Getting to Work Now

Aside from the Thump Factor, our primary reason for moving to St Leonards was to improve my commute to work. Our new apartment is located directly on the train line, a mere three minute walk (including the elevator ride to the lobby) from the station. Granted, the trains are far noisier than a pair of toddlers and their pissy parents, and their rumblings start much earlier in the morning - the first in-bound train arrives at a startling 4:47 am. Perhaps the trains are less annoying because I tend to think of them as my personal chariots of convenience. In fact, they do serve as a sort of snooze alarm, coaxing me slowly out of my morning slumber as their frequency increases toward peak hour. Unfortunately, this alarm still functions on weekends, except when there is track work and the trains aren’t running at all. Surprisingly, on such occasions my sleep is perturbed by their very absence, my subconscious breathlessly anticipating the sound of a horn that never blasts.

Aside from the reduction of my overall one-way travel time from one hour forty plus to 45 minutes, my commute has benefited from the flexibility of the train schedule. I need not worry about catching any particular bus or train, because I know there will be another along in 3-6 minutes. And, if for some reason the trains are delayed or malfunctioning, I still have the option to board any number of city bound busses along the Pacific Highway.

When the weather is agreeable and I am feeling energetic, I have the option to take the train all the way to the university. However, this route involves a twenty minute walk and invariably costs me three extra dollars. The Redfern Station is situated in a neighbourhood that should by all rights granted under manifest destiny be a gentrified boulevard of shops, cafes, and funky terrace homes. However, some short sighted planning commission somehow relegated the blocks surrounding the vital depot to a community of aboriginal peoples who cannot now be moved by any act of congress or commerce, and to whom I am inevitably obliged to cast a few gold coins as I exit the station in exchange for their half hearted attempt to rattle some incoherent lyrical musings across a set of ragged guitar strings until they believe that I am out of earshot. I have been sternly advised to avoid the area altogether after nightfall and for the few days immediately preceding and immediately following disbursement of the government dole checks, when drug and alcohol infused tensions plummet and crescendo in anticipation thereof. (Editor’s note: It is a rare triumph that I am able to use the word “crescendo” in its proper grammatical context, and I feel compelled to boast.)

While the weather is frequently agreeable, I seldom feel energetic in the morning, thus I typically opt to transfer from train to bus at the Town Hall Station in the centre of the Central Business District. This routing not only affords the least possible physical exertion, but also allows me a moment’s repose to reflect upon the magnificent old sandstone building for which the station is named and also to observe the ridiculous posturing and screaming of the many cockatoos who each morning perch atop the multitude of flagpoles aloft there in, as well as upon the glorious sandstone crosses of the adjoining St Andrews cathedral. Alas, one of the added benefits of our new apartment is the agreeable absence of cockatoos, thus I am now able to once more rejoice in their cacophonous existence…from a comfortable distance.

Another advantage of transferring to the bus is that each morning I am still able to catch a glimpse of the cignet swans adorning the pond in Victoria Park. They have abruptly matured into gawky adolescents, their long necks bearing thickened beaks awkwardly above ragged bodies caught in the throes of moulting, yet still they peep innocent falsetto chirps. I worry about their future. Will they be able to cohabitate in the fertile feeding grounds of the city pond with their parents, or will they be chased away on the occasion of their passage into full fledged adulthood?

But then, I wonder the same thing about the skinny university students with troubled skin who ride the bus with their ear buds wedged deep into their skulls and speak in muffled grunts only when necessary.