Train rides and throwing around plastic money.

Snow Patrol is the perfect band to listen to at 6:42am on a bleak Thursday morning; the beginning of a two hour train ride into the city. A lack of caffeine and a multitude of sleeping passengers; turn up the volume and keep to yourself because the day feels so much earlier than it really is.

All of the blinds on the train carriages are open, for there is no sun to come protruding through the glass and into the eyes of the sleeping. Air-conditioning: Off. Today’s top temperature is just half of yesterday’s. We’ve been traded the overpowering heat for the windy chill of Autumn weather, despite the fact that it is just one day prior to Summer.

Hunched forward on the seat to my left sits my mother, writing away as far as her hands will permit. No writing or book-reading for me though, as I sacrificed my morning injection of caffeine for the drizzle of rain on the way to the station. No, no reading. Sleeping is what I do best at this hour.

After what feels like forever, we’re there. We’re at the last station and the train terminates. We exit the train at the underground station known as Roma Street; the walk to the main city street from here is only a few blocks away. Those first few steps outside of the food court in the station are almost like a wake up call. Once you’re out of those doors, you’ve left the warm security of the bustling station and now you’re out there with the rest of the world.

Wake up, watch the traffic. Bicycles and kids on rollerblades. I thought they went out in the ’90s. The sky is overcast yet the clouds are not grey. Instead they take on a remarkably eerie yellow — a reflection of the fires caused by the previous day’s heat.

First stop: Queen Street. Quite busy at such an early time of the morning. Business meetings at cafés; CEOs ordering champagne for breakfast; homeless people sleeping on benches. It’s all happening here. Quick stop for breakfast to fuel up for hours and hours and even more hours of shopping. Flashing plastic is easier than it’s made out to be, but don’t be fooled by this. Of course there are challenges that come with it. For one, do you choose the blue of the grey shirt? Is this size too big? Does this suit me? How about the other one? Never mind, I’ll take them all. Don’t give me a plastic bag though, because I’d rather pollute the environment by disposing of countless tags and plastic clips, but no plastic bags, thanks.

Shopping is exhausting, really. It’s could almost be considered the international sport of girls. I think my Mum and I would be top contenders for any awards involved. This handbag looks great. How much is it? I don’t care, just put it on my store card. Oh, I don’t want to share it. Okay, I’ll buy both. We can have one each.

A quick lunch is shared, because the enormity of breakfast many hours ago is still apparent. Drink up some wine at the Italian family restaurant and we’re off once more. Bustling in the city with a hoard of people that pretend they don’t care what anyone thinks. They’re all important. They’re all confident, smart and assured. They know we’re they going and no one will get in their way. That’s what they make people think, anyway. It could be a completely different story on the inside, but that’s irrelevant, isn’t it?

Finally tiring and heading back to the train station. Queen Street station this time, not Roma Street. Quick! Run to the ladies’ before the train is announced. Be careful to watch the screens though, because it’s easy to mistake this train for the next. Don’t forget to run to the newsagent to pick up a Picnic bar for the train ride.

Opposite direction this time, and now we’re heading South West. Only ten stops to go. Nine, eight… it’s almost the end of the work day and everyone’s tired and grumpy, or hyper on the sweet thought of heading home after a long day. Some people have different thoughts on what a hard day has been. Shopping, for example.

Being picked up at the train station is a welcome relief from public transport. Driving through the highway traffic is horrible though, so let’s pull over at Toowong shopping center. Park on the top level, adjacent to the McDonald’s drive-thru. It’s only 5pm, we may as well have a look around inside while the peak-hour traffic clears. More shoes. Two pair, even. Year planners, business shirts and lighter flints. Calling home to check on the brother, making sure he heats up something for dinner, likely from the Chrisco hampers we received just days ago.

There’s a Sizzler restaurant upstairs. All you can eat salad bar and dessert for $17.95. Let’s go — why not? Soft drinks on tap and as much food from the salad bar as you would like. Cheese toast, chocolate mousse and bread and butter pudding. It’s almost 7pm now and we should really go home. The drive home on the highway is long and relatively uneventful, apart from the random snippets of conversation received through the CB radio. A ton of swearing and crass remarks concerning the government.

Press the garage door remote and drive in. We’ll un-pack the bags in the morning.

Stepping in gum is not cool.

It is not cool at all.

I mean, you’re walking along just minding your own business and then BAM! All of a sudden your foot is semi-attached to the ground and you stand there for a second stunned, and then start to do some almost dance-like moves in an effort to get your shoe un-stuck (or if you’re lucky enough, your bare foot).

I mean, you can always try scraping your shoe on the edge of bricks or concrete, or even find a stick and try to pick it off, but you can only do so much. From then on, whenever you walk on grass (or dirt or sand) it will stick to it. Not cool.

PUT YOUR GOD-DAMN GUM IN THE BIN, THANKS.

God I’m lazy.

So it’s 10:39am and I’m sitting here at the computer, still in my pyjamas, still lacking much-needed makeup. My eye still hurts like a motherfucker for some reason, but I guess I’ll live. I still don’t have my reading glasses back from the optometrist yet, as they’re getting new lenses put in. Woo yeah. Let’s hope my day settles down now, eh? I can’t deal with all of this excitement.

Oh shit son, I even get to vacuum my room now because of the vast amount of hair I’ve been shedding from blow-drying and straightening. Mmm, delightful.

Hitting up the small Bowls’ Club for lunch today too… with the whole 3 other people that are likely to be there as well.

Oh, wait, hold up — Mum’s vacuuming my room for me. Fuck I’m lazy.

Setting your clocks fast: What’s the point?

Don’t deny it, you know what I’m talking about here. You might always be late for things or you never want to miss a bus again so you think, “Hey, why don’t I just set my clocks/watches/phone/other devices ten minutes fast? That way, I’ll always be on time or, if not, I’ll be early!”

When I first learnt of people doing this, I was only young. Maybe nine or ten, tops. With such a young age came such a degree of naïvety (again, is this a word?). Of course at that age, I didn’t even know what naïve meant, but that’s also beside the point. I too thought that this was a fantastic way of making it on time to everything, however I knew very little on the subject. Yes, the subject of pseudo-fast-forwarding time.

But really, what is the point?

• You’re likely to forget changing all of the clocks in your house whilst you’re mid-way through.
• Even if you do finish, I’m sure someone else in the house has a watch or phone of their own, with a completely different time displayed.
• You’re aware that you changed it, therefore giving yourself extra allowances if you’re running “late” (which of course you aren’t, because you should know exactly how fast you set the clocks).
• There is a small possibility that you will develop some form of mental condition that relates to clocks, time and anything of the sort, because your clock says one thing but you know it must be lying to you.

Okay, so maybe I made up the last one. That’s okay, but I think my point should be getting across now. And if not then I have idea what universe you’re living in.

“Buy Nothing Day”.

For those of you that are unaware, today is (International) Buy Nothing Day.

“Buy Nothing Day is an informal day of protest against consumerism observed by social activists.”

- from this Wikipedia article.

Whilst this is all well and good, does it really achieve anything? As mentioned in the article, critics of this informal holiday have argued that those participating will simply go out and buy twice the amount of things the following day. Or, those people such as myself, will go out regardless of the holidays and willingly spend more than they should be in the first place.

It’s all in the name of fun, anyway, so while I’m not exactly criticizing the day, I don’t really see all that much point in it. I guess it could be a bit of fun if you wanted to participate though. Let me know what you are planning to do/have done today on this occasion.

One of those annoying truths.

A small object that is accidentally dropped will inevitably hide under a larger object.

I hate it when stupid sayings proverbs like that are true. I mean, is that not always the case? I don’t know how many times I’ve accidentally dropped the captive bead of my lip ring, only to never see it again. Perhaps I should bid them adieu.

“Farewell, captive beads! Don’t think of me, I’ll be fine. Carry on your life elsewhere in the shelter of larger objects that I won’t even think to look under.”

Perverts driving cars…

… or trucks, utes or bikes.

So I walked into town today to visit the book store; I live in quite a small town, however it’s quite sufficient for what I need. From my house to the store would surely be no more than 750 metres away, 1000 at the most. This involves the crossing of a main road and is generally quite busy.

Scenario: A girl is walking down the street wearing nothing but a bikini. Men are going to cop a bit of a look, I know. I was simply wearing a sleeved top (while not exactly on the ‘baggy’ side, there was certainly no cleavage visible), a denim skirt and leggings than ran almost to my ankles. No skin poking out from underneath some slutty top or poor excuse for a pair of shorts — nothing.

On this 750m walk to the book store, I think I counted about four whistles out of utes; two cars honking their horn as I went to cross the road; a guy on a motorbike staring at me for so long that I thought his head was going to make a complete rotation; two guys sticking their heads out of the car windows whilst trying to turn at an intersection; and one middle-age man flashing his ute’s lights at me and waving, with one of those sick, perverted, old man smiles on his face.

I know the whole ‘male’ thing involves a bit of perving, and I’m not going to deny that females do it too, but come on: Is this not a little extreme? Do they not realise that they’re degrading themselves in such a way simply by these actions they probably don’t think twice about?

Of course, this is not directed towards every male out there, no. I am aware that there are numerous decent males in society, however it’s just rare to come across them as frequently as though who are not. I wish it were the other way around.

Oh, the joys of a new pair of heels.

It’s generally exciting to purchase a brand-spankin’ new pair of heels, am I right? Okay, so maybe this is slightly more targeted towards females (but you never know; some of you males may be budding collectors of women’s shoes).

More often than not, it takes countless hours to track down and find that perfect pair of shoes, but when you do… Oh lord, it’s a golden moment. You take the box home, keeping all of the pieces of plastic and paper and padding in perfect order so as to keep your latest purchase in perfect order. Or, if you’re like me, you’ll chuck the box in the car, speed on home and promptly throw them on your feet as soon as you get inside so you can parade around the house in them.

At this stage, all is good. You think, “Hey, this is great! These heels look fantastic AND don’t hurt my feet! I think I’ll wear them out at the very next opportunity I have.” So then what happens? You wear them out to lunch with your girlfriends (substitute: boyfriend, annoying little cousin, mother, et cetera).

It won’t be so bad — you can wear them in slowly while you’re sitting down eating a light salad and sipping an $11 cocktail at noon. And hey, maybe a spot of window-shopping afterwards will be tolerable, since it’s so easy to walk in these new investments. Four hours later and you find yourself hobbling along at the pace of a 90-year-old with chronic arthritis because of the horrendous blisters that have conjured up inside your shoes. Get those God-damn shoes off as soon as you can, only to find that the relief isn’t as great as you’d hoped. No, instead, you hoist your feet onto the nearest cushions and order that the person closest to you finds that old packet of fluoro-coloured Bandaids.

So — who’s up for lunch tomorrow?