What did people expect?

This shits me, trust me.

But what did the Australia expect?

There’s a phrase that I’ve known for a long time and some of us have suffered – those of us who’ve lived in a small-minded country town – Small mindedness breeds ‘isms’.

In this case, racism.

Country folk just don’t get exposed to the outside world unless they leave their cosy little worlds and travel to the big cities like Sydney or Melbourne. They just don’t get it.  Hell, my inlaws came from a city and moved to a small country town (though, the word town is rather exaggerated!) and they carry on about the local “Indian” doctor as “He’s quite good, even though he’s Indian!”

Let’s face it – the country is a little world of its own, but as James Bond said, “This World is Not Enough”. Cliche and tacky, probably, true – yes. Di and I grew up with this small town mentality, and it was probably one of the greatest reasons we decided to leave. Since then, I think we’ve both become better people for it, more open minded and relaxed about other cultures. Often, I am accused (not sure of Di) of being too ‘city-minded’, not having any community spirit. But what’s the alternative?

At least I accept people as they come. But then, I was always like that. Who taught me that? My mother and my friends.

Every woman’s worst nightmare

Going to the doctor about such things is hard enough, and this makes it worse.

No wonder most of us seek female doctors, who have more sense than to make jokes about it. Although, my doctor makes jokes about it, but more like, “Ehh, don’t you wish you could avoid such things?!”

Not this.

The five people you meet in…

…the train.

I swear, the scooter cannot come home with me a moment too soon. I have been riding a scooter for the past three years. I have ridden the train probably no more than 10 times during that time.

During the last month (it feels like longer!) I have witness the following:

Juveniles

This breed is odd. They are either aloof, or you can’t shut them up and they hold the entire carriage to ransom. The noisy ones scream at the top of their lungs, create a scene and when they alight from the train, the entire carriage breathes a discernable sigh of relief.

The other day I walked to the platform in the city to wait for my train when I witness four girls. Two were quite chubby and the other two seemed reasonably small and sedate. When I witnessed the two chubby girls initially, they were hugging, as friends can sometimes do. When I looked up again from my book (still waiting for the train) they were kissing. and this wasn’t normal, romantic kissing. This was exhibition, sucking face like there was no tomorrow. It was quite disgusting. You see, normally I would find lesbians to be perfectly acceptable, and I find it sweet and romantic to witness their intimacy. This was not intimate or nice to watch. It was revolting. It looked unnatural and in hindsight, it looked like to try-hard, socialising unacceptable teenage girls trying very hard to find the intimacy they craved from the world, in each other. Do you know what I am talking about? It looked desperate and sad. Halfway through the journey, they were separated – of course, with a huge fanfare.

Bike Riders

I particularly hate this breed. The type who get onto peak hour, jammed packed trains and sprawl their bike everywhere, blocking exits, seats and prime standing room. This shits me and to me, defeats the purpose of having a bike if they are riding the trains! Does anyone else find this particularly irritating?

Inconsiderate Prats

The ones who are only out for themselves, who lean against the poles in the train so they can read their precious books, whilst others around them stumble and almost fall because they arent able to hold onto the poles. This shits me. You can fit at least three people to a pole, whereas one person will lean against it and deny the rest a chance to be comfortable. I love many elements of the city, but I dont love the anonymity and rudeness it affords people. The ones who barge their way out of the train without first letting you go through. The ones who push past you at the ticket validating machine so they can get the curb 5 seconds before you. And the ones who bash past you with their bags to walk through the train. I saw one of those this week. Admittedly, the guy deserved it, but the woman had this superior look about her which screamed “Prahran/Toorak” about her. Those from Melbourne and surrounds will know what I mean.

Gropers

Friday afternoon, I was happily reading my book (whose author I forget) when this young couple in their late teens or early 20s came on board and stood beside me. They were fine at first, kissing and cuddling at first until halfway through the ride, they got a bit hot and heavy. First, it was her groping her crotch, then it was him kissing her cleavage – and believe me, she was wearing a top which left NOTHING to the imagination! Any lower cut and she would have been falling out of her shirt! Upon leaving the train, I left them in their most revealing position – she was sitting on him, rubbing herself on him. It was soft pron at its best.

Offensive body odours and manners

Those who sniff, snot and drip their way through the train ride without so much as a sleeve to wipe their mucous encrusted noses! Those who cough, splutter and hurk their phlegm without any consideration to the rest of us who can’t block out their grotesque habits, no matter how loud they pump their ipods! The ones who smell like an athlete’s crotch and gym socks, all at once before it hits 9am. And the ones who yawn without consideration to the rest of the population who must inhale their disgusting morning breath!

Idle Songs…

Hello, my name is Samantha and I’m a self-confessed Australian Idol fool.

No seriously, I’m an idiot. I know that. I accept it though. I have made my peace with it. I know that every Sunday night, I have no social life, I make sure that dinner is over and done with by the time it starts. I know that Monday morning, before any work begins, the Idol banter begins, “Who did you like?”, “Who are your top 3?” and “Who do you think will go?”. The conversation goes like this for 10 minutes before I think about switching my machine on and actually doing some work. Yeh, that’s what I am paid for!

Tonight was the first elimination. It was to be expected, but you know, I’m losing interest. It’s too formulamatic. Too predictable. Too boring. And yet, I still watch it. Foolishly, you might say!

So, who’s going to venture a guess as to who will win this year? The baldy-rock dude? The pretty centrefold boy? The opera-come-contemporary female singer? The Irish dude with the twinkle in his eye? The country chick? The little girl who is more reminiscent of a deer caught in the light of a car than a singer? The dude who reminds you of Maurice Gibb?

I promise, this will be the last time I shall discuss Idol. I am finding myself boring. I dare not re-read this entry for fear of becoming embarassed by my unashamed devotion to the idol-order.

Woe is me.