail's pace and gently ambles its way towards Merinda Park Station. As it approaches the station, I turn off my game of Solitaire, stand up and walk to the doors as it pulls up to the platform. The little beeping noise erupts, letting me know I can open the doors. I can’t open the door. I press the button. I press it again. I saying something in the vicinity of “open the fucking door, you stupid fucking arseclown train”. They just beep at me to let me know that they are now closing and to stand clear.

Goddam mother-fucking balls of arseclowning buggery shit.

So I’m on my way to Cranbourne station now. I send a text to Amy. IN ALL CAPS. I’m a tad peevish at this stage. The train pulls up at Cranbourne, I’ve got the 13CABS app open and I’m booking a taxi as I walk off the platform. I don’t touch off. Fuck you Metro. Fuck you very much. Taxi booked, I stand on the street to wait. I wait. I continue to wait. I call the company and explain to the lovely person answering that I really, really need to be somewhere 15 minutes ago. They assure me that a taxi is just around the corner. As I hang up, a taxi arrives. “At last” I sigh, “I’m going to make it. Albeit late, but not too late”. The driver winds down his window: “You got a booking, mate?” Yes. Yes I do. “What name?” I tell him my name. “Nah, sorry mate. The booking I’ve got’s for Matthew.” I really wish someone had taken a picture of my face at that moment. The look of soul-crushing disappointment washing over my ebullient face would have been worthy of an Academy Award. Even if Gary Oldman or Leonardo Di Caprio had done it.

Flaming balls of steaming piles of massive chunks of arseclowning buggery fuckity shit.

He drives off, and turns into the station as I stand there despondent, alone, and awash in an empty sea of salty disappointment. Approximately 2 minutes later he returns, driving towards me. “What’s this?” I think to myself. “Has he realised that it was me after all? Will he take me now?” No. No he won’t take me. Not in his taxi. No way. That would be akin to me giving him money to drive me somewhere and he was having none of that. Not now, not ever. He did let me know that he’d radioed base and asked them to send another taxi for me.

Massive, gigantic, steaming heaps of stacks of flaming balls of bullshit-on-a-bike with an extra serving of bollocks on the side.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Just.

Happened?

Looking around me for the hidden cameras and expecting Kyle Sandilands to pop out and say “Ha Ha Fuck you, dickhead!!!” I stand there unsure of my place in this crazy, mixed up, taxi-not-wanting-to-take-you-somewhere-for-money world. I sigh. A strange guttural noise escapes my throat. It’s almost a laugh.

About 2 minutes later, another taxi arrives. “Are you Nigel?” He asks. “Where do you want to go?” The door is opened, I’m seated and doing up my seat belt before I answer him. He knows where that is. He knows an awesome shortcut. I call the people I’m meeting “I’ll be 10-15 minutes." I say. The driver says: “No, 5 minutes, 7 tops.” He’s awesome. We both agree that public transport is a fucking joke and that all politicians, everywhere in the world are moronic arseclowns. Although the chances of him being blown up are less in Australia so we can’t be too critical of the place. I have a new hero. He drops me off within 10 metres of the front door, takes my money (via EFTPOS) and wishes me luck. What a guy. I stride up the stairs, 3 at a time, burst into reception. 30 minutes after my scheduled time. The receptionist, with a big smile says “You must be Nigel” I smile back and say “You must be Debbie”. She points me to a seat, I sit. 5 minutes later I’m in a meeting room. They know my story. They ask how I am. I reply along the lines of: I could be swearing and smashing things, but I’d rather just laugh and deal with it. The second driver really helped with that.

At 11:10 the meeting is over, and one of the people there explains the best way to get to the nearest bus to get home. I thank him, leave the premises and call Amy to tell her how it went. It went well bye the way. Thanks for asking.

I walk to Casey Central Shopping Centre where there are 5 bus stops. Five. I counted them. Moving from one to the next while checking if any of them go to a train station, I finally discover that the fifth one does. I also discover that the next bus is in 25 minutes. Balls. I wait. I play some more Solitaire. I wait. A young couple arrive and take a seat next to me. If you were to do a Google image search of “Bogan” I reckon that they would be in the first 10 pictures. He lights up what I can only assume is a Winfield Blue - under the shelter. She proceeds to call someone a “Farging, slag cund bidge” or words to that effect. If there’s a worldwide shortage of blue eyeliner sometime soon, blame her. 35 minutes later the bus arrives. Melbourne’s finest collection of feet on seats, thongs and crap T-shirts is on display. I’m wearing a Ben Sherman suit, and a tie. I stand out on this bus. And it’s not because I have all my teeth and don’t slur my words, or call people “Fargin’ cunds”. Through the power of Google maps I know when to get off the bus, back at good old Cranbourne Station. Or is it Cranbin? I’m not so sure anymore. I dodge semi trailers as I run across a freeway. The nearest pedestrian crossing must be in Moorabin. I can’t see one. I walk past the Holden dealership and walk inside the train station. The pianist stops playing as everyone in the saloon stares at the stranger in his new-fangled, fancy-lookin’ city clothes. There’s a girl sitting opposite me, she looks nice, quite pretty, but her skirt is too short. She crosses her legs. She has a red G-string on. I probably didn’t need to see that. A friend of hers arrives and sits next to her. They proceed to call someone they both know a “Fargin’ bidge face slag”. She crosses her legs again. Oh for fucks sake.

I almost left out the best bit. The train is due at 1:05. It’s 12:40 when I get there. So an hour and a half after I left, I only have to wait another 25 minutes. I try and keep my eyes on my iPod and play Solitaire, but it’s Cranbourne and I’m wearing a suit, so I’m on Super High Danger Alert. I have it all rehearsed in my head, if anyone asks, I’m wearing a suit “coz’ I’m gunna to court for GBH for glassen some cund for loogin at my girlfriend Shazza wrong. Oright?” Finally, the train arrives. Early. Allow me to repeat that. The train was early. By about five minutes. I stand up, and I’m given one last gynaecological flash as I go take my seat on the train at 1 o’clock. Five minutes later. We leave. The train has an announcement to make…

“This is a Flinders Street Station train stopping all stations to Malvern, then express to South Yarra.” Bet you can’t guess where my station is? Go on take a guess. That’s right, between Malvern and South Yarra. I couldn’t be arsed swearing at this stage. I sigh and continue playing Solitaire. Except my iPod is flashing the little low battery signal at me. The iPod that was fully charged this morning. I’ve spent so much time waiting for trains and buses; I’ve nearly exhausted my iPod. I stop playing, lock my iPod and put it in my pocket, to conserve batteries. I’m not travelling on Melbourne Public Transport without music. No frickin’ way, man. No way.

I look around the train. Sitting diagonally opposite to me is a tall, blonde woman in her 20’s reading a textbook. She is wearing a short, white dress. She crosses her legs. Her underpants match her dress. Thank God for that. I couldn’t think of anything worse than people being able to see black underpants through her white dress. I open up Facebook on my phone so I don’t have to see any more underwear.

The train stops at Malvern. I get off and walk to Wattletree road tram stop. As I get to the corner, a tram goes by. I would have liked to have caught that tram. Pity. I wait. I write and send some abusive tweets to @MetroTrains. I feel a bit better. After waiting 8 minutes, another tram arrives. Almost home.

The tram approaches my stop; I pull the cord that signifies to the driver that a passenger would like to get off at the next stop. The tram sails past my stop. I lose it. I take my headphones out, and using my best pissed-off teacher voice, the one that the kids jump when I use, I ask the driver if he wasn’t supposed to stop there. “Sorry, mate. I forgot.” Fine. Whatever. Give a fuck anymore. The tram stops. I get off. I don’t thank the driver. Fuck him and his forgetting to stop at stops. I go to cross Dandenong road, shouting at drivers to hurry the fuck up so I can cross the fucking road, the half brain dead arseclowns.

I made it home. At 2:33. I left the meeting at 11:10. It took me 3 hours and 13 minutes to get home, longer than it took me to get there. I made myself a coffee, patted my pet rabbit, Mabel and then wrote this.

Oh and that meeting that I had. It was a job interview. And I nailed it. Should find out if I get it tomorrow.


UPDATE: I didn't get the job. However, they were impressed with my interview and I am encouraged to apply for any other positions there that may arise.