Jewell at 11

There are a great many things in this life that I hate. I hate mushrooms. I hate failure. I hate seeing idiocy being rewarded. But at this moment in time, there is nothing I hate more than Jewell at 11.

After spending an evening with my uni posse having a merry old time, I tragically had to nip off in order to get back to Rosanna by train. It was 10:30 pm. In case you weren't aware, tonight (November 22nd) was a night of heavy rain. I walked through the twilight streets, wind whipping the drops into my eye, as I trudged down the dark, dangerous alleyways. My shoes are worn out at the sole, and my feet are drenched. Socks that were meant to keep my feet warm are instead a damp wrapping of water, chilling me to the core. The only sound is the rain hitting the pavement, my shoes squelching with each step, and the building melody of Rhapsody in Blue playing on my iPod.

The walk back to Jewell station seems longer than I remember the first trip being. I turn blindly into an alley that I know will put me in the right direction. No more bright lights now. Just me, the walls on each side and the train track ahead. I'd overshot the station by one block. Normally, this would be nothing more than a minor annoyance, but this is the Upfield line we're talking about here. And the Flinders Street train is pulling into the station at that very moment.

I'm a lost cause. I can only watch it whizz by as I dodge the puddles that threaten to submerge my feet entirely. It's 10:45. Whenever that next train is coming, it certainly won't be soon.

I step up onto the platform. I should be infuriated that I missed that train, but really I'm just happy to be out of the rain. I press the button to learn when the next train departs (fortunately the homeless man nearby doesn't stir. He seems to have nodded off quite peacefully). It departs, rather typically, at 11:14.

I'm completely soaked by now, of course. 15 minutes pass before I grab pen and paper and get started on this. Consider it my final confession, as I believe myself liable to die of hypothermia or pneumonia or whatever it is that a complete waterlogged state puts you at risk of. It's to the point now where I can't hold my iPod in my pocket for fear of water damage.
So let's be blunt. The Upfield line fucking sucks. One train in a half hour doesn't cut it. When we're talking about those lower than scum Connex trains, the only positive we have is their frequency. Well, apparently not always true. In such a built-up area, the trains are completely abysmal. Once again, public transport proves to be as useless as tits on a bull. Assuming trains run from 5 am to 12 am, Upfield features thirteen less services than other lines. If a service is cancelled altogether, (and believe me, it happens) you have one train in an hour. The same as a long-distance V-Line train. And this is for a train line that has a stop in Brunswick; it's not like this is some insignificant detour.

So this is what I should expect from my beloved public transport, huh? What could possibly be their excuse, I wonder...
Here's one - there are trams that run to Brunswick, too. That seems fair enough, until you consider what this suggests - an important train line is not self-sufficient, to the point where you shouldn't actually rely on it as a viable option of travel.
Fantastic stuff there. Let me also note that, should you dare choose to actually ride the train to your destination, I recommend catching the service from a half-hour earlier, because Upfield trains are frequently late. By seven and fifteen minutes on my last two trips.

If all this is aimless venting, then so be it. But I consider this another chapter in my vendetta against Lynne Kosky, one of the most pathetically futile women in the history of positions of power. No, my Ballarat woes haven't gotten any better either (alternative buses frequently having to be run for trains recently due to undercarriaging, or as they call it 'overcrowding'), but now I've seen to the failures in the supposedly reliable yet deplorable electric train system. It remains deplorable. Its reputation as reliable is in jeopardy.

Listening to Phil Collins 'I Wish it Would Rain Down' seemed pleasantly apt this morning. Hearing it this time has turned that into painful irony. Metaphorically painful, I assure you, because my body's numb now and I feel no actual pain at all.