Post Trammatic Stress

Wonder Woman boarded the 86 tram, a little rougher around the edges than I’d imagined. I suppose cartoons alter in real life form. She proceeded to inform everyone within earshot that she had 9 children. I wondered, where were they? Perhaps they were tied up in a golden lasso somewhere. Again, I wondered, why is Wonder Woman on the tram when she can fly? And then in an instant I realized that this Wonder Woman existed only to make me wonder. Surely there is some bogan sky camera capturing this.

And where was Wonder Woman during the traveling domestic between the loved up paint sniffers. Even if I used an expletive filter their omnipresent exchange still would not have made sense. I may also add that my ears weren’t the only things being bashed. Meanwhile, you could cut the commuter tension with a knife. Apprehension for dinner with a side of ignorance, anyone? Perhaps it was interactive entertainment, and only $4.00 a ticket. I wondered where the couple would end up. And did Bogan Wonder Woman make me wonder this? I was tempted to follow the abusive hurricane just to see. Of course, people are generally relieved when a hurricane passes. They disembarked. Ah, breathe. Inhalant, exhalant. Same tram, different destinations I guess.

Apparently I missed the vomiting business dude earlier in the day. He tried to cover up his liquid expulsion on the tram floor, yet did not consider leaving the tram. What a trooper. As disgusting as that seems I do identify with said businessman.

Picture this; Manchester, 2006. I send out an overdue thanks to my wonderful friend, Kate Reid, for introducing me to chocolate beer and it’s morning-after effect. There is no special type of transport alternative for hung over types. If there were, surely time travel would be the best option. I had no choice but to board a train from Manchester to London. Tesco shopping bags, you were the wind beneath my wings. Did you ever know that you’re my Tesco? You are the plastic beneath my spew. Bette Midler, get over here. My sister kept me replenished and shielded me from disgruntled humans within the carriage. After 4 hours of vomiting I broke through the care zone. I’d be embarrassed if I had the energy to be embarrassed. When you can’t keep water down on the enduro-vom 2000, your priorities lie elsewhere. In fact, you become rather selfish. Meanwhile, I did work my new look of vomit stained jeans.

Public transport is hardly public. Every now and then there are those who remind us of the ‘public’. Yes, the Wonder Womans, the obnoxious inebriated, groups of teenage girls channeling Chihuahuas, and the spluttering sick. Everyone else denies the ‘public’ with headphones, smartphones, rather not knows. So what is it if it is not public transport? Virtual transport? Where are we going with this?