Thursday, 22 June 1995 9:06am
It is so cold here today. It’s 2 degrees. Two. OK, so it’s not the loneliest number or anything but it’s close enough. It’s one of those perfectly still and clear cobalt blue mornings where your breath hangs in the air for ages. I rode one of those old W Class trams up Collins Street this morning. You know, the ones with no heating and the doors that slide shut extra slowly to provide that authentic Industrial Revolution frostbite tram ride. I was sitting on that bench near the door that usually seats two, but will seat three at a pinch. Anyway, I was sitting on it next to some “suit”, and we were in the same mind in that we weren’t gonna make way for someone else to squish us up, and then this old woman gets on. I’ve never seen so much wool on one person in all my life. A woollen vest, a woollen cardigan, with a woollen jacket over the top, and woollen gloves to complete the ensemble. Her eyes were really red-rimmed, and intensely vacant. Her skin had that papery quality that the truly ancient are blessed with, and she made a beeline for my bench. Now, I wasn’t going to get up, so I moved over and made room, and the suit did likewise. So I’m sitting there, wedged between the glass partition and this veteran of the American Civil War, and I suddenly thought “What if she dies of cold while I’m sitting next to her?” It sounds stupid now, but it was a worrying thought at the time I can tell you. You don’t see someone that old out on the streets that often. She was pretty nimble though, no trouble getting up the running board of the tram. It was probably a disguise, it was probably Dustin Hoffman in drag doing research for his next film “Tootsie – the Twilight Years.”
I saw on the news last night that some French are protesting their government’s decision on this whole Nuclear testing thing. Good, the French really know how to protest. I remember the student riots, and the destruction of all those English fish a few years ago by French fisherman. Let’s just hope the Anti-Nuclear protesters aren’t going to try to take that redundant old “peaceful protest” line. I wanna see some Molotov Cocktails being hurled about, French politicians on fire, screaming as their body fat boils up through their skin. This has roused some real passions over here, (people have stopped buying Evian water). Send over your best soccer hooligans Sis, bring on the Bovver Boys!!
Friday, 23 June 1995 9:08am
Geez it’s depressing knowing that next week’s spending money is already gone, on dental bills. What am I gonna do? I’m so sick of poverty (well relative poverty anyway). Enough of the money whinges J. Fare-dodged on the tram this morning, tee-hee. God, I really don’t have anything worth writing do I?
Anyway, I’d better go, I’ll be in here over the weekend, the piles of work wait faithfully for me, at least something does.