UnEasy Trainfellows.

When I was little I wanted, among other things, to be a hobo. Not the kind that falls asleep in pee and shouts at people from doorways, but a Romantic Hobo. You know, the ones that Journeyman books get written about. Who go on adventures, riding the rails and saving damsels and children from Certain Doom.

I have ridden many trains since those days, but sadly none of them really compare to my childhood fantasies. When I lived in Wales, the trains were a phantom that arrived every 3 hours, three times a day and waited for you for EXACTLY 2.5 seconds. Thus ensuring the maximum heart failure potential of both running and juggling luggage combined with lack of fitness, mixing them all into one tight ball of stress and perspiration.

In London where I survived many a near miss from door, platform shoving, and 'Oh I'm sorry I had NO IDEA my hand was there', the biggest suffering I endured, was to be constantly at armpit height when summer rolled around.


When I moved back to Melbourne, I drove a lot more and didn't see my old friend the train as often. I would ride to work in my own personal bubble, applying inappropriate disco make up at traffic lights and freaking out any car neighbours  with my belting chorus of 'Living On A Prayer'.

I have in the last month gone back to re-friend Public Transport and have found it to be…

…..yeah, pretty much the same, really.

*facepalm*

Things run late, people get grumpy and spill chip crumbs on your shoes and there's always always at least one person Shouting With Abandon.

Still, whenever travel options come up for holidays, the old Romantic Hobo Dreams reappear  and I look for a way I can get from point A to B by train.

This did once result in a journey on a Canada to USA line that made me, in total 29 hours late (not an exaggeration) and swaying for most of that time after the dining car ran out of food and water and we had to resort to drinking alcohol to stay hydrated.

Yeah. That went as expected.

Despite all of this, I still love the train. It is the old boyfriend I will never abandon, regardless of how many times he has shown up late, not dressed for dinner, and with something sticky on the underside of his shoe.

And besides, there is still the Orient Express.

*Choo choo*

the dangers of stilt walking

Ok, so I have a serious issue being the kind of 'real girl' who can walk in heels, I admit it!

Heels make me feel unsure of my place in the world. As in, I see myself upright and uninjured, and they see me splatted on the ground in a mess of embarrassment and dead.

I have had so many accidents in heels that I think I actually have a kind of phobia about them and am convinced that you need some kind of super power to wear them and:

A) not look like a jerk

 B) not walk with your arms out like a Frankenstein who is simultaneously clutching a small woodland creature between your buttock cheeks.

C) Yeaaah... all of the above.

If you pick 'C' because statistically it's most likely the correct answer you'll be using the kind of logic that lead me to fail Year 12 mathematics in legendary fashion. In this case however, you'd be right.

How fondly I remember my first transformation from ugly duckling to swan (get the popcorn, there's a few of these) when I came to school on a free dress day wearing...well, a dress, and some girl shoes. Yes, they had a heel. Ok, it was more a kitten than a cougar heel, but still it was a HEEL. And those little bastard heels were enough to catch on the wooden edge of the totally NON OHS approved stairs next to the school oval sending me tumbling to my doom, which also happened to be at the feet of the boy I had a teensy crush on.

I mention it was 'teensy' just so you're sure that it wasn't as MONUMENTALLY HUMILIATING as it would have been, had it been a FREAKING MASSIVE CRUSH OH DEAR GOD.

Yeah. Teensy. Got that?

Anyway, after laying there in shock for a few minutes while I digested exactly how much of my teenage coolness had now gone up in flames, I realised that not one, but both of my knees were gushing blood.

Hey, what can I say? I don't do things by halves (and I'm more than part lemming it seems)

I think the kicker for me though, was when said recipient of crush ( I won't mention 'teensy' again because I know that you know how very small it was) frowned in confusion, helped me to my feet and then looked at me as you would imagine one would look at a baboon who had just eaten three live crabs and a labrador puppy. Y'know, horrified, disturbed, but at the same time...fascinated.


Boy: " um...are you, okaay?"

Me: "ha, yeah, ha, I'm fine! Fiiiine! It was only four steps. Totally fiiine."

My Knees: *gush gush bloody gush*

I managed to convince him with added arm waving and 'big eyes' that I was indeed 'totally fiine', although it would probably be more accurate to say that by this point he just thought I was 'totally craaazy'.

It's a good job tattered dignity makes such excellent bandages.

 Grand Exit.