I shuffle agedly along the platform; the guard sees my efforts and delays the departure for 30 seconds. My grateful smile is reciprocated as I climb aboard the Quiet Carriage and settle into one of the few remaining, forward-facing seats.
I have often considered the pros and cons of a train’s forward or backward-facing seating. In the event of a crash does the backwards position provide some additional restraint? Or, if seated forward, is there a greater risk of becoming airborne. It’s all academic really, I deem the risk acceptable as I always want to see things approaching, not disappearing. Railway easements offer such an ever-changing cornucopia of interest. 90 minutes to Ballarat.
We pass the still incomplete Heavenly Queen temple. Maribyrnong riverside, its ethereal beauty dramatically compromised by the surrounding construction detritus; broken terracotta tiles, piles of aggregate and clumps of dried, dead grass.
Tagging on easement-facing walls takes the train through the ‘burbs. There is an intriguing little bird’s head sprayed, and repeated endlessly, for kilometres. Are there proprietorial IP rights on design motifs – is this the same artist, travelling the railway corridors, claiming signatural rights to an expanding empire?
What’s on that guy’s T-shirt. OMG that’s great. “Don’t rush me. I’m waiting for the Last Minute.” That proffers such a wonderful prompt for a story! I make a note on my phone.
Caroline Springs. Loud swearing. A bloke is wrestling to retrieve his cycle from the carriage’s bike rack. The doors are about to close as he frees it. The wheel gets caught in the doors – him outside, commuters inside trying to hit the door-release button. The guy is swearing, yanking on the frame. He is yelling, the bike is freed. He rates Public Transport Victoria with an upwardly pointed index finger.
There’s an old, broken trampoline. A car body rusts quietly – the backside of suburbia exposed, the railway corridor providing a convenient dispose-and-forget repository – Styrofoam, plastic sheeting, Macca’s wrappers, an unending reflection on our Age of Chuckit. Unkempt greenery replaces houses – fennel, blackberries, broom, hemlock: a commuter’s bespoke landscape.
There is a muffled conversation, indistinct, but definitely in breach of the Quiet Carriage rules! Who is it? I scan my fellow commuters. The turbaned Sikhs in front, shared earbuds are engrossed in a Bollywood extravaganza. There are two tattooed girls further along – giggling quietly. At the far end, a hand flutters, a head nods: an ear is engaged to a mobile telephone. I watch and confirm a synchronised movement of his head, hands and facial expressions matching the intonations. I conclude a contemptible, arrogant sod!
Our train passes high above Djerriwarrh Creek. Fishers seen this morning are gone; the banks are empty, save for seagulls mooching around a deserted car park. What determines morning or afternoon fishing – maybe insect movements?
The bloke talks endlessly through to Ballarat. He is still yakking on the platform. I want to accost him. Would he hit a pensioner? Possibly. I shuffle on, trumpeting my strongest, most disdainful glare!