mutteringhousewife

I’m running away for the weekend. My sister is turning forty and she was so disgusted at myself and my brother not celebrating our fortieths with wine and revelry that she’s having a party big enough for the three of us. She lives in a whole other city, so I’ve packed a bag and am escaping debating, soccer, basketball, more soccer, juggling lessons and Supanova (that gave me pause) so we can party til we’re purple. Spongebob reference. Not a blood pressure reference.

There are three options for getting to the airport. Taxi. Driving to close to the airport and paying a small man with a giant moustache an amount of money to mind and possibly wash your car for the weekend and hopefully convey you to the airport in a clapped out minibus. Or public transport. Husband wished to have the station wagon handy because it was full of necessary soccer balls AND the Odyssey because he is a braver man than me and is taking many kids to Supanova. I’m a bit tired of giving taxi drivers directions to the airport and showing them how to work their GPS and, you know, human interaction. I had the time, so public transport it is.

It’s quite simple, really. You walk up to the bus stop and catch the bus to Central. You descend an escalator, walk quite a long way underground, drag your bag up the stairs to platform 23 because there isn’t any other way of getting up there other than levitating and there’s a train every five minutes on a Friday morning. They do slug you $14.91 for the ten minute ride. At the airport station there are many signs suggesting you should take your luggage in the lift, if you can find it, but no one is taking any notice because the signs are in Comic Sans. I thought the Graphic Designers Guild had boycotted that font, must have used scab labour. The whole trip took less than an hour and was definitely the cheapest option.

Having been recently briefly disabled, again appreciate how difficult it must be to get around if you have mobility issues. Some of the trip could be done, the bus, the train. But no lifts at Central. Some lifts at the airport, but not always obvious where. And a lot of walking. My ankle is currently functioning, but I am looking forward into settling into my economy seat and resting it gently on the top of my head. If only I’d done those yoga classes.

A postscript: have arrived, been appropriately leapt upon by nieces, the ankle is elevated and there is a fruity red in hand and the delicate scent of lamb shanks in the air. Have had the FBI report on my children’s day via the Moose’s phone, the Muffet’s blazer is still missing, Moose won his debate despite knowing next to nothing about drugs in sport, and the Horror has fairly reluctantly been gratuitously nice to someone today, a character building exercise for him. So all I need to worry about is what punk hairstyle I’ll be going with for the party tomorrow night. Fauxhawk? Random colours? Upset my hairdresser and have the sides of my head shaved? Who knows what the morrow will bring?

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