The Library

Against the window in the green chair with sunlight spilling over hair and glinting with every movement. Red toenails peeping out from feet tucked up under and chin propped up on a wrist with furrows over the brow. Anatomy text on the ground physics text in lap and a highlighter gripped in the free hand.

Thick glasses perched on the end of sagging nose and Oxford shirt ironed impeccably. A Tom Clancy novel held up as though a piece of music being read and conducted. A mole on the fourth finger of the hand and a battered wedding ring.

Upright in an orange chair, sensible shoes flat on the floor. Shimmering nude stockings in the light stealing through the plate windows. Carefully coiffed hair in neat waves with slides holding it all away from a faded face.  Lurid romance pages being turned languidly without expression changing at all. Just thin crepe hand lifting occasionally while eyes travel slowly.

Laptop. Large glasses. Pile of books. Even bigger headphones. Head dipping regularly in time with unheard beat. Fingers occasionally tapping rhythm soundlessly while the keyboard keys click softly. Concentration. Black hair in need of a trim. Unmatched socks.

Harrassed and hair unbrushed. Pulled back into an askew clip. Absent mindedly rocking the giant pram back and forth; back and forth. Magazine open on the bench beside and flicking through the pages without reading just looking at the pictures. Toddler on the floor at feet with a board book flicking through the pages looking at the pictures.

Heavy metal trolleys groaning with books wending across the carpet and squeaking. Books lifted and returned, one after another until all gone and then the trolleys abandoned at the end of rows. Some trolleys left full and no books unpacked, a cornucopia of other people's choices. Little flashes at someone else's psyche.

Tables littered with haphazard piles of books abandoned by their collectors. History books. Travel books. Western comics. Chick lit with pastel covers and wry, simpering by lines.

Sirens outside the plate glass. Everyone turns to look then as one moving beast turns back and starts reading again. Inhaling the sweet musty smell and losing themselves in new worlds. The cacophony of the many silent readers noisy and comforting.

JIMP

I am often asked when I'm at work or at here just how I did it. How did I manage to get through all those years of study? How did I do it with kids? And apart from stubborness, that 3.6L V8 above had a lot to do with it. I first saw it while sitting next to my boyfriend at college and it was love at first sight. In fact the infatuation with the smooth lines of the Modena and its feline purr lasted long after my infatuation with him.

I love the engineering involved in the car, the perfect symmetry and the fact that it is truly an objet d'art that can also take you places. It's an object that can make memories. Not only can you go to my favourite places in the world but the trip becomes a spine tingling journey of feedback through fingers and feet with a steady throb humming through you.

Now medicine is not the cash cow that it is widely regarded to be. I earn less than the average hairdresser at the moment, and I have a long way to go before I can confidently think about buying a Toyota let alone a classic piece of Italian engineering - and I'm hoping that in 20 years when it could be a potentiality that they've miraculously come down a lot in price (but not increased due to being "antiques"). But one day I want to hear that whine that comes from one of the best engines ever developed as I accelerate along a winding mountain road.

The Brume

This morning as I opened the garage door to start my ride to work I was confronted with a wall of white. Thick, swirling mist to my front door, hiding the nearby buildings and holding the world in eerie silence. Treetops in the distance were but a watercolour blush against the sky and the sun a wan circle between them.

As I cycled I inhaled deep breaths full of the soft coolness, felt it caress deep into my chest. The other dawn wakers amongst me were shrouded heavily, enveloped with each step a gentle kiss against naked skin.

As I neared the bridge and glanced along its length, it disappeared - a straight path heading into the clouds. Below me as I rode, the river's sparkling surface could not be seen for the spectral glacier of fog riding majestically towards the open sea. There was a stateliness as it travelled austerely below me, grey white in the early light.

I love mornings, when I can drag my protesting body out from under the heavy warm blankets, to lift my head from my pillow and see the glinting light of dawn on the horizon. I love how getting up early and getting ready starts me off for the day, the coolness of early morning breeze and the damp smell of dew. How lovely it is to have my little girls sitting up in the pale light at the table eating their breakfast looking excited because there are so many adventures to be had today. Kissing them and my freshly showered husband goodbye and then heading out into the day to take something from it.

But on mornings like today where ghostly shadows envelop the graveyard and spectral forms glide past as I ride, I'm enraptured.

Unexpected Intimacy

I needed to catch a specific train. Although the trains run every 5 minutes after said specific train I needed that particular one. If I caught the later one, then I would miss a certain connecting train, and would take an extra 20 minutes to get to my destination. I needed that train.

Now because of the close connecting time, a lot of other people needed that specific train as well. The platform, at some chilly, dew soaked morning hour is always crowded for this train. When it slowly pulls to a stop and the doors slide open heavily, there is a crush, as bodies, all needing to be on *this* train, pile in.

There are almost never seats left by the time that it reaches my station, and worse still, quite often all of the handholds are taken as well. So, as with that morning, I had to stand on a moving train with nothing to hold onto. Surfing the rails, keeping my balance around corners all while not holding a thing. It's fun and I always get lost a bit in my imagination when I'm doing so, imagining actually being somewhere out in the open with no other people around me, openness touching my face. But I must have been imagining just that bit too hard because when we stopped suddenly I wasn't braced properly and I tipped forwards the 10 cm or so into a stranger's arms.

Now this is embarrassing enough, because even squished in like sardines, there is a set etiquette, and even if you're so close that you practically need to be having *the* talk, you're not supposed to actually touch anyone, even if the margin is a hair's breadth. Blushing pink I tried to move back, but as we had stopped, more commuters were pushing in, and I was pushed into this strange man on the train, my chest against his, his hand by my right hip. And I could sense his embarrassment as well, because his hand as we were squished together kept brushing my thigh (unavoidable) but if he moved it then he would only get himself into an even more embarrassing spot, and the lady to my left did not look like the type to be able to laugh about miscommunications on the train.

There were so many bodies on the train now that there was someone squished into my left side, me not daring to move my left hand because of its unfortunate proximity to that particular person's groin. Behind me I had the large shelflike buttocks of a woman carrying a never used for its purpose Fitness First backpack cushioning my back. Then the train began to move again, building momentum until it gradually reached that swaying rhythm. And having nothing to hold onto and being merely a drop in an ocean of people, I swayed with it, the commuter to the front of me pressed against my chest and swaying too.

And it should have been odd, or terribly embarrassing, but it was actually, as I headed towards my exam with a single flower in my hair, strangely comforting. To have my face so close to his throat that I could smell that clean warm smell of human skin. To be able to feel warmth through my chest spread into the chilly parts of me that were so worried about my exam. It was easy to pretend that this enforced intimacy was actually genuine, that the warmth spilling through was specifically for me, to heal the parts of me that were so afraid.

I had no idea what this commuter looked like, still have no idea, but on that chilly morning, I had to hold myself back from melting into him, a warm gooey puddle on the floor. Commuters spend so much time trying to isolate themselves from everyone else, living in their own little bubble, I wonder what would happen if we all made eye contact. I do it sometimes, deliberately catch someone's eye and smile, watch the consternation and embarrassment flit across their faces. And I'm not trying to make them uncomfortable, maybe just searching for the one that will smile back. Or who will hold me up on the train, a strange girl with a flower in her hair.

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum

Further proof as to why I should be locked up away from society... Remember the commuter with the eyepatch? I saw him again during the week... he asked me for the time and I had to concentrate on not doing a pirate accent when I answered half past five.

I caught the "y' scurvy cur" just before it tumbled out.

Jenn = perhaps not the maturest person you will ever meet.

Trixie Belden and the case of the errant commuter...

It was a horrible night last night. Truly horrible. It started well enough – after an odd but highly entertaining conversation with a friend about the pros and cons of grooming interspersed with open relationships I went to bed slightly later than intended, but in an effusively good mood. I got undressed, brushed my teeth with vigour and silenced the LHs protests at my late bedtime in the best way known to man.

A little while later, curled up snug and warm in bed around midnight I was ready for a blissful 6 hours straight of sleep… LH curled warmly at my back gently stroking my bare hip as we both drifted off into unconsciousness only to be woken 15 minutes later by the Elfling who was sobbing her heart out. The Elfling is the wunderkind of night time sleeping, so there is always something wrong if she wakes. Last night apparently it was some sort of traumatic nightmare involving monsters and sharp claws and teeth. So she crawled into bed with us – leaving elbows juxtaposed with necks and bony knees into backs and other such comforting, sleep inducing positions before LH finally got jack of it and moved her unconscious self back to her own bed.

This time not even bothering with the spooning LH and I flaked out into lovely, lovely sleep – for all of 2 hours before the Monkey decided she needed some night time cuddles. LH brought her into me and for the next hour I sleepily fed her, curled into each other happily stroking her hair etc, etc. Until I realised it had been an hour and it felt like someone had taken to my nipples with sandpaper. And she still wasn’t asleep. Sleep-y sure, but not asleep. And any efforts to disengage nipple from mouth were met by VERY strong opposition. So I kicked LH out of the nice warm bed again to go and get a bottle so I could have a turn at sleeping. Half an hour later she had finished the bottle and was perfectly happy curled up with her eyes closed in LH’s arms in the rocking chair – but if he so much as moved towards the cot she would let out an unearthly shriek.

In the end it was getting to the ridiculous stage – she was overtired as were we, and everyone had to get up relatively early so we put her in her cot where she yelled angrily for about 2 minutes before finally succumbing.

Then the day started, as per usual, at 6am. GAH.

This morning’s tutes were good though, and ward rounds were interesting and thought provoking. A wide variety of children in ages, diagnoses and prognoses with different systems being involved, and different family supports making for interesting management cases. Some where the parents were very involved and anxious, steadfastly observing their children as if they might suddenly vanish into the ether if they so much as glanced out the window. This contrasted with parents blissfully blasé about their barely breathing children as they stroll outside for a quick smoke. All concerned, but some more engaged than others.

It was here on the wards, being briefed about a little boy with a very peculiar set of symptoms and signs that I happened to glance up and made full eye contact with Commuter #4. Remember him? Star of such entries as this one? Well here he was looking me straight in the face with that slightly bemused “do I know you from somewhere” look, and me feeling a guilty flush creep up my face at the thought that I had actually blogged about this random stranger and here I was bumping into him at work. Strange! I searched for his ID badge so that a) I could put a name to him (sounds slightly less stalkerish) and b) so I could see what department he belonged to. I missed both though, and sat slightly stunned and still blushing furiously at the fact that I could actually potentially be working with someone who I’d written up as a sketch.

A little while later as we were leaving our last patient I saw him crouched on the ground next to a pram chatting away to a little girl of about 4 and encouraging her to hop out and try walking (with Mum encouragingly in the background). So I worked out then that he was one of the paediatric physiotherapists that work here at the hospital. How’s that for funny coincidences? And if you were wondering, he is as nice to very little ladies as he is with the older ones. I still have no idea what his name is though. But I feel like I just solved a mystery.

Sagacity

If you happen to be a young man in your late 40s to early 50s, who has yet to come to terms with the fact that your unconventionally long flowing mane - your very homage to an era of free love and bucket bongs, is becoming both thin and dappled with grey... may I suggest that if you are going to dye it back to its former ebon glory that you wax your shoulders and neck... the grey white quarter inch stubble is a dead give away. Just a suggestion.

Rainy Day Blues

There are few days when I feel less like work then when I wake up in the morning sleepily cuddled into the lovely husband with the rain drumming heavily on the roof the sky grey and heavy and the girls still curled up asleep in their rooms. This morning I turned in LH’s arms and nuzzled my head into his shoulder and tried to persuade him of the benefits of skipping work today and spending the day in bed. He was not convinced and kept niggling me until I finally grumpily crawled out of bed and into the nice warm shower. We have a skylight in our ensuite though and the rain was even heavier sounding, beating heavily and making my enthusiasm drop steadily.

LH tried to lift my mood by picking through my draw and selecting usually mood lifting underwear in favourite colour and while I’m sure he is happy that I’m wearing them today, they’re just not doing anything for me. I trudged off in the rain with my inadequate umbrella and with my jean hem getting saturated making me wish I’d worn my beautiful boots instead of plain boring flats. I also kicked myself for still not hemming them meaning that the backs were getting trashed.

My mood did not improve at the train station crowded in with the other grumpy commuters who when the train finally arrived crowded in like sardines until simply no more passengers (including me) could squish on. So I had to wait for the next train as the breeze picked up in lusty gusts, drizzling water over my arms and laptop bag, turning the margin of my notebook soggy as my mood.

My day picked up though when I climbed aboard the express train though as it was mostly empty and I immediately got a seat, not next to an overflower, and stared forward out the window as the rain trickled down the thick glass. I did not feel up to observing passengers and just watched the bleak sky zip past. Until such time as I realised that I was being observed myself.

He was tall, mid to late 30s, medium build and dressed for a day in the office. His damp, striped shirt was translucent with the rain water showing a smattering of dark curling chest hair that did not extend to his shoulders, but merely arrowed down towards his xiphisternum. His eyes, which darted away every time they met mine were dark brown as was his hair and his face showed good humour, too much sun exposure and eyelashes nearly as long and dark as my own.

Curious as to what was drawing his attention I looked down expecting to see a massive yoghurt stain from my affectionate children, too many buttons undone inadvertently flashing my cleavage (a salacious issue I have often due not, sadly, to a wanton exhibitionistic streak, but mostly the adjacency of my laptop bag strap), or some other such faux pas. But I couldn’t see anything remiss, and I was certainly not dressed to impress today so I was confused by the attention. It became a game as we slid into each sodden station with me trying to catch him looking at me and to try and work out why. He didn’t pay nearly as much attention to anyone else on the train, even though I was seated across and next to several beautiful, impeccably dressed women, with flawless makeup and hair. In fact I started to wonder if it was my damp dishevelledness that was discombobulating.

But gratefully I had forgotten about my not still being in bed petulance and as I changed trains in the city, there was more of my usual spring in my step, in spite of the state of my jeans and boring shoes. As I sat on the cold metal bench I drifted off into my imagination and parallel lives where I extracted why the stranger was looking at me. On my way up the hill I was distracted again by the smell of sizzling bacon and noticed that there was a fundraising breakfast stall out the front of the hospital where I promptly bought a bacon and egg muffin that exploded with yolky goodness and finally woke me up from my self piteous stupor.

My day today includes such joys as childhood dermatoses, developmental issues, childhood CNS disorders, spina bifida and the ethical issues of prenatal screening and surgery in paediatrics. Long and hard and involved, and yet I’m sitting here crosslegged in the conference room with my laptop in my lap, recounting stories of a tall dark and damp stranger instead of focusing on how to treat nappy rash…

I’ll develop a work ethic one day.

Equinox

I caught the cat to work this morning. Sat at the stern and watched the wake spread out across the river as rainbows danced in the spray. It's a glorious sunny day, warm but not too warm, clear, occasional innocuous fluffy clouds, and a lilting breeze. It is far too nice a day to be taking notes about sick children and awful childhood diseases.

In front of me two rows and to the left one student has already fallen asleep while others stare glazedly forward or, like me, unfurl their laptops with expressions of studied interest as they begin playing minesweeper or solitaire.

I have always maintained that Autumn is my favourite season to be a student. The air is bright and crisp, the pace of life moves up a notch as brains and bodies hustle for warmth, and the liveliness in the air inspires some sort of *crackle* in me that makes me want to learn and experience and grow.

But on warm sultry mornings where there is no bite in the air but instead a lazy cosseting heat I dream of warm stone walls, grapes ripening and bursting with sweetness, light ocean breezes and a hammock under a tree. One leg casually hanging over the side to kick the ground to keep me swaying, a book opened on my lap and the one I love sleeping softly beside me.

Questions I would like to ask commuters on an early morning inner Western bus service

Bus Driver
(picture Jackie Chan if he decided to drive buses for 10 years sitting up with his seat jacked up very high so that he could see over the steering wheel effectively)
Was that song that you were singing this morning karaoke or one of your own compositions? The chorus which you were singing with absolute passion "I loooove youuuu I honestly loooooOOOoooove you" was very entertaining. I hope you drive this route more often! I wonder if you've serenaded someone in particular with your crooning - she's a lucky girl whoever she is.

Commuter #7
(~22, average height, well proportioned, very pretty, flawless make up and perfect shoulder length blonde hair)
How do you get your hair so shiny and perfect? I am in genuine awe of the fact that every morning when we catch this bus your hair is perfect. Is it one of those things that you inherit or is skill with a hairdryer something you learn? I haven't really got the patience to do it, but I have hair envy.

Commuter #24
(elderly man with oxford tie, double breasted suit jacket and carefully combed thinning hair)
I wonder if you have gout? Your half cut off leisure shoe on your right foot obviously indicates that you have something wrong with your toes, and the only thing I can think of is gout. Gangrene isn't usually painful... plus you don't look like a diabetic. You have that slight ruddiness of a drinker though. I wonder if you've been following through on your low purine diet (assuming it is gout - why do I want to know these things?)

Commuter #16
(woman in her mid 30s, average height, average build, wearing active/jogging clothes, slightly sweaty as if she's just come from teh gym)
Why on earth would you wear a white singlet without a bra if you have been exercising? Poor commuter #24 had no idea where to look with your singlet competely translucent with sweat and your nipples out for general consumption. Even if you're of the misguided but admirable belief that the female body is beautiful and therefore shouldn't be covered - how can you possibly run with them jiggling around like thta? Isn't it painful? And while yes, I acknowledge that they're rather perky considering your age... keep going the way you're going and you'll be perfect for a National Geographic photoshoot.

Commuter #12
(late teens, early 20s girl with a halo of ebony ringlets wearing all black over her slim but imperfect by Cosmo standards frame)
I wonder what book you were reading? You didn't make eye contact with other people at the bus shelter and just huddled in your corner. Why were you feeling so chilled? Are you shy? Or are you always walled in so that you can't ever be blinded by driveby shootings? Who put those walls there for you? Do you relax when you're at home?

Commuter #7
(5'7" Latin Lover in his mid 30s)
Does your chest hair ever get caught in your lovely gold necklace? I occasionally catch the wispy bits of hair that tickle my neck in the clasp of my necklace and it brings tears to my eyes. I wonder if chest hair is the same? Whether you get a nicely plucked smooth portion if you're not careful. Your very product enhanced slightly too long black curls had me stifling a giggle as well. If only you'd been wearing an Armani suit instead of Sydney FC supporters clothes you could have been the hero from the latest Mills and Boon that I read.

Further insights into passengers on an early evening inner Western bus service

I was feeling a little fragile this morning so I wore my favourite polka dotted stilettos with my bright red shirt and favourite red pushup bra today. Aside from the fact that my toes are now numb and blistered from running around all day I had a really good day. And I got complimented on my clinical skills, presentation and initiative. I like that people usually like me, that they don't treat my presence like a nasty infestation of vermin. I like that even when I'm feeling a little off centre that I can go to work and impress people. Calm, reassuring, competent and likable.

But back to the commuters...

Commuter #14
(a shortish middle aged man who is always wearing a blue button down shirt and black pants)
I noticed tonight that you have a large sagittal scar at the back of your head. I'm guessing you've had surgery on your occipital lobe which means the eye patch makes sense. I still have questions - like why you needed surgery, and why you always wear a blue shirt (it's not a uniform), but I felt like I found a piece of the puzzle today.

Commuter #27
(A tall, well built, nice looking man of probably 30)
You looked sad today, like you weren't looking forward to going home. I wonder if you were going home to an empty house. What happened to the girl that you bought flowers for?

Commuter #19
(A shortish, ball on a stick figured woman in her late 40s)
You werent' there today. I think you would have liked my shoes... they are very cute.

Commuter #32
(Early 20s woman with aggressively perfect figure and ultra fashionable clothing)
Good to see you haven't changed. You looked much less attractive to me today. I think soon that I will not even notice your perfect figure, your contempt for others is so distracting.

Commuter #4
(?28 year old, quite thin but wiry beautiful man with SE Asian heritage with the most amazing cheekbones and lips)
Did you realise that we caught the same connecting bus! How exciting - I got on at the hill to get to the city and you jumped on straight after me. Are you a doctor? You really don't strike me as one... pharmacist maybe? Not physio or speechie... perplexing. We got off together in the city in the rain and I chased you and your big black umbrella but I lost you in the crowds, too hard to run in wet stilettos. Then you weren't at the bus stop. I was oddly disappointed, and not just because looking at your beautiful hands and forearms makes me happy.

Questions I would like to ask commuters on an inner Western bus service

Commuter #14
(a shortish middle aged man who is always wearing a blue button down shirt and black pants)
Why are you wearing an eye patch that makes me think of pirates? Did you hurt your eye in an accident? Are you trying to strengthen the non-patched eye? Or do you have a penchant for doubloons and rum and wenches?

Commuter #27
(A tall, well built, nice looking man of probably 30)
Who were the flowers for? Did she like them? Are you going to propose soon (because I notice you aren't wearing a ring)? Does she live with you?

Commuter #19
(A shortish, ball on a stick figured woman in her late 40s)
Did you really think that anyone aside from a 3 year old could get away with white patent shoes? Your blue pashmina does not fool me - nor does it hide your sizable middle. Do you cry about your weight too? Or do you just buy silly shoes to take your mind away from it? (me too)

Commuter #32
(Early 20s woman with aggressively perfect figure and ultra fashionable clothing)
I've watched you push in every single time we catch this bus - have you always got your own way by assuming that we give kudos to you because you're attractive? Do you ever smile? Or are mortals beneath your sneering "I just stepped in dog shit" notice?

Commuter #4
(?28 year old, quite thin but wiry beautiful man with SE Asian heritage with the most amazing cheekbones and lips)
Do you have someone you go home to? You always give up your seat to the elderly or any women... do they ever thank you? What do you do in your free time? The way you move your hands makes me think you're a gamer - I wonder if we play the same games? It seems so weird that we get off at the same bus stop and not once said hello and yet we could have spent a whole evening together.