It was 11.22 and as I purchased my ticket to Pennant Hills I enquired what platform. The guard groaned “8″. At 11.22 the train pulled in, I leapt on and set up shop in the least populated compartment. I spread my bags out to dissuade a fellow bottom. The carriage I selected had an infectious stench of vomit so I relocated but the memory of stench persisted. I distracted my nasal glands by thinking of pine needles and listening to Bonny Prince Billy moaning for deliverance. 40 minutes passed, and e.t.a was 12.08, yet when the time numbers fell into 12:08 the sign on the station in view was Pendle Hill. No matter how many times I rearranged the letters I could not spell Pennant Hills from Pendle Hill.
To the amusement of a female passenger dressed in tea towel inspired skirt and wearing glasses so large and thick I started to have a headache, I asked how far Pennant Hills was. She laughed, almost choked and then pointed rapidly in every direction but forward.
Hot and increasinly embarrased at turning up late for a meeting at Pennant Hills High School I fell out of the doors at 12.08 and looked for help. A station sweeper, wearing large gold rings and sapphire blue eyeliner, informed me I had to return to Strathfield and then swap trains.
2 hours later I arrived at Pennant Hills High School.
The first student I encountered was stumbling across the open ground with a white cardboard box on his head “Where am I going?”, he asked himself. A wonderful existential introduction to Red Room’s poetry in high schools program.
Pennant Hills is delighted to be piloting our program and although the year 9 class I was introduced to looked like they’d been forced to suck lemons when told they’d be doing a poetry project in 2007, I am certain it will work out well. If not perhaps we can work with a school in Pendle Hills.
On the train home a paint chipped builder tapped me on the back and asked me what book I was reading. His neck smelt of ham sandwiches and hard work, and upon showing him the book : “Tell me the truth .. about Aboriginal History” he got up and changed seats. I felt sorry for the cluster of school girls in pink uniforms and lots of conditioned hair that had to resist his glare for at least three stops.
Walking home I bought a sleek silver paring knife. As I walked up Oxford street I had a rush of pleasure thinking about slicing open a sweet cherry tomato and feeling glad the year’s most unnecessary train trip happened on a day I could make up for in the night.
