So, yesterday I popped into town in order to fetch some fimo and a few other choice bits and pieces which can’t easily and immediately be obtained through use of either an internet connection or the bribing of a conveniently loving husband. After a wonderful, if exhausting few hours of looking around at shops, picking up books, jewelry findings, and other bits and pieces, it was time to go home. I decided I’d take the train.
Long story short: bad idea. The power lines over the Ferny Grove track (which is the one I require to get home) had fallen, or something of the like, making that particular route home unusable. It was just cresting three, and every bus in the city was swept up in the usual daily rush to get children home from school. Thus one, and then two train loads of people wanting to get home were lined up across from the Brunswick Street Station, waiting and waiting for fill-in buses that were taking quite a while to come.
I found it amusing, though many others, of course, did not. I love watching people (no, not in a creepy way!), so a day like this, although slightly annoying, yes, is also good in its own way. I guess I just find it fascinating to see how so many different people react to such a thing happening.
There was the annoyed person, of course, who seemed to believe that the customer service rep standing there in the middle of the street in his bright orange safety vest must have been at the top of the Queensland Transport hierarchy – because lord knows he must certainly have the power to order people to ‘fix things’ and ‘get buses now’.
There was the talkative old gentleman who was quite willing to fill me in on his day – where he came from and where he had to get back to, as well as to ponder on the unfortunate nature of the situation on those who did have appointments to meet. He started talking to me because I rebandaged someone’s wrist, when they were unable to do so themselves.
Then of course was the schoolgirl who had no qualms about having a long and intimate conversation with her boyfriend, or once-boyfriend about his perchance for cheating, seemingly oblivious to the number of ears quite happily listening in to the mini-melodrama laid before them.
All of this – a buzz of a crowd of over a hundred tired commuters murmuring against a backdrop of over-loud music from the strip club just behind us, while someone saw fit to film a portion for the evening news – it is just not something that happens every day now, is it?
Is it wrong that I was close to laughter for most of the time I was waiting? That I found it so incredibly amusing, that on the one day in quite some time that I venture out far enough from home as to require public transport it decides to break down on me?
People-watching is a very enjoyable pasttime, I must say. Especially under conditions such as these. That’s not to say that I want to see people inconvenienced for my sake, so that I may observe them – but I can’t say that I entirely regret not taking the bus home in the first place to avoid the redirection of passangers from the train.
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