Letter From The Other Side by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.


Dear Del,
It was necessary for me to go to Melbourne this week. I haven’t driven a car in Melbourne for years. The last time I did, I became lost, turned right in front of a tram and went up a one way street. Monica who was with me said she would never, ever travel with me in the city again. I couldn’t really blame her.

It would be even worse after all this time as streets have changed and there are new roads and underpasses all over the place.

When I said I would take the train Teddy offered to come with me.
We have a new station near our home but unless you wait for hours or by some miracle your visit coincides with an office clerk, there is never anyone there to sell you a ticket. The office is only open when a train is due to arrive.

It was commissioned, launched, whatever they do to stations when they say we can use them, with the usual gaggle of local and state politicians cutting ribbons and smiling for the camera’s but it soon became obvious to everyone wanting to use it, that the Planning Department forgot to give the commuters enough parking spaces. At the time there was vacant land all around which could have been purchased but it is too late now, the land is covered in new homes.

We chose to go to the next station down the line which is not so far away and is always manned.

I have the reputation of always being too early for anything. The family, if they want me to arrive at 7.30 p.m. will usually tell me 8.p.m. They think I haven’t twigged to this ploy.
We parked our car about two blocks away knowing getting a park was Buckley’s to none, and walked. This brisk trudge around the streets and across a small park kept us warm for the first ten minutes of waiting for the train.

We were lucky, it arrived on time. Not something, as you would know Del our public transport is noted for, and when we entered I was pleased to see the seats and carriage were quite clean.
We were also lucky it was winter because, as you would also be aware of Del, the government when ordering these very expensive items purchased with our taxation money, ordered trains which were designed to function in European weather conditions. I felt sorry for the Melbourne suburban travellers during summer, who were so inconvenienced last year. When they needed the air conditioning because the temperature outside was anything between 30 and up to 48 degrees the air conditioners found it all too much and stopped working. This caused cancellations and passengers were left sweltering on platforms for hours or if they were already on board a train, it travelled very slowly along rail lines threatening to buckle in the heat.
The windows in these new trains won’t open of course the way the old un-air-conditioned trains used to and this results in people fainting from the heat or standing about in puddles of sweat.

The trip from Geelong to Melbourne takes about an hour and is probably the most boring train trip one can take in Victoria. The scenery is a flat wind swept coastal plain which farmers for decades denuded of trees. Much of it has been used for industrial buildings and the biggest crops of Scotch Thistle growing metres high you will see anywhere. Some paddocks have a few lonely horses looking vainly for shelter and trying to find some decent grass to nibble.


New suburbs with enticing names such as something-or-other lakes, or pleasant meadows, or sparkling something creek (which was until a decade ago the outlet for industrial waste) try to give the impression of glamour to the sandy windswept coast.

The advertising gloss must work because monstrous size houses are being built on the smallest sized blocks of land I have ever seen. The walls and windows are so close, you could hand a cup of tea or a glass of wine to your neighbour if the relationship is friendly enough, without leaving your home.

The desolate landscape is relieved a little by that small outcrop of rocks I sense were ironically named the ‘You Yang Mountains’, which because of the flat land can be seen from all directions.

The trip on this line is possibly the roughest trip you will ever take on a railway. I think in an effort to rid the traveller of his sense of boredom the trains are designed with square wheels. The carriages rock violently at times and threaten to leap from the tracks. No wonder most of the regular passengers were wired up with their ipods as they tried to mask the nervousness the violent movements cause. There were so many of these loud things around us I could hear three or four of the programmes. Teddy sat in blissful ignorance because he had turned his hearing aids off.
As we jogged along, I began to take more interest in my fellow travellers. They were a very mixed bunch. One large young woman who sat on the opposite side of the aisle was dressed in a flowing black outfit. Her makeup was pure Goth. Dark angry pencilled eyes, blood red lipstick on her mouth and pallid skin. She only needed her pointy hat and a broom stick in the carriage rack and her look would have been complete.

Another couple about our age sat in front of us. As they sank into their seats I knew we would be safe from moth and silverfish attack all the way to our destination because a distinct aroma of naphthalene hung like a cloud around them.
He possessed the most marvellous face.
I remembered many years ago writers often used the expression of a character ‘knitting his eyebrows together in anger.’ Well this gentleman had eyebrows you could have made a complete cable stitch from.
I marvelled his wife hadn’t attacked him with her pinking shears at some time, or if she was very good at her craft work, she could have encouraged the growth and entered the record books by first spinning the long shaggy hair and creating an entirely man made organic scarf.

I then noticed the electronic signs designed to tell us where we were stopping and the next station we were to enter etc. Someone with a mischievous humour had a great deal of fun setting them up because they were always wrong. Either they showed two stations ahead, or the one we had just left behind. During the entire trip, not once did the sign give the commuter the correct name of the station we were entering.

We at last arrived at Spencer Street station, which the powers in charge insist we now call Southern Cross station.

Whenever this state government can’t think of any reason to get into the news they consult the ‘Department For Changing Names’ which has a list of potential name changes for places and things. They particularly like to change railways stations and sporting arenas. I suspect as well as supplying more photo opportunities and ribbon cutting ceremonies, it is done to keep the travelling public on their toes, in particular the infrequent commuters.

A day trip to Melbourne to see the football means country folk arrive not knowing where they are or where they are going and immediately assume the bewildered and lost looks on their faces sophisticated suburban dwellers love to make jokes about.
Being a regional person, I stepped from the train and and was at once disoriented.
Cynthia in the bush, is fine, in the city or water, forget me I’m gone.
Teddy guided me to our destination.

On the return trip we outsmarted ourselves by taking a train to one of the suburban stations thinking we could pick up the Geelong train from there and save ourselves from a long walk across The Southern Cross station.
The ticket office man told us the Geelong train would arrive at platform six. We trudged along the ramp, across the overpass and down another steep ramp to the platform. No escalators here to save the walking.
We were in plenty of time, naturally.
Three minutes before the train was due, the announcement was made our train would be leaving from platform three.
We hurried up the steep exit ramp, across the overpass and down the steep ramp to platform three and arrived panting like a couple of old draught horses pulling the season’s hay load.
The train was already full. It was standing room only. Everyone must have boarded in the city.
We stood, hanging on grimly to any support which seemed strong enough as we lurched along.
Too keep our minds occupied we renamed the train on behalf of the Geelong population ‘The Rock and Roll Express’. We chose this name because we thought if you were brave enough to buy a coffee from the kiosk you would definitely spill it all over your clothes as you rocked and everyone stepped on your blue suede shoes as they rolled.
Tell me Del, do we have any railway engineers who know how to lay flat tracks in this state or have they just picked on Geelong because our football team usually beats the Melbourne ones?
Your all shook up ‘flower child’ friend,
Cynthia.