Out in the rain, out on the tracks

Sorry about my absence. Funny how the days sneak up and bleed into the nights and suddenly lots of them have slipped by.

Metro Trains have changed the time table. I haven't quite worked out what it all means, but their great smart phone app, called "Notify" lets me know each morning when my train is due to run.  For example, the 7:20am now departs at 7:18 because of the changed timetable. Great service. Unfortunately, there's been a few occasions where the next communication is to advise that the train has been delayed. Ironically, it's later than it would have been if the timetable hadn't changed. 

Still on the subject of public transport, Melbournians lose their usually excellent capacity to play well with others when it involves rain, peak hour and public transport. As I watched the sky turn from a sunny blue to a terrifying black, I made my plans to exit the building. I finished a phone call from a friend and was just about to take his advice and leave (the temperature had dropped to about 8 degrees with wind and rain thrown in for extra excitement) when my boss stopped me to check in on a few things. By the time I left, it was even colder and much wetter. Huddling at the tram stop, with only a tiny foldable umbrella - rendered impotent by the wind - I found a new definition of misery. This new definition was replaced a moment later as I huddled, damply, on the tram. I tried to wrangle my umbrella so I didn't wet anyone anymore than they already were. Meanwhile, I felt a wet patch growing on my back. The woman behind me was pressing her soaking, dripping umbrella into my back. We adjusted. The tram stopped a the next stop. No one alighted. A few determined people squeezed into non-existent space, pleading for us to move in. We were so squashed that the only way I could create more space was to inhale, so I did. 

The next ordeal was negotiating the stupidly skinny tram platform that was packed with too many people, plus their backpacks in the rain with umbrellas and rain hoods making it impossible to see each other. We stood on our refuge, wedged between the tram line and two lanes of traffic. Opposite, a man squatted down with his camera and leaped to action when we started to cross.

My outfit served me well today, drawing comments from many quarters: 

"That's a very eclectic outfit". I chose to respond with "thank you".

"Your dress is hitched up at the back, let me just...oh...how does it work?" I explained the complex rigging involved and thanked her for being concerned.  She revealed her plan to protect my modesty.

"What a fantastic outfit!" was the best comment of the day, as I interacted with people who are more from "my" world.

Hail, rain and wind are on the cards for tomorrow. I must prepare for the travel odyssey ahead. I shall think of it as character building.

We certainly saw Lorraine today: http://youtu.be/Lw6zjxH9aAk

To borrow a phrase - I can't stand the rain

It's raining in Melbourne. It's been raining solidly for the last couple of days. Apparentlly we've received our monthly rainfall in a couple of days. I forget which month. It's a bit wearing, travelling around, hauling umbrellas, avoiding others' umbrellas, being constantly damp, managing frizzy hair, but it's been lovely to see the grass green again.

I've been persisting with my daily walk. The trains and trams are so stuffy and humid that it's actually nicer to be out in the air, even if you are a bit damp and your hair has turned into a fuzz ball. In one spot where I walk there is a glorious stand of eucalyptus trees. I pause to take in the scent. I also notice the bubbles forming on the puddles and feel sorry for the people trapped in their cars, lined up and going no where.

I've been puzzled by the people I've seen hunched over, as if they are making themselves so small, they would fit between the raindrops. In one hand they clutch an umbrella. Why don't they open it and take shelter?

Umbrellas are particularly hazardous when boarding and alighting from trains and trams. I was nearly stabbed to death by a small Asian woman who suddenly changed direction while we waited to touch off our mykis on the way out of the station. I stood very still and she looked terrified.

All the floors are slippery and I walk like a 90 year-old woman everywhere I see a smooth service. Since my fall last year, I'm acutely aware of how a simple fall can cause serious injury. I'm constantly surprised by how many walking surfaces are completely unsuited to wet weather and rushing crowds of people.

This morning's commute was chaotic. Power failures further down the line meant cancellations and delays. As the train pulled into the station 15 minutes late, the windows were dark with crowds inside and fogged with all their breathing. I insinuated myself into an inadequate space, having already let one train pass. I held onto an overhead railing at an angle just wrong enough to make me feel discombobulated when I finally arrived at my destination.

Coming home a woman asked whether station announcements are made on the train.

"Sometimes," I told her. "If you're lucky, they might even be accurate."

She looked at me like I was some kind of zealot.

Soon the voice of Metro trains announced that the next station was Seddon. It wasn't. It was South Kensington. Only two stops out. The woman looked at me with mistrust when I told her where to get off. The train, I mean. I shrugged. She could trust me - a stranger on a train - or she could trust the disembodied, malfunctioning woman with the voice. Or she could look out the window and see the name of the station.

It's nice to arrive home to a dry place; although I'm slightly nervous that the unattended hole in the ceiling will soon prove to be catastrophic.

As I settle in to watch Survivor tonight, I'm reminded to be glad that I'm not camping on a beach, even if I was in the running to win a million dollars. Or in north Queensland waiting for the cyclone to arrive.

How do you feel about rain?

Beating the heat at the movies.

Bliss was my first feeling as I felt the need to pull up the bedcovers early this morning. It has been days since it has felt cool enough to even consider pulling up a sheet! The waking experience has been a sigh as the realisation dawned that the temperature felt like the middle of the day and it was only 7am.

Without an airconditioned home, the weekend's heat meant that retreating to somewhere cool was a necessity. My usual strategy is to go to the movies. When the weather is like this, I will see whatever is on next. That is why I saw "12 Years a Slave" on Saturday. On Sunday I planned to go in the middle of the day and saw "Inside Llewyn Davis", the new Coen Brothers' film.

My tissue supply was not assured as I took my seat for "12 Years a Slave". The film was not on the top of my "to see" list because I rated the content as "harrowing". Physical comfort trumped the psychological.

Solomon Northrup wrote the account of his kidnapping, transportation to the south and sale into slavery and the film is adapted from his account. For most of the first part of the film I was unmoved. I was interested enough in the characters, but felt quite removed from the story. Intellectually I absorbed the details of slave transactions, deceptions and the clear view of slave owners that slaves were not human. My tears flowed at moments of kindness shown to Solomon and during a particularly harrowing scene of a slave being beaten. The hyprocrisy of slave owners reading the bible to their "property" and using the scripture to justify beatings and other examples of bad behaviour made me angry, rather than sad.

It was a musical moment that brought me completely undone. A group of slaves sing a gospel song after burying one of their number. Solomon takes some time to join; when he does, the ferocity of his singing conveys such meaning - anger and hope simultaneously.

It was a complete change of pace on Sunday when I bought a ticket to watch a film about a folk singer in 1961. My heart sank as I took my seat in the cinema that was uncomfortably hot. Before the previews were through an usher advised that the airconditioner had died that morning. It had just been fixed, but it would take a while for the cinema to cool down. Full refunds were offered. I decided to have faith.
Before long I was freezing to death as the newly effective airconditioner caused a layer of ice to form on my bare arms and shoulders. It was welcome.

I'm a fan of the Coen Brothers' work and was looking forward to a film about a singer. It turned out to be a strange film. There were moments where I laughed, but I was largely frustrated by the lack of Llewyn Davis to seize the opportunities he had before him. I really enjoyed the music but the film is less than memorable.

As I emerged from the cinema the wind had turned and the cool change had arrived. Such a relief!

What's your strategy for surviving the heat?

Campanology campaign - a resounding success!

We did it! Our composition for the Federation Bells went off without a hitch yesterday morning and seemed to be well-received and appreciated by passing Melbournians and guests participating in the Melbourne Recital Centre's fifth birthday.

When I arrived at 8:45am yesterday I felt as if mere hours had passed since we finished Friday night's dress rehearsal. We were issued with our celebratory orange t-shirts and my heart sank. Since spending all of 2007 wearing an orange t-shirt (I wasn't in prison, I was organising the Your Rights at Work campaign), I am under no illusions about my relationship with orange. It is good for accessorising, but wearing a whole garment in the colour makes me look like I am either very sick or have drunk too much red wine on a hot day. I decided to accessorise with an over-the-top floral crown to draw all eyes away from contemplating me in an orange t-shirt.

The score for the piece we composed for the
Melbourne Recital Centre's fifth birthday.
© 2014 divacultura

As we began our dress rehearsal and reviewed the score, it became evident that two members of the team had fallen by the wayside. We quickly rejigged things and made it work. We worked out the second part of the composition under the guidance of musical facilitator Steve Falk and then embarked on our dress rehearsal.

It was a beautiful evening and people looked at us curiously as we draped ourselves around the wave sculpture near Hamer Hall. There was magic as I struck the first note and others joined in. The rehearsal went well with only a few adjustments to make.

We were blessed with a glorious morning yesterday. The light dappled through the trees along St Kilda Road. I felt a profound sense of celebration and reverence as I struck the first note again. People stopped and looked. Some even smiled. Many of them asked what it was all about and I happily told them. Crossing Southbank Boulevard we encountered a man who was impatient for us to cross. He waved at the flashing red man on the traffic light and turned in front of us. We continued the tintinabulation. As we reached the Melbourne Recital Centre there was a crowd of people waiting for the doors to open; it was our job to open them.

Federation Bells - that's "E" on the right.
© 2014 divacultura

As the sound died, I found my partner for the door bell. I struck the E and he followed with C. The conversation continued until a frenzied pace was reached and we stopped. The high Cs were struck. The G, followed by my E and a low C. It was our musical joke - the descending C major arpeggio which is the call for patrons to return to their seats after interval in concert halls the world over. Three times we descended and then the doors opened. The people followed us in.

We went up the stairs to Elisabeth Murdoch Hall and continued to play as patrons took their seats.

Naturally the piece concluded with a rendition of "Happy Birthday" and three cheers.

It was a truly joyous experience and energy was high as we returned to the VIP room. Contact details were swapped and t-shirts were peeled off.

The "backyard". This is normally a carpark.
© 2014 divacultura

I went downstairs to the backyard which had been astro-turfed and turned into a festive party venue. I ate a taco from the taco truck and listened to the Welsh Men's Choir. I played a tune on the decorated piano which was sitting on the footpath and then found a seat to take in some of the open jazz jam. A house band welcomed soloists on a variety of instruments to join them for a song. It was terrific to see so many teenagers taking the stage with their saxophones, guitars and trombones. I wasn't sure if they accepted singers, so I just enjoyed the show. As people rode the escalators to the next level they swung their hips to the music and smiled. Any wonder anything with a swinging beat was considered "devil's music". Never know what an escalator ride and jazz could lead to.

I decided to leave before the day became too hot. As I was walking back to the city, I stopped off at the National Gallery of Victoria. An artist was working in the foyer. Dozens of plastic mesh rectangles had been embroidered with words in black and the backgrounds needed to be completed in white. About ten people were stitching when I arrived. It was lovely and cool in there so I decided to find some words that appealed and contributed a few stitches.

Leaving my mark
© 2014 divacultura

As I sat stitching, I was struck by the variety of people involved: women, men, boys, girls. A Chinese woman sat beside me and asked what it was all about. I explained and she picked up a rectangle and started to stitch. I introduced myself and she told me about her holiday. Her name was Jinbor (I don't know how to spell it) and she is a fashion designer with her own label in China. She told me this after I remarked on how swiftly she stitched.

After four rows I left. My body was starting to feel the work of carrying and playing that bell and I needed to rest.

As I made my way home I felt so happy to live in a city where there are public spaces and events with really interesting and welcoming things to do on a very hot day where retreat to an air conditioned space is top of the agenda.

Noticing my body this morning, I decided that indulging in campanology is an excellent upper body work out and a very enjoyable one too. I now realised why a hunchback rings the bells!

The bells go back in their cases.
© 2014 divacultura

I'm profounded - I mean confounded - words matter.

I received a lesson in the importance of precision in language today.

Back in May, during a period of very wet weather I told my real estate agent that I could hear dripping in the ceiling. There was no reaction. Three days later I had water running down one of the walls in my bedroom. The light fitting was sparking as the electricity met the water that was running through there.

A (very handsome) electrician came and dealt with the electricity - in the ceiling - and left a gaping hole in my heart ceiling. Since then I've had no light in the bedroom and a gaping hole in the ceiling. I have taken to wearing a miner's lamp when I'm selecting my wardrobe for the day.

This happened seven months ago.

People sprang into action last December and decided that the week before Christmas was a convenient time to pack and remove the contents of the apartment, remove the ceiling, replace the ceiling, paint the bedroom and restore the contents. I had other plans thinking that my recent five week absence would provide the perfect opportunity.

Things don't always turn out the way we hope. I won't bore you with the details, but I arrived home to be confronted with packed boxes stacked in the lounge room, bedroom and the entry to the bathroom. And I brought suitcases which also needed to be unpacked. It was 42 degrees Celsius and I had to start work the following morning.

You can imagine the conversations I've been having. I'm writing everything down so they can feature in the absurdist script I'll produce one day. One of them involved the agent advising me to "just follow your normal routine". What am I? A rat in a box maze? She clearly thinks I'm insane. Or some kind of contemporary artist making a statement about some aspect of society as I turn my place into a piece of performance art. Shame I can't sell tickets. There's nowhere for the patrons to stand. I've rigged up a periscope so I can watch television. That's the only activity I can reasonably accomplish - unless I consider moving boxes around to be a leisure activity.

Anyway, the precision of language...imagine my initial surprise when the agent shared an email telling me that she had advised the insurance person and the owner that the flat is "inhabitable". After some thought, I decided she was right, but there was something off about the tone of the email.

Today I received another email telling me again that she'd told the insurance guy that the place is "inhabitable" but also that he shouldn't take her word for it and would need to see for himself.  Again, I had a nagging worry that she actually was using the wrong word.

I had to find out, but was unsure how to ask without causing offence.  I settled on asking if she meant "inhabitable" as in I can live there or "uninhabitable" as in I can't live there.

Her single-word response came: uninhabitable.

I imagined the insurance agent being moved to even higher levels of frantic inaction with the vehement statements that the place is inhabitable! Any wonder nothing much has happened in seven months.

Considered with the correct understanding, the email from the agent became even more ridiculous as it finished by stating "the place is [un]inhabitable and the insurance agent is aware of that so just wait and see what happens"!

Lucky the roof wasn't blown off! Imagine what "urgently waiting" feels like when you've got bigger problems than not being able to coordinate your outfit or needing to use a torch when you make your way to the bed. Add some boxes into the pathway and you've got added excitement at bed time.

My response in this situation is to initially get angry, then I go floppy and then I start looking for comedy to exploit. I can't even drink as an activity because I've given up alcohol for February as part of Feb Fast.*

Oh and I'm also taking legal advice.

* See how hard it is! I'd love you to sponsor me and support programs for young people who suffer from addictions

Being 15 again - or where's the thermostat?

After spending Christmas in Queensland with my family, I found myself sitting in the backseat of my parents' car with Alfie, the dog, driving back to the farm in NSW. Suddenly I was fifteen again. The radio in the car was intermittent and when it worked, was permanently tuned in to the cricket with heavy dose of static. The only thing worse than cricket on TV is cricket on the radio. The CD player has given up the ghost. This may have been a blessing as the selection was likely to include Slim Dusty live in Wagga Wagga. I put my earphones in and listened to my ipod. I'm enjoying discovering the dark corners of my music collections by setting it to shuffle all songs; although with my eclectic taste in music there can be moments of surprise as I lurch from Miles Davis to Michael Nyman and everything in between. Most startling is the voice recordings of invoices to do for my brother that have made their way onto my ipod the last time I synced. The move from Mozart to "standard horse dental" is quite confusing - especially if it happens when I'm dozing.

Overall the trip was pretty good and I've been enjoying the garden at my parents' home. It is alive with birds and native wildlife.

On the first afternoon I spotted a large koala in one of the trees in the front yard. I marveled at its strength as it was able to rest on two twigs and happily sleep while the branches blew in the breeze. He looked down at me and stretched, giving me a good glimpse of his strong claws. At one point he growled, reminding me that he was a wild animal and not a cute cuddly toy.

At dusk every evening, a tiny rabbit and a family of kangaroos come in to graze on the green lawn. I've discovered that the kangaroos rest under the bushy row of oleanders that shield the house from the road. I'm trying to sneak out and capture them on film, but so far my efforts have resulted in lovely shots of grass with a dark smudge in a far corner as the kangaroo hops away.

Yesterday while Alfie and I were out for our evening stroll, he went one way and I went the other. Suddenly I heard a yelp and Alfie streaked past me. I couldn't see what he was chasing but wasn't concerned because he's slowing in his old age. When he was younger, he'd give everything in pursuit of hares and kangaroos, but now he's back to a more sedate pace and seems to run just for the enjoyment.

White cockatoos are noisy in the trees at any time of day. They chatter amongst themselves, sometimes amiably and at other times they sound like a cranky parent arguing with the children. Whenever I open the door to go out, the noise crescendos and dozens of birds fly overhead, a slight tinge of yellow visible in their white wingspans.

The other challenge I face while with my parents is temperature control. Anything higher than "polar" causes my mother to declare that she's hot. Constant questions about whether the temperature is right for me result in nothing, despite constant responses that I can't speak because I'm busy chipping away at the layer of ice that has formed all over my body. I blink my eyes and ask if she can hear that noise - it's the sound of ice cracking on my eyelashes. The thermostat on the car remains on 18 degrees Celsius. The thermostat in the house remains on 20 degrees Celsius. At one point my teeth were chattering and this too resulted in no further action except silent contemplation. As I was travelling during summer, I didn't think to pack my thermals, but clearly I should have. I'll have to remember for my next visit.

That's all I can manage to write today as I'm not wearing my fingerless gloves while I type. Knitting some is out of the question as my fingers would surely snap off while underway and the resulting trip to the hospital on New Year's Eve is too much to contemplate, especially since I'd be travelling in the car with that layer of ice forming. At least I won't bleed to death. I empathise with the people on the boat stranded in the Antarctic ice at the moment.

I don't understand what happens to mothers and temperature control. When I was younger my mother's sole mission was to ensure that I was warm enough. This quest resulted in me always being required to wear singlet and socks to ensure no loss of body heat. At one stage I defined a singlet as "something you wear when your mother's cold". What happened?

Stream of consciousness - musings on journeys and problems and Melburnians.

Today I'm grateful that the most obvious to response to this information: "I'm going to get my hair done." isn't, "Which one?"

That sentence was really quite difficult to punctuate. How did I go?

Every time I have been to the hairdresser in 2013 it has rained on my way home. This is definitely a first world problem.

Speaking of first world problems, the other day I was at Flinders Street Station trying to locate my train (you'd think this would be easier than it actually is). I'd been waiting at Platform 8 for a while. This wasn't random, the signs all pointed to the fact that this was the place for the 5:36 pm to Laverton. A train arrived on the platform. The crowd of waiters (not the drinks kind) surged forward under the impression that the train would be the 5:36 pm to Laverton. As we surged, the sign changed its mind and informed us that it was the 5:40 pm to somewhere else, like Frankston or Packenham. We held back. An announcement informed us that the train on platform 8 was indeed the 5:36pm to Laverton. We surged forward and settled into our seats. "Settled" isn't really the right word. We were unsettled, but I don't know how to unsettle. The sign inside the train suggested the train was going to Packenham or Frankston. People dithered. Who to trust? The written word on a sign that has been wrong before or the live announcement from a human. I assume it was a human. Just as I relaxed in preparation for my journey homeward, an faint announcement was heard outside the train which sent a ripple of anger, a shiver of confusion through the commuters on board who had foolishly trusted the announcement last time. This announcement told us that we were on a train going to Frankston or Packenham and that the 5:36pm Laverton train was now arriving on platform 9! Could we trust the announcement? We surged from the train on to the platform and found a small moustached man wearing an orange high-vis vest and asked him the pertinent question: what the hell is going on? He shrugged in response.

The shrug was like an ember on a stream of petrol. Teeth were bared. We just needed to know which train, where, so we could go home.

Off to one side of the group a woman announced:  "First world problems people! First world problems! Some people don't have a home to go to, let alone a train to get there on. These are first world problems."

That didn't even make sense. As she wasn't getting on any train, but just hanging around the platforms passing moral judgement on people responding to chaos and the cosmic joke that is Flinders Street and Metro Trains at peak hour, I wondered where she was trying to go.

Another man tried to argue to logic of how the 5:40pm train had arrived before the 5:36pm train and it should be ours! I wanted to start singing songs from "Les Mis". I refrained. By that I mean I didn't. I don't mean that I sang a chorus.  Another shrug and he would have hijacked the train and taken us all west. We would have heard the people sing!

Once you're on a train in peak hour there's the added problem trying to navigate overcrowding of the aisles when there are lots of seats vacant. They're vacant because people don't move over and fill the seats furthest from the aisles first. They hog the outside seats hoping to have a bank of two or three to themselves.

I ask people nicely if I may have their seat. They look shocked. Then they move over. I always get a seat.

Then I hand them a tissue because they will inevitably be sniffing the entire liquid contents of their head back into their nasal passages. Repeatedly. What is with Melburnians and sniffing on public transport?

This was a diversion from the hairy, smelly man who was engaging himself in detailed conversation this morning on the way into the city. I didn't mind the conversation, but the smell was hard to take in closed quarters.

Then I heard that the baby elephant born at the Melbourne Zoo nearly a year ago died overnight. I never met Sanook but I had watched a documentary about the elephants at the zoo. I felt sad.

The rain fell, providing a sympathetic background of Shakespearean proportions and a mechanism to negate the efforts of my hairdresser.

Rain soaked...observations from a bleak spring day

Federal Parliament has started again. Promises of new approaches and maturity and dignity, made only yesterday, are already hollow echoes.

It's STILL raining in Melbourne. It's summer in 18 days and I'm still wearing winter clothes and putting the electric blanket on at night.

Is there an increased incidence of death by umbrella spike?

Whenever I have been to the hairdresser this year it has rained.  Anyone need rain? I know how to make it happen.

Driving in Sydney a couple of weeks ago, I saw a sign advising that "Rickety Street is closed". So it should be. Who opened it in the first place?

Seen on the side of a crane while driving in Sydney - Men are from Mars, but this crane is from Maher's.

I'm working on a new song. The working title is "Hot Desking Blues".

How to alienate someone (unintentionally I'm sure): have them work part time, make them hot desk, have no where for them sit when they arrive at work, have unreliable email and don't invite them to events attended by the whole office. See where I get my inspiration?

An ad on television has me puzzled. It was a Christmas sale for one of those cut price chemists. In preparation for Christmas, Nurofen is on sale. Who gives Nurofen as a Christmas gift? If you're going to give me drugs for Christmas, make it worthwhile please. Why not a tube of toothpaste while you're there? An example of the commercialisation of Christmas. More to come I fear.

The corners of my mouth turned up at Flinders Street today as I made my way to the advertised platform. Upon arrival, staff announced a platform change by using the term "musical platforms". Finally, recognition of the reality!

I think the rain is getting to me. It could be worse.

How are you?

Today's serving has 6 priorities, 5 pillars, no boats and no substance.

Finally, I've received a copy of the Liberal party's "six key priorities", one of which is a "5-Pillar economy".  Still nothing from Labor or the Greens in my letterbox.

I'm trying to be objective as I read it.  It looks good.  It looks expensive.  There are no claims about it being printed on recycled paper or being environmentally friendly. I've never voted Liberal in my life, so objectivity is tricky.

The claim to build a "more diverse" 5-Pillar economy by building on the stuff we already do seems thin.

The pledge to save me money - "Carbon Tax gone" - seems crazy.  Has everyone forgotten the steadily increasing electricity bills that were coming in long before the carbon tax was introduce?.  What's even more interesting is the absence of any mention of their Direct Action plan to combat climate change.  Clearly this is of no consequence to the Liberals.  (How are all the farmers going to run viable farms if climate change isn't addressed, I wonder?)  It's also worth remembering that we have a price on carbon as part of a carbon trading scheme.  This is different from a carbon tax.

Point 3 is about ending the waste and debt.  This is hilarious in light of the enormously over the top Paid Parental Leave scheme.  And the loss of income from the abolition of the carbon tax.

Point 4 is about better roads and services and is accompanied by a logo of a train track!  Tony Abbott is on record saying that he won't fund urban rail, instead preferring to fund more roads.   There is not a single mention of public transport in the entire document - another clue about their attitude to climate change.


"Stop the boats" waits until point 5 with the new tag line "stronger borders".  In the following pages of the leaflet there are statements of costs under Labor but no mention of the boat buy back scheme announced last month.  What was that about ending waste?

My preferred policy position on refugees and asylum seekers is "drain the moats".

Finally the sixth priority is they'll create two million new jobs. There is absolutely no information about how this will done.

Apart from the absence of climate change and public transport, the other glaring omission is industrial relations.  I do not trust that elements of the dreadful, punitive, mean and unfair Work Choices legislation will not be introduced by an Abbott government.

It's fair enough to like or not to like the leaders of the parties, but I think it's really important to remember that they are just one person in the context of a whole party that forms government. As we've seen in recent times, there's no guarantee that the leader you vote for is the leader you get for the duration.  My hope is that people take an interest, read information and dig deeper to think about the claims being made by anyone seeking election.

A friend of mine suggested to me that we should remove personality from politics and vote purely on policy.  I don't think that's realistic.  Politics is about people as much as it's about policy and personality does matter; but it's not the only thing.

Since yesterday's post, I've been directed to a couple of handy sites to assist with the arduous task of voting in the Senate.  Below the Line provides a breakdown of how the preferences flow when you vote above the line.  (Thanks Mousicles.)

If you're not happy, Cluey Voter helps you create your very own how to vote card based on your views of the squillion parties and candidates standing.  Even if you don't decide to vote below the line, the process of thinking about each party is worthwhile.  (Thanks to Lynne for that tip.)

And if you're curious to see the propaganda being distributed in your electorate visit the Election Leaflets site.  You can upload the stuff you've collected.  They also have a "this is not an election leaflet" leaflet.

Are you still paying attention to the election?  Are you undecided?  If you're overseas, is the Australian election even on your radar?

Life in the tropics

Yesterday it was 13 degrees in Melbourne.  It was 33 degrees in Darwin.  It is much the same story today, except three degrees cooler in Melbourne.  Yesterday I sat outside a cafe on the edge of the Smith Street Mall  and ate lunch.  Nearby a man dressed in a collared shirt talked too loudly on his mobile phone.  I wonder if he's a minder for a politician as the conversation moves to management of Twitter, Facebook and media dates.  The name "Warren" is mentioned, so it's either Warren Snowden, Member for Lingiari (ALP) or Warren Truss, leader of the National Party.  I shudder as I realise that I was him a few years ago.

Politics seems a long way away as I enjoy a day off, even though Darwin is synonymous with politics for me.  As I move around the city I recall the long days of campaigning in the 2007 election.  Streets are familiar and I know I must have door knocked particular houses.

I restrain my attraction to brightly coloured clothes in tropical prints and Balinese batik, reminding myself that I live in Melbourne.  

Yarnbomb! Darwin
© divacultura 2013

I noticed a tree in the Smith Street Mall has been yarn bombed, including a cheeky caterpillar and reflect that you'd have to do something with your knitting up here - too hot to wear it!

It's a beautiful time of year up here.  The air is dry and warm.  The skies endlessly blue.  The mornings and evenings are gorgeous.  This morning, I woke just before dawn with a breeze blowing through the wall of louvers in my bed room.  Palm trees planted close to the house combined with the sound of unfamiliar birds give the feeling of being somewhere in the jungle.  What a beautiful environment in which to surface to consciousness. 

I took my friend for dinner at Stokes Hill Wharf to take in my final night in Darwin.  The boats out in the harbour shone their lights and the water changed colour as the sun set.  We ate oysters so fresh they tasted of the sea, barramundi and prawns.  It was dark when we left and the place was still crowded with people.

Whenever I come to Darwin I find the place so appealing.  The lifestyle feels more laid back and the tropical weather lends an air of permanent holidays.  Thinking about winter back home in Melbourne, I feel the lure.  Then I hear about rents and remember the cost of living and the distance from everywhere and remember what the build up to the wet season is like.  I wonder whether I can find a way to work here during the dry season and be in Melbourne for the rest of the year?  That would be ideal.

Night sky from Stokes Hill Wharf, Darwin
© divacultura 2013

Fixing the hole

Suddenly there's a flurry of urgency to fix the hole in my ceiling, caused when a broken roof tile let the rain in and turned the ceiling into a soggy mess and the light into a fizzing danger zone.  This all happened in May.  After the initial stream of tradesmen and insurance assessors the interest in the hole in my ceiling returned to zero.

This didn't really bother me.  Although finding clothes in my wardrobe was like mining underground and applying makeup required a leap of faith, the prospect of living in a space where the ceiling is removed, replaced and painted kept me quiet.

Last week I had some missed calls from the insurer's builder.  It seemed like he thought I was the owner so I referred him to the real estate agent.  A couple of days later, I received an email from the agent asking if it was okay for her to give the key to the guy for a couple of hours on Wednesday morning so he could "do some insurance work".

I knew from the conversation I had with the insurance assessor on the day they made the assessment that the ceiling would need to be removed, a new one put in and the room painted, so I wasn't quite clear about what was going to happen on Wednesday morning.  I called her.  She didn't know anything and told me to speak to the guy.  I did.  He said they needed the room emptied and it would take at least three days to complete the job.

I called her back and repeated what I'd already told her about the works to be done.  Where was all my stuff to go?  Her suggestion was to put it in another room.  I live in a small two bedroom flat where all the rooms are used.  There's no space to just transplant a whole room of furniture and clothing!

Before I head interstate again (which would provide an ideal opportunity to do the works) I need to pack up my small personal items and find somewhere to put them.  This is easier said than done when I have a lot of work on and doing it at night time is challenging because it's dark!  My bedside lamp is designed to create a mood, not a work site.  A local charity will discover a donation of several handbags which I had forgotten I had, so I dusted them off and hope others will appreciate them.  The benefit is an enforced clean out, but the timing is awful.

Apart from these logistics, there's the issue of providing unsupervised access to my home for a bunch of work men whom I've never met.  A friend who has lived through plastering said to be prepared for the whole house to be covered in plaster dust!  None of it is good.  And it's made worse by the fact that the extent of the damage would have been minimised if the agent had done something when I first reported that I could hear dripping in the ceiling!

There's nothing I can do, but embrace the opportunity for a clean out.  Embracing with gritted teeth.

What raised my eyebrows today

Whenever anything happens in the British royal family, I expect there will be a wave of fervour that will cause most unexpected results.

I noticed a pattern on Ravelry offering instructions for me to knit my own Prince George, complete with Kate and Will. On further investigation I notice that I am behind as I missed the earlier offering enabling me to knit my own royal wedding!

One thing led to another and suddenly I'm on the Book Depository website discovering books with titles such as "Knit your own dog", Knit your own cat", "Knit and Purl pets", "Knit your own zombie", "Knit your own moustache".

There are lots of references to "knitting bibles".  I had always assumed that the term "bible" used in this context meant a comprehensive guide to knitting.  Now I'm not so sure.  Perhaps it contains instructions to knit my own bible.  This could either be an actual book or the characters in the bible.

How about this fanciful title:  "Knit in a day for baby".  This is clearly written by someone who doesn't actually have a baby.  I don't have one, but I know enough to know that if I had one, I wouldn't have time to do anything in a day, let alone knit something.  I think I would start the planning for the 21st birthday present early.

******

I walked past a promotional poster for a show at the Arts Centre and was surprised that a piece of advertising would have such a lukewarm tag line.  I read: "This show is mildly entertaining!" Wow. Can't wait to see that one.

The exclamation mark seemed remarkably out of place!

I looked again.

It actually said that the show is "wildly entertaining!"

The punctuation now made sense.

*****
Another season of "Big Brother" is broadcasting on television right now.  I feel the passage of time as I notice my lack of desire to have a look.

*****

An email from a friend who is currently in Edinburgh advised me that Melbourne's temperature today was actually 3 degrees warmer than the temperature over there.  So much for summer.  I gain a new understanding of why the Scottish woman at music camp that time had no idea what to do with a sarong.

I hope your week started well.

What raised your eyebrows today?

Today was so windy...

Wild weather hit Melbourne again today.  At about 3:00pm it was dark with a greenish tinge.  The wind was howling and the rain was pelting against the windows.  The wind is still blowing, a bit more of a whine than a howl now.

Wind can do strange things.

Today was so windy it blew the eyebrows off my forehead.

Today was so windy it blew the dots off my frock, the pinstripes off my suit.

Today was so windy it blew the pom pom off my poodle, the bubbles from my champagne, the froth from my cappuccino.

Today was so windy it blew the lines off my tennis court, the bars from the windows and the curls from my hair.

Today was so windy it blew the notes from my horn, the wool off my sheep and the tail off my pony.

The hair of my dog is gone; so is the nose from my clown.

Today was so windy it blew the trams off the track but put wind in my sails.

Today was so windy it blew the smile off my face.

I wonder where it landed? Who has it now?

Ten questions for today.

1) Is advertising on hand dryers in public toilets effective?

2) Who ever uses a full bottle of nail polish?

3) Why does it rain whenever I have my hair blow waved?

4) Why can't people follow the instructions for recycling?

5) What is unclear about a sign that says "No Junk Mail"?

6) Why do people insist that you "need some sugar" when you tell them you don't eat sugar?

7) Why do businesses refuse to deliver to post office boxes?

8) Where do those text messages telling you you've won "a million pounds" come from?

9) Why, in the digital age, does it still take 3 business days for a cheque to clear?

10) What do visitors to Melbourne think when they can't top up their myki and they discover there are no toilets available at the station?

Answers to these questions are welcome.
What questions are you asking today?

I told you I could hear dripping!

Back after a brief hiatus.  Various things piled up and toppled over and I was on the bottom of the pile. And here I am today with some actual (rather than metaphorical) piling and toppling.  It all started with the dripping.

A couple of nights ago I heard a sound in my ceiling when I was in bed.  I'm on the top floor so it wasn't neighbours walking around.  It sounded like water dripping.  I duly reported to the real estate agent that I could hear water dripping in the ceiling.  I heard it again last night.

This morning I happened to be at home when there was a very heavy downpour of rain.  I went into the bedroom to see if I could hear the dripping sound and was confronted by water trickling down the wall behind my bed!  Well, that confirmed it - I wasn't crazy,  I had been hearing dripping.

I immediately called the real estate agent.  Mine is pretty good most of the time.  She is still afflicted by the property manager's malaise - tenants are the bottom of the pile and nothing is really urgent until it's really urgent.  As I was on the phone to her, I heard sizzling and crackling and water started to run from the light fitting in the ceiling.  The property manager's first words were something like "well it's raining...no one is going to come out while it's raining."

This is the kind of statement that infuriates me in this kind of situation.  Firstly, I was very aware that it was raining.  Secondly, the longer it took to get someone to stop more water getting into the ceiling, the more serious the situation would be.  Thirdly, it's still urgent and the cumbersome processes when you have to deal with layers of different organisations take a long time to navigate.  You have to start right away.

I felt my mind leaping to the worst case scenario, so took a breath and thought about all the ways that this situation wasn't as bad as it might have been.  How fortunate that I was at home this morning!  How pleasing that I wasn't away somewhere leaving the problem unnoticed for days or maybe weeks.  The ceiling hadn't collapsed, so that was something.

I called the electricity supplier about the sizzling electricity and had a conversation that was frightening but later revealed to be hilarious.

At this stage I had a plastic bucket sitting on towels on my bed catching the water from the light fitting and towels on my bed head catching the water trickling down the walls.  The man at the electricity company said that I should not touch the bucket or the water in the bucket because it was likely to be electrified.  It seemed intense, but I wasn't going to argue and I didn't want to be electrocuted.  I asked him what I should do when the bucket needed to be emptied.  He said that was my decision.  I thought he had misunderstood the question so I clarified that I meant I wanted to know if it was safe just to tip the water out.  He said it was my decision.  I didn't understand the answer so asked him what he meant.  He then said he couldn't say anything because of the legal risk.  If I followed his advice and was still electrocuted then I might sue them.  Well probably not if I was dead, but I didn't point that out.  He then said I should vacate the property until further notice and stay away from the taps if I was going to stay.  Since I had to be there to meet plumbers and electricians I decided to stay well back from the killer taps.

Within half an hour two blokes from the electricity company arrived to see what they needed to do about supply to the property.  They looked and promptly flicked the mains switch in the switch board.  I asked them what I should do with the water in the bucket.  They looked at me as though I was a crazy cat lady and said, deadpan,  "Empty it." I laughed and explained the conversation with the guy at the electricity company.  They guffawed and shook their heads.  "Yeah, right.  So you've got a bucket of electricity...ooooh!"  They left muttering to themselves about idiots.

With that done I went into the village to buy lunch and a plastic drop sheet to cover my bed.  The $2 shop had a huge one for $2 so I bought two.  When I arrived home to cover my bed with it, a big yellow-brown patch had appeared on my fresh white sheets.  I'll bleach it later.  Buying the sheet was a good idea.

I then received a succession of phone calls from tradies called Steve and Mike and Josh.  The plumbers went on the roof and discovered two broken roof tiles.  I scouted around the property and found a couple of others lying around so they were able to stop more water filling the ceiling.  They talked nonchalantly about the prospect of ceiling collapse and replacement of the entire ceiling.  I started to think about the logistics.

Then the (very handsome) electrician arrived - all tall and broad shoulders and twinkly eyes and nice hands.  He was friendly and told stories of strange people he encounters on a regular basis.  I hope I'm not one of his stories he'll tell to the next customer.  We talked power points and my lack of them.  He told me about the power points he has installed in his place - it sounded like heaven, compared to my one power point per room.  I had power point envy!  I was sorry to see him leave and wished I had the courage to say out loud what was on my mind - it was all about inspecting my fuse box but I'll leave that thought there.

The dripping has finished and I'll be able to sleep in my bed tonight.  Hopefully the ceiling won't collapse on me.  And even if it does, I'm still pretty well off.  Even though I've just seen an enormous spider lazily walking along the water wall.

After everyone had left and the electricity was back on I boiled the kettle.  It was one of the best cups of tea I'd had for a while.

Interior decoration brought to you by the weather.
© divacultura 2013

Wild windy winds

Today was really windy.
Really, really windy.
So windy that it was an effort to walk down the street.
So windy I had to button my jacket so I wasn't trailing a spinnaker.
So windy my umbrella turned inside out at the very thought of rain.

As I was walking, I noticed a tiny little bird perched on a telephone line.
The wire was moving in the wind.
The tiny little bird was hanging on - its feet gripping the wire furiously.
The tiny little bird's body was being buffeted by the wind.
I bet its abs are switched on, I thought.
I wondered how the tiny little bird wasn't blown away.
I understood why it was gripping so tightly.

I had a vision of the tiny little bird letting go.
The tiny little bird would be swept up and away.
Perhaps it would work its wings.
Perhaps it would meet a terrible fate.
Slam.  Into a wall.
Slam.  Into a passing truck.
Slam. Into the ground.
Poor little tiny bird.

Today was really windy.
Really, really windy.
Upsettingly windy.
So windy I saw a tree split in two.
So windy the front yard filled with rubbish.
So windy I didn't wear lip gloss.

Today was really windy.
The trees have been well exercised.

Let's talk about the weather

It's 10:44am.  There has been a mild change overnight, but it has been short lived.  It is currently 27 degrees and we're heading for 36 degrees.  I'm looking forward to taking a long flight this afternoon and spending a couple of nights in an air conditioned hotel room.  It will be a relief.

This run of hot weather has broken records apparently.  We keep hearing about the record number of days in a row where the temperature has been 30 degrees or above.  If it's still this hot on Wednesday, it will have been 10 days in a row, breaking a 1961 record.  

The temperature of my destination is currently low 20's and it's looking like a welcome break from 30 degrees plus.

While this hot weather has been on, I'm still amazed to hear people arguing about the difference between weather and climate change.  This is not normal Melbourne weather.  Yes, we get some very hot temperatures during summer, but generally it's dry and there is a cool change every 2 - 3 days.  This hasn't happened.  There hasn't been rain but the air is humid and the changes haven't happened.

Stories about drownings on unpatrolled beaches and public swimming pools closing because of cryptosporidium parasites enjoying a day out and causing a gastro outbreak in Melbourne.  Apparently when it's hot, Melbourne goes swimming and it's not a very safe thing to do.  In some of the stories there are veiled references to these issues being heightened because of climate change.

So far, I've been worshipping at the airflow of my bladeless Dyson fan.  It's been surprisingly effective in bed at night.  Wearing a damp sarong to bed after a cold shower is also my other tip for staying cool in bed - or should that be "on" bed?

Yesterday afternoon, the sky clouded over and a soft breeze started to blow.  I'm sure the temperature only dropped a degree or two, but it was bliss.  It made me feel hopeful of a more comfortable night's sleep.  My hope was well placed!

What's the weather like at your place?  How do you keep cool?  Or warm?

Cue circus music, fluff your hair - it's time to commute in the rain!

There are some things in the world that are meant to be fluffy: kittens, toys, towels, dandelions, bunnies, Santa's beard.  You will notice that my hair is not on this list; especially when I've spent some money to have a sleek, smooth blowdry.

Yet here I sit, fluffy haired, exhausted from the epic nature of my journey from work to home - if "epic" can appropriately be applied to traversing a mere 10 kilometres.

All week, people have been complimenting me on my smooth locks.  Curls and ringlets had been framing my face for the last month.  The first appointment I made upon my return to the big smoke was with my hairdresser.  Urgent magic was required to cover my - ahem - grey.  I decided that straight hair would be a nice change.  With the weather in Melbourne being bone dry and all the rain falling in the north I thought my investment would last a week.

Today as I was sitting at my desk deeply engaged in a telephone conversation, I looked up.  I suddenly panicked, thinking I had been swallowed into some kind of fluorescently lit hell where time has no meaning and it was actually midnight.  It wasn't.  It was 5:10pm.  It just looked like midnight.  Ah, the gods were playing with us for their pleasure, causing a downpour and throwing in some wind right on going home time.

My journey home involves a short walk to the unsheltered tram stop through many lanes of cars; a ride on a tram; navigation of one of the busiest tram stops in Melbourne to walk across to Flinders Street Station; a train ride and then a seven minute walk home from the local train station.  It sounds like a lot when written like that, but usually it's fine.

Today it wasn't fine.  Today my hair went fluffy.

In my handbag I always have a compact umbrella.  My rationale is that I'll always be prepared in the event of unexpected rain.  Melbourne's reputation for changeable weather has been well earned, so this is a good thing to do.  Except for one thing - compact umbrellas are useless when it does actually rain.  This level of incompetence is elevated to pointlessness when the rain is accompanied by wind.

Now my hair is fluffy.

If that wasn't enough to deal with, I arrived at Flinders Street station with soaking trousers and feet.  Luckily, I also travel with a pair of thongs in my handbag so my beautiful, expensive shoes are not ruined in heavy rain.  According to the information provided on the screens in the station, I only had to wait about 8 minutes for a train home.  I entered the station at about 6:10pm but only boarded the 6:32pm train at 6:38pm.  I had been waiting on platform twelve for the train that never came.

Then we had the opportunity to participate in one of the practical jokes that Metro Trains likes to organise occasionally. I've been in this one before: the screens tell you to go to platform ten.  After a couple of minutes, an announcement tells you that the train will now be leaving from platform 12.  The commuters heave a sigh and scramble over to the other platform.  Upon arrival there, an announcement says that the next train leaving from that new platform is to a completely different destination from the one you were expecting.  All staff have disappeared from this platform.  The screen has gone blank and there are no announcements being made.  As you confer with other commuters, you hear the faint sound of an announcement being made back on platform ten informing any passengers who are left on platform ten that the train there is in fact the train that everyone who is now on platform twelve is expecting over there!

To make it even more fun, you organise this prank to occur during a downpour so everyone is wet, cold and cranky and the platforms are super slippery.  If you only make announcements at the last minute this adds excitement as people ignore the warnings not to run and run to catch a train.

As I finally walked home from the station I was grateful for my thongs but also struggling to keep them on my feet.  There was so much water I thought they might float away from under my feet.  This is what I experienced in Darwin during a tropical downpour.  At least the rain there was warm.  The rain in Melbourne is not warm, even in the middle of summer.

At least my house isn't flooded and I have a warm shower, clean dry clothes and a warm bed for the night.  But...my hair is fluffy.

Weather events - from one extreme to another.

As I write, news of the floods in Queensland and New South Wales fills my lounge room.  Poor Brisbane is going under again.  I lived there for twelve years and didn't see a flood.  Parents warned about checking the historical flood levels whenever a house move was contemplated.  Even in times of relentless rain and humidity, a flood seemed distant and unlikely.  My war was waged against mould.  Now it seems to be the time of year when Victoria suffers the threat and reality of bushfires while our northern neighbours are under water.

I try to steer clear of bad news.  I can not bear the saturation coverage.  My thoughts are with my friends and family who are affected, but I do not need to know every detail.  What's the new story anyway?  Every year, the stories are the same.  Journalists in high visibility vests interview people in evacuation shelters.  The questions are the same: "what did you lose?" "how did you get out?" "when was the last time you saw this much water?" And let's not forget the dreaded "how do you feel?"  Then the local business people community volunteers will be asked variations on the same questions and the additional ones: "how fast was the water moving?" "how many more times can you go through this?".

When this misery and despair has been paraded across the screens, they'll interview the politicians - everyone from the Prime Minister to the mayor and the President of the local Rotary Club.  They'll sprout the usual platitudes of sorrow and promise help which everyone knows will be gratefully received, despite its inadequacy.  Next will be meteorologists explaining the weather systems that have caused this "rain event" (when did rain become an "event"?).  Finally they'll tack on speculation about the links to climate change.  The editorial line will determine whether or not there is a link.  Days will pass and the stories will include news of disappointment and frustration with insurers.

I just heard the radio journalist ask a woman "How is the town now?"

The woman responded:  "Flooded," with the words "you idiot" implied.

The closest I have to come to experiencing a flood was when I was at university in Brisbane.  My family was living in western Queensland at the time (the late 1980's) and I travelled home for the Easter break.  I drove with a distant cousin who lived nearby.  It rained for the entire journey.  It was a race against the weather to see if we would get through.

It was dark and we were close to home.  The water was lapping across the road.  A vehicle was parked on the other side of the water with its headlights on.  My father appeared, wading across wearing his hat and oilskin coat.  He carried my luggage across and then carried me across.  It seemed thrilling and dangerous at the time.

I can't remember the details of the journey back to university but I know that it was delayed.  Queensland was under water.  Finally we heard that it was possible to get through and preparations were made that day to drive back immediately.

A couple of years later, we lived near Nyngan in NSW.  The town of Nyngan went completely under in the 1990 flood.  I wasn't there for that and my family home was far enough away to avoid being directly affected.  I was in  my third year of my journalism degree and looking for a story to write an extended piece about.  I wrote about the flood.  I gave away journalism - it seemed relentless and inane - but I was very proud of the piece I wrote.  I might even dig it out and publish it here.  It was actually shortlisted for the Independent Monthly's Young Writers Awards.  I wonder how my path would have been different if I had won.  Perhaps I'd be somewhere wearing a high visibility vest examining misfortune.

I've spent today culling.  I've just put a huge pile of clothes in one of the charity bins.  Perhaps some of the clothes will be useful for people who have lost theirs.

***My normal daily publication schedule has now recommenced.  Thanks for your patience while I've been on holidays.  Look forward to hearing from you.***

Public transport may be a war zone, but the traffic worse.

Standing at the tram stop in the rain and the wind at 5:05pm this evening, was not the most miserable place I could have been.  Even if I was waiting for about 10 minutes.  You see, during that time, traffic coming from five directions converged and nothing moved.  There was a free tourist shuttle bus that moved about a metre in those ten minutes.

I was finishing my second day of my new project and I am still gaining familiarity with the rhythms of a different part of town.  There are some magnificent eucalypts in the street and their leaves had dropped to the ground in the wind and rain.  As I stepped on them, I was blessed with the heavenly smell of eucalyptus.  For a moment, I believed that I was deep in the bush.  Then I looked up and saw the traffic snarl.  Despite the central location which is extremely well served by public transport, I was advised that there was parking space for me if I wished to drive.  Looking at the gridlock, I wondered why anyone would.

A woman in the tea room yesterday was talking about the fact that she had had to catch public transport to work that day.  I congratulated her.  She looked at me as though I was someone who had escaped from a secure facility and when I added that I am an advocate of public transport I swear I could see her fumbling for the speed dial on her phone.  She looked at me as though I was Satan.  She muttered something under her breath which sounded like, "You're doomed.  Get thee back Satan" but given the Christian values of the organisation was probably something like "it's okay when it works".  I agree.

(I also made new friends by revealing my membership of the myki customer experience panel.  This means I give feedback about the system each week.  I was able to educate a couple of people about the benefits of registering their myki so that any balance on the card is protected if the card is lost or stolen.  Anyway, when you're the new kid on the block, everyone's a potential new friend.  Then you realise who's in what faction and where the power lies a few weeks later and wish you hadn't been so eager.)

Anyway, there I am in the traffic, in the rain and the wind at the tramstop.  I did have an umbrella, so that kept my earlobes dry at least, but in the rain and the wind the rest of me was a lost cause.

As our eagerly anticipated tram turned the corner, it was like the hero appearing on the horizon at sunset to rescue the people.  I swear I heard music and everything.  Symphonic, with trumpets I think, but definitely symphonic.  And the tram arrived and it was packed.  Only the most desperate would clamber aboard and inhale the air, thick with the scent of wet dog and risk being turned into a wet shiskabab by some idiot with a golf umbrella the size of a circus tent.

I sighed.  I was no desperadao.  I lifted my head and squinted towards the horizon (I probably didn't squint.  It wasn't sunny.  If it was sunny I would have had my sunglasses on, thus removing any need to squint.  Plus, I'm opposed to squinting from a cosmetic point of view.  Although, maybe I squinted because I was shielding my eyeballs from the needle-like shards of rain.) Another had appeared. Tram that is, in case I distracted you. In the tradition of Melbourne trams, its only passenger seemed to be the driver and a couple of damp tumbleweeds and the guy up the back who smelt really bad, but not like a wet dog.  Compared to that smell, I would happily buy an atomiser of Eau de Wet Dog and spray it all over. That might be why the tram was empty.

We piled on.  I was made into a wet shiskabab by an idiot with a backpack and a golf umbrella the size of a parachute.  There was so much water I managed to wash my hands and refresh my face. If I had my toothbrush in my handbag I probably would have whipped it out.

I stepped off the tram at Flinders Street station a few minutes later and expected to be home within 20 minutes.  I failed to consider that trains apparently don't like working in the rain. Police operations in some outlying suburb on the other side of town compound the problem.  I found a seat on the platform out of the wind and the rain and tried to concentrate on my book while listening to announcements about delayed trains which seemed to suggest that the Mayans may have been right about the end of the world.

I hope not.  I really want to finish the book I'm reading.