Sometimes it’s easy. You pass someone in the street, or see them on the tram, and they’re instantly recognisable. A soapie star, a reknowned actor, a government minister, or some other high-profile person.

But what about all those countless people who pass you by who are not recognisable? Who are they? How many movers and shakers go unnoticed on the street among the other passers-by? People you’d never recognise because they never appear on TV or get their photos in the gossip columns. Perhaps the woman opposite you on the train wrote the newspaper article that you and thousands of others are reading this morning, that will later today force a change of government policy. Perhaps the bloke next to you at the traffic lights decided that your gas bill won’t go up this year. That man sitting having a coffee on the street might have determined the cost of your mobile phone.

Sometimes you’ll get a clue - they’re having a conversation, or carrying a document whose cover you can read. But for the most part they are the Unrecognisable Somebodies, people who are anonymous yet have a influence on little aspects of our lives. Particularly in a big city, and especially in the bustling streets of the city centre, these people are everywhere. But we might never know who they are.

But enough of this thoughtful crap. Who’s the most famous person you’ve seen in the street?

Hmmm. Off the top of my head, Cathy Freeman, Hugo Weaving, Josephine Byrnes, Ernie Dingo, Alan Fels. The Doug Anthony All Stars in full uniform waiting for a cab outside Elsternwick Station. And I was once in the queue for pies at the footy with the then deputy PM, Brian Howe.

On my way back to work after lunch with lovely girlfriend yesterday, I hopped on a tram on Collins Street. Before it even reached the next stop, some bloke in a seat near the front keeled over, his two sneakered feet the only thing visible to me, sticking out into the aisle. The driver stopped at the next stop and called an ambulance, while another passenger who had the air of authority and looked like he might have medical experience leant over the unconcious bloke. The bloke awoke, obviously startled, his eyes very wide with a very spaced-out look. He seemed very dazed, but the driver and the other passenger seemed to be handling things okay, so since the tram was going nowhere (and a tram jam was quickly developing behind it) I got out, told the driver of the tram behind what had happened, then walked the four blocks back to work, beating the resuming trams by quite some time.

Later on driving through Carnegie to go pick up the kids, I saw flashing blue and red lights up ahead on the other side of the road. Policewoman in middle of road, interviewing a driver. Like the car in front of me, I drove past slowly to be sure not to hit anybody or anything. Well okay, and to have a brief look. From the looks of it, a (minor) four car bumper-to-bumper pile-up. Apart from the police, also an ambulance present (hopefully not subject to the overblown response times we’re hearing about, since the nearest ambulance station is about 30 seconds from there). Hopefully nobody injured.

Ah, the perils of modern living.

I don’t think I’ve ever shouted at the television in frustration before. Certainly not when I was on my own, nobody else to hear it. I don’t consider myself an angry person by any means, and it took several steps to get there before it all boiled over.

Step 1 was doing ironing and wanting to find something to watch.

Step 2 was finding nothing worth watching.

Step 3 was giving up on finding anything worth watching, and deciding to see what they were up to on the Logies.

Step 4: “Coming up… Delta Goodrem”

Step 5 was Eddie presenting.

Step 6 … and continually pronouncing her name as Deltra, while recounting her past year like anybody (even me who doesn’t read the gossip rags in the supermarket checkout) wouldn’t know. CD hit, the lymphoma, new look, new boyfriend…

Step 7 was bringing Deltra up on stage and recounting it again. At first I thought she might be embarrassed, but wait, she’s a singer and former soapie starlet, right? It would have been all pre-arranged.

And the final straw that broke the camel’s back? Eddie: “Mark!” And they cut to the boyfriend in the audience.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” I shouted, changing channels hurredly, find some commercials to watch instead.

Who watches that crap? Not me, that’s who. I can only assume it’s aimed at the type of people like my dad’s old neighbour, who one time when I went over to collect his mail, found her breathless, almost weepy, over something that had happened to Maggie in Blue Heelers. Not that I’d begrudge someone their favourite TV series or personality, and I’m sure Deltra’s been through a lot, but there are more important things in the world.

PS. Footy tipping. By the end of Saturday night, I’d got 4 out of 5. Hooray. By the end of the weekend, 4 out of 8. Boooo. Oh well, could be worse.

I may never get to see Mulholland Drive.

Week after week we go to Video Shop A and look for it. Sure, the case is on the shelf, but it has that little annoying “Sorry, I’m out!” tag in it. It’s been that way for months. Maybe it’s missing in action.

Last night on a whim I stopped past Video Shop B to look for it. Couldn’t find it on the shelf, so I went and asked the lady.

“Do you have Mulholland Drive on DVD?”

“No… we used to have several copies, but they all got damaged.”

Several? Damaged? Is there something about this particular movie that inspires people to damage the discs? Outrage after watching it, perhaps? Damn you David Lynch! I’m trashing this disc!

“We do have it on VHS. Can you watch tapes?”

Can I watch rental video tapes… well, technically, yes. But can I? I remember rental tapes. Scratched, crumpled, flimsy rental tapes. Can I go back?

“Uhhh… I’ll think about it.”

Perhaps I’ll go searching Video Shops C, D and E for it on DVD. Or maybe we’ll just borrow the tape.

Remember these old things? Sold by a real human, as I recall. I found this one in a book I dipped into last week. A book I never finished. Must have been there for six or seven years.

The government announcement the other day of the board for the Public Transport Industry Ombudsman should have been greeted with delight. It’s certainly been a long time coming. But delight has given way to cynicism upon seeing some of the details. It boils down to two points: juristiction and people.

What’s the number one cause of complaint for public transport users, I ask you? “Inspectors!” I hear you cry. “They (or at least some of them) are over-zealous officious annoying twits! Why, that time I forgot to bring change for the tram…” Okay okay, I get the idea.

So, for an ombudsman for public transport this would be bread and butter stuff, right? Wrong! Turns out the PTIO won’t hear complaints about inspectors. Nup, they’ll continue to fall under the auspices of the State Ombudsman, who is simultaneously juggling a zillion other important issues which would normally be considered a higher priority. Like police corruption, for example.

And the people? Well, whereas the working group (who have had some of their key recommendations fall by the wayside) had a mix of transport operators and consumer groups, the inaugural board has three members from transport operators and… uhh… three people who … uhhh… well they’re meant to be consumer representatives… but from reading their brief bios in the press release it’s apparent that they have minimal experience in public transport, and none of them appear to have experience in consumer advocacy. Uhhhhh… So they might be the nicest, most conscientious people in the world, but if they’re facing up against the other three board members from the transport operators, tell me, whom is likely to be running rings around whom?

But maybe I’m being a wee bit cynical. After all, on Sunday the shakeup of the transport operators comes into effect. Should be the dawning of a new age for us users, shouldn’t it?

Or is the truth in fact that nobody will notice except they find their train or tram is painted a new colour? Does anybody really care who runs public transport, as long as it’s frequent, fast, clean, safe and cheap?

A guy got on the train at Prahran yesterday. Very torn jeans. Obvious safety pins in one spot on them. Studded belt. Multicoloured jacket. And a luxurious coiffure of Fabio-style hair, but tied up… and carrying his very own hair dryer. ‘Cos hey, you never know when you might need it.

Had a quick look at a house on Saturday. In a great spot, on a quiet side street, yet shouting distance to the station and supermarket and shops. But the house itself… oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.

The propaganda suggested all one would need to do was rip up the carpet, take off the (very fugly) brick veneer, replace the kitchen, and you’d have your dream home. No mention of the tiny bathtub (made for midgets?), handily angled floors (useful for seeing if your spirit level is working), the lack of space in the kitchen for a fridge, and the spurious and very dodgy-looking electrical cables all around the garden (Hooray! Garden spotlights everywhere and — wait for it — a working miniature lighthouse).

Nup. A fulltime job renovating a house is something I can do without, thanks. As Josh said, probably easier to bulldoze and start afresh. All these “features” may not stop it selling for a small fortune though.

I don’t normally post cutesy kiddie stuff, but I’ll make an exception this time.

My eldest son Isaac, nearly 9, has reached a coming-of-age, of sorts. A big step on the way to adulthood.

Last night, independently, with no help or pushing, he looked at, read, comprehended, “got” and laughed at, his first Far Side cartoon.

Sniffle. He’s growing up.