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More tales from the rails
After this morning's relatively painless rail-replacement experience I had reasonably high hopes for this afternoon's journey home.
For a start I wasted a perfectly good dash (OK, maybe a handbag-gripping anatomy-bouncing shuffle) to the bus. Wasted, for once I got on board said bus then sprinted off at high speed to nowhere for quite a while. Probably only about 10 minutes, but I'm an impatient lass, and the bus smelled icky.
We trundled off Glendalough-bound, driving down Roe Street which afforded an excellent view of the reason why the trains were not running in that neck of the woods. I suspect the propaganda fairies had a hand in the route planning, but the sight of many men (and for argument's sake women as well, although I saw none), machines and materiel gladdened my logistical-loving mind.
We arrived, poured off the bus and as one ran up to the platform under the impression that the next train had just pulled in (it had, but it was going the other way). What fools we were - another meaningless dash. We distributed ourselves along the indicated platform to wait.
Time passed. Continents drifted.
More busloads of bodies arrived.
The crowds thickened, and in some places curdled, like mayonaise gone wrong. I amused myself by imagining they were all zombies, or sheep, or zombie sheep. As you do.
I defended my excellent spot on the platform, quite happy to stand on the lumpy bit, but anxiously keeping an eye on an old lady who kept leaning out over the edge to eye the distant rails. She wore matching hat and gloves, pearls and a shawl (amongst other things).
After an interval punctuated by a number of thoroughly incomprehensible PA announcements our train pulled up, on the opposite platform.
In hindsight I guessed what one of those announcements had probably been ("Your train will not arrive on the platform we told you it would"), then got my elbows out as my once perfect position became the absolute inverse.
Actually I managed to get a seat. I found myself squeezed next to a Young Person bristling with shiny personal technology but with an unfortunate lack of knowledge in matters of infrastructure. Apparently she caught the train every day to work (at Telstra) but had no idea why services were being disrupted.
This became evident after the driver of our thus far immobile train announced that there would be "a small delay" due to a(nother grr) switching problem. At least that filled in another of the mysterious platform announcements. She asked me what was going on, so I explained (briefly and accurately I swear) about the need for the shutdown to integrate the new Southern line. I did not use the word "integrate" I promise.
--I am capable of brevity, but it's much more relaxing to waffle. That's why I love LJ so much.--
She pronounced the whole thing "stupid". Not the delays, the actual shutdown itself. I swear she actually said "I bet they didn't need to do it." Now there's a conspiracy theory for you.
I really hope I didn't gasp at her like a dying fish, but hey - would it really have mattered if I had? She plugged in her iPod and fortunately had quite danceable taste in hip hop (and more than enough volume for me to listen along) so I bobbed along during the rest of the slow and frequently interrupted trip. At one point she received an SMS on her otherwise very shiny phone "Hey fuckwit," pronounced said device, "you've got a message". Nice.
A message, but not, I suspect, the right one.
For a start I wasted a perfectly good dash (OK, maybe a handbag-gripping anatomy-bouncing shuffle) to the bus. Wasted, for once I got on board said bus then sprinted off at high speed to nowhere for quite a while. Probably only about 10 minutes, but I'm an impatient lass, and the bus smelled icky.
We trundled off Glendalough-bound, driving down Roe Street which afforded an excellent view of the reason why the trains were not running in that neck of the woods. I suspect the propaganda fairies had a hand in the route planning, but the sight of many men (and for argument's sake women as well, although I saw none), machines and materiel gladdened my logistical-loving mind.
We arrived, poured off the bus and as one ran up to the platform under the impression that the next train had just pulled in (it had, but it was going the other way). What fools we were - another meaningless dash. We distributed ourselves along the indicated platform to wait.
Time passed. Continents drifted.
More busloads of bodies arrived.
The crowds thickened, and in some places curdled, like mayonaise gone wrong. I amused myself by imagining they were all zombies, or sheep, or zombie sheep. As you do.
I defended my excellent spot on the platform, quite happy to stand on the lumpy bit, but anxiously keeping an eye on an old lady who kept leaning out over the edge to eye the distant rails. She wore matching hat and gloves, pearls and a shawl (amongst other things).
After an interval punctuated by a number of thoroughly incomprehensible PA announcements our train pulled up, on the opposite platform.
In hindsight I guessed what one of those announcements had probably been ("Your train will not arrive on the platform we told you it would"), then got my elbows out as my once perfect position became the absolute inverse.
Actually I managed to get a seat. I found myself squeezed next to a Young Person bristling with shiny personal technology but with an unfortunate lack of knowledge in matters of infrastructure. Apparently she caught the train every day to work (at Telstra) but had no idea why services were being disrupted.
This became evident after the driver of our thus far immobile train announced that there would be "a small delay" due to a(nother grr) switching problem. At least that filled in another of the mysterious platform announcements. She asked me what was going on, so I explained (briefly and accurately I swear) about the need for the shutdown to integrate the new Southern line. I did not use the word "integrate" I promise.
--I am capable of brevity, but it's much more relaxing to waffle. That's why I love LJ so much.--
She pronounced the whole thing "stupid". Not the delays, the actual shutdown itself. I swear she actually said "I bet they didn't need to do it." Now there's a conspiracy theory for you.
I really hope I didn't gasp at her like a dying fish, but hey - would it really have mattered if I had? She plugged in her iPod and fortunately had quite danceable taste in hip hop (and more than enough volume for me to listen along) so I bobbed along during the rest of the slow and frequently interrupted trip. At one point she received an SMS on her otherwise very shiny phone "Hey fuckwit," pronounced said device, "you've got a message". Nice.
A message, but not, I suspect, the right one.