The Receptionist

I had cause to attend a medical specialist on Tuesday. Last time I was there, a largish woman of indeterminate age with a broad Australian accent spent the entire time while I was in the waiting room discussing the difficulties of her ongoing renovations over the telephone. Loudly.

When I arrived this time, she was at the reception again. I interrupted her conversation by entering the waiting room and I heard her say “Just a tic love.” as I walked in. She took my name and asked me to have a seat and went back to her conversation. It was the exact same conversation as last time. I kid you not! This woman was having the exact same conversation that she had had three months earlier.

Happily, I had my laptop with me, so I made notes.

It appears that Mick is the builder. Mick has been somewhat lapse in installing the appropriate appliances. The fridge was a particularly sore point. I have to assume that it’s one of those fridges that needs to be “plumbed in” or installed in some way. My notes of her conversation say, for example, “So I said to him, I just want a fridge. It’s Christmas Mick. I mean I just want a fridge. I’m sick of trying to do everything with a bloody bar fridge.” there was a pause, followed by, “Yes! Yes! I know! Well I’m not gonna have a fridge now, am I?”

Later the conversation moved on to tiling. This was not a happy conversation either.

“He said he wouldn’t commission that because I suppose it’s not viable for him cost-wise so I suppose it’s just stuff you! … Yes! Well he’s trying to say that it’s because of where I got the tiles which was where he was gonna get them anyway.”

And finally, before my doctor called me in, I noted this

“Well that’s just pointless anyway. … YES! That’s what I said! … Oh I just said don’t bother NIck. Don’t bother. I’ve got the answer to my questions.”

Green Weekly Please.

An odd thing happened to me on Monday. Well, I think it’s odd anyway.

By way of preface, in case you are unfamiliar with Sydney’s public transport system, I should explain that on many buses in Sydney it’s not possible to buy a ticket, they must be pre-purchased. This doesn’t usually represent any great inconvenience as tickets are available quite broadly. Pretty much all newsagents, most convenience stores and several other outlets sell the prepaid tickets which can be purchased as a single ticket, a weekly pass, or as a “travel-ten” which provides ten trips with no time limit.

Where I am currently working requires that I travel by bus and train every day, so the most convenient for me is to buy a weekly pass. The weekly passes are designated by colours. A “Blue Weekly” for example allows the owner of the ticket to travel on any buses in the inner city area. A “Red Weekly” allows the owner to also use trains and ferries in the same area. There is quite a range of colours apart from these, I know there is brown, orange and purple for example. In my own case, I usually purchase a “Green Weekly” which also allows me to travel to North Ryde on those days when I am required to.

So, with that preface over with, I can tell my story, which, as I have noted before, I found odd. Amusing too.

For reasons that are unimportant for this story, I had to travel to Leichhardt in the afternoon. My “Green Weekly” was expiring on that very day, so included in my personal list of tasks was the purchase of a new one. Making my way to the bus-stop to go home, I spied two things. The first thing I spied, still in the distance, was the bus that I wished to catch. The second, rather closer, was a newsagent.

I determined that I could get into the newsagent, purchase the ticket and get back out again to catch the bus. The newsagent was directly alongside the bus-stop and as I came up alongside it, I could see that the newsagent was empty. So, rather hurriedly, I ducked intside and said, “Green Weekly please.”

The shopkeeper was a swarthy and rather hirsute man. One who would be described by television news reports as being “of middle-eastern appearance.” He spoke with a discernible accent and his response was not what I expected. He looked at me quizzically, tilted his head to one side and said “Green! … Green?!”

It is important at this point to convey the tone and pitch with which this was said. To achieve the desired effect, the shopkeeper’s voice starts relatively high at the beginning of the word ‘green’, then reaches just a little higher in the middle before dropping down a little at the end. The pitch at the end of the word is noticeably lower than the pitch at the beginning. Recall, if you can, Monty Python’s “Parrot Sketch.” Recall John Cleese’s expression of disbelief when told that the obviously dead parrot is pining for the fjords. He says those exact words; “Pining for the fjords!?”

It was with almost the exact tone and pitch with which Cleese said ‘fjords’ that my interlocutor said ‘green’. What the reply lacked in syllables, he made up for in enthusiasm. Slightly nonplussed, I said “Yes, Green please.”

Perhaps this was naive of me, because the reply from my swarthy shopkeeper was identical to his previous reply. “Green! … Green?!”

I’ll note here, for the sake of clarity, that there was no hint of humour or jest in his reply. Rather he gave the distinct impression of both bewilderment and annoyance. He looked rather as if I had asked him to serve his mother’s left forefinger on a toasted bun.

I had hitherto assumed that all newsagents sold bus passes. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps this was the cause of the confusion.

“Do you sell bus tickets?” I asked.

“Yes! … Yes!” was the reply and, I kid you not, it was with exactly the same parrot-sketch tone as the previous retort. He went on, “Yes we sell bus tickets. There’s no Green!”

Confused and somewhat uncertain, I reached into my pocket to check my current ticket. It was green, wasn’t it? I hadn’t misremembered had I? No. It was green. “Like this one.” I said.

“No. Nonono.” he said. Flatly this time.

This transaction had taken no more that a minute or two. No more than that, because although the bus had arrived maybe half a minute after I walked into the shop, it was only now that it was pulling out from the bus top. As it did, another chap walked toward me from the back of the newsagents and said. “We’ve sold out of green weeklies mate. You’ll have to go to the seven-eleven.”

I didn’t go to the seven-eleven. It was around the corner about 500 meters away and I suspected that I would miss the next bus if I went to the seven-eleven now. In Leichhardt, from this stop, the buses run every 5 minutes. So I decided to wait at the bus stop. Naturally, the next bus didn’t arrive for another fifteen minutes.