Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

Today when I awoke at dawn, my youngest child lay unfurled, sleeping closely beside me. The midnight hour had contained a scary dream from which he escaped, with blanket, to the safety of my arms and my king sized bed. As the sky lightened we chatted about our day ahead; for him adventures in the playground with the last in a long line of lovely babysitters – offering cuddles if not a mother’s love. For me, City meetings where I gave primped and polished presentations; my painful shoes and shiny hair offering a carapace of capability that I hoped to deliver, whatever I over-promised.

I would be one of the commuters using the usually efficient train service from Edgecliff station for the return journey.

Another journey from Edgecliff was being planned by someone else who, like me probably had a sleepless night, but unlike me, was heavily burdened with a sad goal.

I went into the City, talked my talk and then skipped back to Town Hall station. My youngest was waiting for me at home. Our morning talk had included a planned cookie stop at our favourite cafe – just him and I – before picking up his louder, pushier siblings from school.

But I was late. And so was the train.

Seventeen indicative minutes later, the train hadn’t come. The crowd, wasting their beautiful lives in the subterranean tunnel, rolled with mutterings and stuck sweat-licked together on the dangerously full platform, uniformly sallow in the yellow glare of fluorescent strip lighting. I saw my shadowy reflection in the Victorian mirror, filthy from many years of neglect, on the wall at the end of the platform. I looked older than my age and tired; my precious time, and a diamond moment with my child, ticked away second by second.

We waited. After a time, a crackling P.A. announcement gave us a reason why the trains had stopped running. An “incident” had occurred at Edgecliff train station. The throng of commuters had to find an alternative, inconvenient route home. I heard no one complain or mutter under their breath and no one pushed as we walked slowly as a mass to the escalator, riding up, back to the street’s glare.

We all knew what “incident” meant. Someone had decided that they just couldn’t stand being here anymore; in glittering, hard-souled Sydney. So they bought their ticket to somewhere, rode the escalator down, out of the bright sunlight to a platform festooned with posters offering holidays to Queensland’s Barrier Reef and courses in self-development via a 1-800 number. The blue back lit announcement board would have innocently counted down the seconds and minutes to the next train, a different count-down for the poor soon-to-be-lost soul standing too close to the platform edge.

As the train approached, they must have stepped forward and fallen the two metres onto the shiny steel tracks. I can’t visualise what happened. I can’t approach the thought of what the poor train driver must have experienced. I don’t want to. But for reasons that only they knew, an unknown soldier of city life extinguished themself and ripped the lives of their loved ones into small, messy pieces that can never be put back together.

I opened my book to read on the bus journey back to Edgecliff. I didn’t cry for the stranger, it was too distant. But my eyes often slid from the page and into the middle distance. I hoped to goodness my life journey never took me to such a terrible place and I touched wood – the paper of my book – and counted my many blessings. Like us all, I have faced major life challenges, but I have never contemplated not opening my eyes at the end of another relentless night to discover some happiness reliably waiting for me. For me there’s always been moments of joy to relieve any sadness and there are more and more as I travel onwards, slivers of silver of new experience and hope. The greatest gift I have ever received was my stupid, dreamer optimism. I received it at birth and carry it with me, almost always. Today’s poor soul hadn’t received such a priceless gift and the wounds of life must have been just too painful for them to contemplate another dawn.

I arrived home one hour late and my son ran to meet me, tearing himself away from “The Simpson’s Movie” to launch his stocky built-for-rugby body at me. I scooped him up and kissed his soft cheek, his hair, his childishly fat fingers.

We still had time for a mummy break, if I stayed in my city clothes. So with my sticky hand gently holding the sticky hand of my son we went to the local cafe and ordered a chocolate feast, including a shared slice of mud cake a-la-mode, with two spoons. After all, I could always diet tomorrow.