Puddles and mud

Oh what a traumatic trip into the city today. I was standing – as I often do when there are few seats available on the train. Given that I sit in an office most of the day, if it’s a choice between sitting between two burly (or dare I say it – fat) businessmen or standing, I’d prefer to stand.

After a couple of stops all the seats were taken. At South Yarra a seat came free. A young woman standing next to me asked me if I wanted to sit down. I said no thanks and she took it instead. Do I look old? Is my grey hair taking over? Tired? Crippled? Weak and puny? Am I looking dishevelled and in need of a seat on the train? Oh, please tell me I look healthier than that.

Actually, I’m worried about my trousers today. My black trousers. Not to be confused with my charcoal grey trousers, which of course are a completely
different colour. My black trousers seem to have a knack for picking up dirt. Last Thursday I was wearing them and suddenly noticed to my horror that they were speckled with flecks of light brown mud over much of their surface. I looked like I’d walked through a construction site.

And the thing is, I probably had. Every day I walk up and down Lonsdale Street from the station, and they’re doing major building work on both sides of the street. There is mud a-plenty on the footpaths. I’m sure if I had the inclination to get some forensic tests done, they would show that’s where it originates.

So anyway, after wearing them home in disgrace last Thursday night, I took them to be dry-cleaned. And today I’m wearing them again, and since it’s been raining overnight, I’ve been walking very gingerly in the vicinity of puddles and mud, I can tell you.

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