Writing primarily on the train has its advantages, not least the absence of distractions that are so common at home or at work. But it also means you put yourself at the mercy of the general public, which as anyone who has worked in retail or customer service will tell you, is rather like choosing to swim with sharks. Intellectually disabled sharks.
In the past I have been accosted by a woman not-so-affectionately dubbed ‘Crazy Lady’. This anomaly in the human gene pool wears a banded straw hat, cotton gloves and the same blue dress every day. If she sits next to you, beware – she will try to start a conversation, and if you give her the slightest modicum of encouragement, she won’t stop talking until you part ways at your destination. She has a massive persecution complex, believing that her co-workers are out to get her. Worst of all for me, she was a wannabe writer, and hence asked thousands of questions about writing … apparently oblivious to the unsubtle hints I dropped suggesting I would rather compose than talk.
Give me credit though: I learned my lesson. The next time she sat down next to me, I was so abrupt in my dismissal of her question (which was the same as our first encounter; she appeared not to remember me) that she turned to a recently returned international jetsetter instead and earbashed her all the way to Central. Admonishing her, at one point, for not travelling in her own country instead. I kid you not.
Well, I copped a different nut this morning. This guy, wearing a flannel shirt and Akubra hat, appeared to have just arrived from a farm about ten hours west of Sydney. He asked me a question about the word-processing program I was using … except the question made absolutely no sense. He apparently had no knowledge of computer terminology whatsoever, which of course made it difficult to enquire clearly about a computing subject. After several attempts to answer his question were dismissed with an impatient frustration, I said, “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
This seemed to offend him mildly, and he glanced at the woman sitting across from us as if to say
What else do you expect from young people these days? (even though she had taken an unsuccessful stab at answering his query herself). Eventually, through some visual trial-and-error and more stilted description on his part, I worked out what he was asking.
He wanted to know how to open a new document.
To paraphrase the old Beaurepaires ad: “Some people don’t deserve brains.”
