All aboard the rude express

Recently, I had an Extremely Odd Transport Day.

It started with catching a ride on the rude express in the morning. For some reason, I got The Early Train, which is packed with school kiddies and people who would rather be asleep. I crawled on and snaffled a window seat. The woman opposite me was champing open-mouthed on a wad of gum. At 7.30am. The guy next to her was quite personable, yet chose to snort snot back into his throat instead of blowing his nose like a civilised person and to cough without covering his mouth. Little did he know that his life was in danger.

The carriage filled quite quickly, mostly with kids wearing sniffy college uniforms. Being a public school gal myself, I can't tell one sniffy school uniform from another, but I figure that if the kids are wearing blazers, then their parents are probably paying more than they should. Anyway, the little college loves had grabbed most of the seats early on and even though the train was full and adults were strap-hanging, did they stand up as they were supposed to? No! Obviously that rule only applies to public school students. They were far too good for that caper.

By the time I got into town, I'd been generous with my patented could-strip-paint look. Sadly, only the guy with the wet cough had taken any notice, but at least he was covering his germ-dripping gob. Everyone else had ignored my Medusa stare and somehow not been turned to stone. Perhaps it's all about eye contact. Still, I wanted to drop a rolled-up rubber band into the hair of the gum chewer and I really wished I had had the energy to blast the overprivileged brats who were sitting down while adults stood. I don't know which school they came from - probably No Manners Grammar.

After lunch, I found myself in a taxi driven by a guy who was literally willing to go to the ends of the earth to get me to my destination, which happened to be a wharf in the back of Port Adelaide. It's not usually that hard to get to the docks, but there are roadworks at the moment and the usual route looks a bit like a kids' sandpit minus the cat poop but with more bits of broken concrete.

Mr Cabbie decided he knew where we should be going, even though I told him I was heading for a Damn Big Ship and couldn't see one anywhere near here. Before I knew it, we were heading crosscountry over a big patch of ripped-up road. I swear if I hadn't told him three times to turn back, we would have driven off the end of a half-made bridge and into the Port River. Enthusiasm for one's job is commendable, but only to a point, y'know?

Eventually we found our way to the dock. Thank Ford, Mr Cabbie proved to be the only man in the world willing to ask another man for directions. Hallefordja. Shortly afterwards, I found myself wrapped in a fluro yellow safety vest of cavernous proportions to make the dangerous trek across a stretch of forklift-infested bitumen. The guy said the vest was one size fits all, but I think it was actually one size fits three.

My destination was a dirty great cargo ship being loaded with oranges. Hurrah for oranges, eh? Without them, we'd have no Jaffas, no vodka and orange and no Beroccas. I don't really have any other uses for oranges, but as those three are quite important I'll tolerate them.

Me and my notebook and camera got dragged all over said cargo ship: the officers' mess (bolted-down tables, manky dried flowers, remarkably low ceilings and signs warning about being shitfaced on duty); the bridge (big windows, nothing resembling a wheel and midgets in white uniforms); the engine room (more dials, gauges and pipes than your average nuclear reactor and Snow White's Seven Dwarfs running the place) and the deck and holds (goodness, what a big crane you have!) Oh, and a fuckload of oranges. About 5000 tonnes, to be exact.

As I left several hours later, a Thai crewman said, "Goodbye, sir!" Thanks, mate. That makes me feel just great. If you weren't four foot eight, I'd bloody 'ave ya!

By the time I got off the ship, it was 5 o'clock and nearly dark. The gloaming, I think Scots poets and drunkards call it. Calling a cab didn't seem like a great idea, since the guy who'd dropped me there was probably the only cabbie in Oddelaide who'd be able to find the place. I thought I'd walk to the main road and then get one. Ha.

Among my many flaws is the unfailing ability to get lost within, oh, three seconds. I have no sense of direction. I'm completely incapable of taking my bearings, let alone finding them again. I usually just start walking and hope that it's the right direction. Of course it never is.

The backblocks of Port Adelaide are not what you'd call a pleasant place to be with darkness descending. In fact, a ute slowed down and did a u-turn behind me and it was only willpower, the lack of running spikes and the realisation that at least one man in the near vicinity had recently mistaken me for a bloke that kept me from taking off like Cathy Freeman.

There weren't any footpaths, either: just rather rocky verges that led past freight handlers and pallet-makers and a rather noisome company that claimed to send things to Kangaroo Island but really just smelled like stale sheep piss. Very stale sheep piss.

So, there I was. Lost, but couldn't call a cab because I had no idea where I was. Hurrah for me. Finally, I looked over my shoulder, saw the cement works and realised that I was definitely walking in the wrong direction. I already had blisters and unless I wanted to find myself with blisters and a custom-built shallow bush grave, turning around seemed like rather a good plan.

Naturally, I had to walk back past the very stale sheep piss.

But happily I found my way into the Port without being murdered, found a cab in front of a pub I have been known to frequent and was home five minutes later.

Only to find Mr Furpants had had an identity crisis and sprayed in my study.

Rude express, crazy taxi, cargo ship staffed by blind midgets, lost in the boonies and cat pee in the house. Whacko for that day, eh?

No.