Travel on public transport has been a bit wearing of late. It’s not as though I have a choice in the matter, but not to exaggerate the issue, every time I get on a tram or a train something utterly rancid and foul happens. And it’s getting worse.
If it’s not bogan chicks blowing smoke on their gremlin offspring it’s the sparsely-clad, screeching Gen Y’s toting Bacardi Breezers in their implausible handbags, oceans of discarded fast food wrappers, wild-eyed chromers up the back, drunks having a leak between the carriages or the increasing number of violent arrests of surly Oliver Reedish gents by Connex ‘officers’ with a degree in non-verbal conflict resolution.
One of these arrests occurred across my lap, but that’s a story for a different post.
So it gladdens my heart to know that occasionally, some things happen on trains that aren’t totally feral. On the weekend I was involved in the following exchange at Flinders St with a chap in a Crows guernsey and two long-suffering parents in tow:
Chap: Parents for sale! Parents for sale! Going cheap! Offer ends soon!!
Chap: Will anyone buy these parents? Going cheap!
Me: How cheap?
Chap: How much have you got?
Me: I’ll give you five bucks the pair
Long-suffering Dad (eager to join in the japery): What about twenty-five bucks? I have it here!
And then we all cacked ourselves, thinking us mighty witty.