New Bike

The consensus amongst the guys in the office today is that most men relate to this bloke.

And with all the blokes in the office having agreed to that, one of the ladies sent us the following –

(1) Fine: This is the word women use to end an argument when they are right and you need to shut up.

(2) Five Minutes: If she is getting dressed, this means a half an hour. Five minutes is only five minutes if you have just been given five more minutes to watch the game before helping around the house.

(3) Nothing: This is the calm before the storm. This means something, and you should be on your toes. Arguments that begin with nothing usually end in fine.

(4) Go Ahead: This is a dare, not permission. Don’t Do It!

(5) Loud Sigh: This is actually a word, but is a non-verbal statement often misunderstood by men. A loud sigh means she thinks you are an idiot and wonders why she is wasting her time standing here and arguing with you about nothing. (Refer back to # 3 for the meaning of nothing.)

(6) That’s Okay: This is one of the most dangerous statements a women can make to a man. That’s okay means she wants to think long and hard before deciding how and when you will pay for your mistake.

(7) Thanks: A woman is thanking you, do not question, or faint. Just say you’re welcome. (I want to add in a clause here – This is true, unless she says ‘Thanks a lot’ – that is PURE sarcasm and she is not thanking you at all. DO NOT say ‘you’re welcome’ . That will bring on a ‘whatever’).

(8) Whatever: Is a woman’s way of saying ‘get stuffed!’ (and that is beign polite).

(9) Don’t worry about it, I got it: Another dangerous statement, meaning this is something that a woman has told a man to do several times, but is now doing it herself. This will later result in a man asking ‘What’s wrong?’ For the woman’s response refer to # 3.



A few weeks ago after attending a meeting in the city I caught a late night train home. That’s always an interesting experience because there are often drunken and drug addled people who also tend to travel around at night.

This particular night a bloke got on and it’s fair to say that he was under the weather. He confirmed it when he sat next to a young lady and started chatting to her admitting he’d just finished a long lunch with a client.

Now the train for me is somewhere I cocoon myself, relax and read a book, for the most part oblivious to things that go on around me. I’m not interested in other peoples conversations or hearing about their lives but occasionally there are sometimes things that are so distracting happening that the cocoon is breached. This bloke was one of those distractions.

The poor young girl next to him put up with being told about Sylvio Berlusconi and his marital exploits. Not content with discussing old news he proceeded to tell her his life story – he was a CPA and currently in charge of his practice because the boss was away; he did more than 300 BAS statements every quarter and been out to lunch with his largest client; he was widowed ten years ago when his wife died aged 50 and he was only 48 at the time; his three children, a thirty year old daughter and 28 and 25 year old sons still all lived at home; he was thinking of subdividing his block building a small two bedroom place on the front part and forcing his kids to move out; and on and on.

None of this was in the least bit interesting, I’d listened to enough drunks over the years to be less than inspired, and he was less interested in conversation than talking anyway. Try as I might I could not tune out. He grew up in a small country town called Drouin where Collingwood footballer Dale Thomas came from; life was different when he was a lad; and the drone continued through 13 raliway stations.

Unfortunately, there was track work going on and that meant that we had to change from a train and travel the last few stations by bus. Now, my cocoon in tatters, I did my best to avoid this bloke, but he sidled up to me and decided that it would be a good thing to talk about football until the bus arrived. So we did and when the bus finally did arrive I held back and let him get on first so I could choose where I wanted to sit that would allow me some peace and quiet. That worked until he saw a lady seated by herself in front of me and he decided that he could strike up a conversation with her. And then I learnt about her life as well – born in London, been in Australia for 30 years, divorced, living in a one bedroom flat and occasionally has a meal with the landlord who cooks for her, but the problem is he then expects her to reciprocate; lived in Darwin and Brisbane for years before moving to Melbourne; and so on. They had a great time together for those four stations.

Wednesday morning as I again was sitting reading my book and the train began to gradually fill I found my personal space invaded. There is an unwritten protocol on public transport that you spread out us much as possible and then gradually fill in the space as it becomes more crowded, but on this occasion despite there being plenty of empty seats this bloke sat right next to me and said good morning. I glanced up and found, much to my unease, the very same widowed father of three CPA who I had run across a few weeks ago.

So I buried my head in my book and he settled back to read the big paper until a young lady filled the seat opposite him whereupon he chose to strike up a conversation with her. This time the theme was cousins; Australia and England hate each other at cricket, but we’re cousins; New Zealand had an imperious batsman a few years ago called Martin Crowe and he happened to be the cousin of Russell Crowe although he wasn’t sure how old either of them were now; Australia and New Zealand hate each other at sport as well and would even compete heavily at tiddlywinks despite the fact that we’re cousins you know; and Australian fast bowler Bruce Reid, who also excelled at basketball as a youngster and played 100 games of AFL football as a Junior was actually the cousin of Kiwi batsman John Reid.

And on it went. Occasionally the young girl what mutter stuff like “Is that right” or “That’s amazing” whilst giving a stifled, forced giggle at his jokes. I tried to catch her eye and give her a knowing wink to let her know she wasn’t alone, but I don’t think she wanted to make eye contact with anyone else on the off chance that they would wreck her cocoon as well.

Great Expectations

I would rather read a book about Dickens than one he wrote himself.  Maybe that is a natural aversion to classics because of the reading we were forced to do in school, maybe it’s laziness or simply a matter of taste. Maybe it is that as a classic myself now, I no longer need to pretend to be the intellectual I sometimes thought I was when younger.

Although it is true I once had great expectations, I am now older and wiser and have learnt that expectations are often too weighty to be bothered carrying forever. Birthdays do this to us. Make us ponder the wotifs, the forks in the road taken or missed.  Often I wonder what would have happened had I just let the wind fill my sails and drifted not caring where I went.   There would have been good and bad in that, but maybe, just maybe, the expectations of others may not have been so warmly embraced by me.   And as I sit here thinking again, it seems to me that it was not my own great expectations that shaped who I am but the ones I soaked up from others in my life.

And I guess with that riddle still to be answered my whole midlife journey continues.

Wordless Wednesday – Reflections 20