of an evening

I had a lovely evening tonight.  It was a Monday, so the evening was bound to be better than the day.  Or at least presumably a bit less manic.

After work, I caught a 461 to my friends Melissa and Dave's place.  There we had a delicious spaghetti dinner and I was finally able to watch my borrowed DVD of Death at a Funeral.  (You can all breath a sigh of relief and stop feeling guilty for not inviting me over to watch it now.)  It was every bit as hilarious as promised (I told you American and Australian senses of humor aren't that far off), and we all had a delightful evening.

When it was time for me to go, Melissa helpfully looked up bus schedules back to the city.  We discovered there wasn't much time, so I had a quick dash for it to catch the next bus.  When I got to the stop, though, I read the little attached sign and discovered that it most decidedly did not correlate to the times advertised on 131500, which is generally the gospel of public transportation.  It said I had about 16 minutes to wait, instead of 4.  Not that big a deal, really, but considering a few particular circumstances, it struck me as very long.

First, it was night.  Not too chilly, but not too warm.  I was okay, but wouldn't want to push things too far.

Second, there was no bench.  I'm a sitter.  Some people will tell you they can't bear sitting all day and are thus glad to stand up.  I've never got that.  I could sit for 14 hours on a plane and still want to sit as soon as I arrived.  At bus stops, I figure the bus actually turning up is the only thing more important than there being benches.  Lack of shelter I can handle.  Rain doesn't bother me.  But, please, could I sit down?

Third, I quickly discovered there were two dogs snoozing in the car dealership behind me.  They appeared trained to growl at men who passed, but were docile enough towards me.  They were fenced in so they were unlikely to have disturbed me in any way, but I felt a little odd standing about in a place where dogs were employed to keep men at bay.

Fourth, men unaware of the dogs drove past and yelled out something about the bus.  I couldn't tell what they said, but it worried me slightly.  I wrote it off as misplaced catcalls and decided to ignore them.

Fifth, I really had to go to the bathroom.

In light of these circumstances, I figured what I really needed was a distraction.  It was 5 am in America, so calling friends there was out of the question, which left friends in Australia.  I called Janice, my head teacher, and she very kindly chatted with me until the bus came.

Buses at night carry interesting crowds.  The Monday nighters were a subdued bunch, bleary-eyed and generally giving the appearance that they were looking somewhat less dapper than usual.  I certainly was.  It was the end of a long-ish day and I, as girls are wont to do, was fading fast.  I just wanted to be home.

I had, though, miles to go ere I could sleep.  It didn't take the 461 long to get me back to the city, but it stops at Town Hall, which is decidedly not Wynyard, which is where I needed to go.  I popped down to the train station and checked the train times.  Nine minutes before either of the next two Wynyard-bound trains came.

Town Hall and Wynyard are not that far apart.  I could walk the distance in under minutes, and a bus could demolish it in about 2.  Buses weren't guaranteed to come, though, and walking was out of the question.  I decided to seize the day and find the QVB's much-recommended restrooms instead, which are even nicer than the Menzie's at Wynyard (the usual fall-back plan).

Mission accomplished, a train was due in two minutes (the ideal waiting time, if you recall) and I promptly caught it.  I even managed to snag a used mX to amuse myself on the journey.

I arrived at Carrington Street and found a 247 just pulling up, which worked perfectly.  The ride was so fast I hadn't even finished my mX and had to skim Who Was Looking At Me in the Coles entrance before pitching it.

The walk home was uneventful, but got me there entirely later than I'd hoped.  Funny how long things take.  And how very fast Mondays turn into Tuesdays.