It’s a sleepy early morning in Melbourne as I stumble out of bed and try to summon the energy to face the day. Summer has stuttered a few times this year but seems to be stubbornly resisting the call to clear its throat and roar. But cool mornings are no bad thing when you struggle to wake up as I do.
Morning radio here comes in two formats. All the commercial channels go down the same route with three presenters, two male and one female. One of the male presenters has to be as camp as a scout’s jamboree while the lady has to be blokish and go along with all the mindless gags the guys play. Alternatively, you can listen to the state radio which has a serious news hour in the morning. Unfortunately, Australia is an insular country and news here consists of drought, severe weather and corrupt local politicians that I’ve never heard of.
So I tend to bypass this medium and head straight for the TV. As I munch my cornflakes and try to crank my brain into second gear, I tend to channel surf. BBC world news is the opposite of insular. It tells me about cholera in Zimbabwe and election fraud in Venezuela. However, I find that at this hour of the morning, I’m not a good global citizen so I drift over to the Sports channels to catch up on European football and the masochistic pleasure of being an Arsenal supporter.
That wasn’t much fun this morning, so I flicked on the weather channel and hoped the boundless enthusiasm of the presenters would stir me out of my stupor. Australia is a big country but its weather doesn’t change that regularly. Nevertheless, these cheerful meteorologists will tell you the current temperature in Wagga Wagga every 15 minutes as though it were the most breath taking event since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Meanwhile a rolling bar at the bottom of the screen brings dramatic breaking news, such as hailstones falling in Darwin. It’s the perfect breakfast TV for when your body is munching cornflakes in the living room while your brain is still happily tucked up in bed.
At 8.15am I gather all the possessions a modern man needs and load them into my “man bag”. Woman discovered the advantages of an over the shoulder number centuries ago. But it took the invention of the laptop computer before men saw the light. Now we have our own range of trendy satchels in which to carry the necessities of daily life. God be with the days when I’d head for work with just a wallet and a set of keys. Now I pack Blackberry, mobile phone, Ipod, book, keys, wallet and a raincoat for when the drought finally finishes. I also have my company ID card and all the post I pick up as I leave my apartment.
The tram stop is 50 meters away on Acland Street. It’s the first stop so there is usually a tram waiting there and it teases me as I approach. Will it wait until I get there or will he spy me in his mirrors and slam the doors shut just as I’m about to board? This latter procedure happens with suspicious regularity.
This morning he waits however and I drag my weary body on board and search out the best seat. There is a pecking order on trams. Don’t sit in the seats nearest the doors because old or pregnant ladies will get on and test your social responsibilities. Don’t sit near the bendy bit because somebody will get on and force you to move in, thus wedging your knees into a space built for midgets. And most importantly don’t sit facing backwards. I’m not sure why but this seems the most important factor for passengers. Maybe it’s an inner ear thing.
I nabbed a good seat near the front and settled in for the ride. Tram drivers are an eclectic lot. Most of them sit sullenly in their cabin, aloof from the commuting chaos going on behind their shoulders. They take no part in the ticketing function and hate to see themselves as tour guides. I’ve seen many tourists laden down with backpacks asking questions of the driver in their best broken English, only to be met with stoic indifference. This morning’s driver was different though. He announced each stop in a thick accent that suggested he had learned English from a talking clock. I watched him through the glass as he leaned ceremoniously towards the microphone at each stop. Speaking seemed to give him no pleasure at all, yet he soldiered on, adding some local information as he went. “Next stop Crown Casino and Melbourne Exhibition Centre……and the Polly Woodside restored sailing ship and maritime museum”.
No other tram driver on my route to work does this and it seemed that we were party to a practical joke that the guys at the depot play on all new drivers. No doubt he will soon be as sullen as the rest of them and spend his day scaring cyclists and closing the doors just before passengers get on.
We crossed over the Yarra River and the crush on the tram lightened. The girl beside me nudged me to let her out. No words were spoken, because public transport is a strangely silent place. Even couples traveling together will whisper conspiratorially and talk behind their hands. The only exceptions are those inconsiderate noise polluters who insist on shouting into mobile phones while sleepy heads like me are trying to steal an extra 20 minutes shut-eye.
I moved to let her out and noticed that a thin layer of drool had fallen from my mouth and had made landfall on the collar of my shirt. As I wiped it away, I noticed the two girls opposite were doing their best to pretend they hadn’t noticed. As I closed my gaping mouth I thought that I must start going to bed early. Sleep is a delicious pleasure but it really should be done in bed.
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