472 Williamstown-Moonee Ponds

Friday, 8 May 2009

The occupants of the bus on Leeds Street travel their route veinless under ugly blue lights. The light is foisted upon everyone to stop the junkies shooting up at the back of the bus but turns the whole space evil. Blue is beautiful in the sky but not in this frequency on a bus. It goes past me on the opposite side of the road, toward Footscray Station.

My bus appears several minutes later. It has white lights at least. I am anxious about arriving at my destination on time, a route I have never taken before. I ask the driver to tell me when I get to the showgrounds. Just in case I happen to miss it. It is giant and gargantuan a space, but I am a little anxious today. Premenstrual. Concerned for my ageing dog who had a rough couple of days. I write to quell my edge.

The seats are prefabricated plastic with a hard coating of fabric. It doesn't matter what material is used on public transport seats; it never pleases me. These seats are a jungle print of grey/brown with lighter grey squiggles. They are jollily drab.

At least the bus doesn't smell like rank milk the way the train seems to every time I travel it lately. The fabric on the train seats is a dark blue background with geometric triangles and circles and squiggles in jaunty reds, oranges and yellows. They look jauntily vomitous.

My bus is the 472. It is licensed to carry 76 passengers. The difference between 72 and 76 is 4, which is the extra number of the bus line. This pleases me enough to write it down. Which makes me either autistic or bored. I don't know how boring or interesting this particular trip is because I have been writing in my notebook ever since I got on, writing right up in the front seat about transportal lighting and fabric choices.

I need to pee.

I look up. We are on Farnsworth Avenue. My erstwhile university is to my right and on both sides of the road are playing fields lit up with fit puffing people.

Further up the road, some plonker has tagged the eggshell yellow paling fence of a townhouse. Taggers are right down there with


"Here are the showgrounds," the driver says.

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