I've lived here in Sydney for three years and I have only been to town a handful of times. I've decided it's not so much a case of agoraphobia, but more a case of me not liking people. I love meeting new people and seeing new places, but I don't like crowds, especially Sydney crowds. While I freely admit that I am a bandit at walking around alone with a generally salty look on my face (I am not going to grin for no reason), it's because I'm probably concentrating and have somewhere to be at a certain time. Every time I go into town, it always ends up a bit of a drama. Like the harrowing time I got my labret repierced in Oxford Street.

I had decided halfway through the day that I was going to get my labret repierced, and asked M if he could take me after work. He said he was tired, and that he'd rather stay home and mind Charlotte alone than drive out and back with her in the car, getting stuck in peak-hour traffic. He suggested asking his sister, L, for a lift. One of the most judgemental people I know, I decided I'd rather go it alone. M didn't like the idea, knowing my size and (now completely NOT ME) history of provoking strangers when I'm feeling cornered and overwhelmed, but he knew that he couldn't talk me out of it. I'm stubborn like that, especially when it comes to piercings and/or tattoos -- I stew over financial and permanent repercussions, decide, then that's it, it HAS to be done WHEN I want it to happen.

He dropped me off at the station and I walked up, mildly irritated by the inevitable 'just stick to yourself and don't provoke anyone - if you need help, just call me, yada yada yada yada...' lecture. I hadn't missed my train, which was a relief, so I sat and waited patiently. People started milling around, and a young couple started making out and grinding beside me. I was hoping that maybe they'd contract Golden Staph from the manky pigeonshit-infested pole they were leaning on.

After I'd seen much more of the girlfriend than I'd ever care to see (you lose a certian level of respect mysticism after you show a platform full of strangers your underboob), the train pulled up. Hopping on, I'd decided to take the seat closest to the station map, so I could pre-empt my stop. I don't trust those train voice-overs, and it's a good thing, too, since the train was so packed. It was a cacophony of school-leavers, workmates, and crazy lunatics, all screaming on top of one another to be heard. I pored over that map and panicked a little every time we skipped a station, damn those bloody express trains.

Then HE hopped on. Fumbling around and weaving through the masses, this heaving, sweaty, old, obnoxious businessman decided to eventually perch himself BETWEEN MY LEGS, holding onto the handle above my head. GREAT. I looked up and he was looking directly AT ME, which made me feel so very uncomfortable, so I decided to text a friend OCD-style, to the point where 'sending message' seemed to take forever. That was the day that Bush was being elected, so I thought I'd ponder that, while the train turned and churned and thrust the businessman's bathingsuit area a hair away from my face. I looked up, and the guy was still looking at me (or reading the poster above my head until I caught his eye, I don't know), so I thought, 'BUGGER THIS, I AM HOPPING OFF.'

I pushed him away from me with my bag in much the same way one of those sanitation ladies poke the pad-bins in the toilets to get them out of the cubicle, and gasped with relief for sweet, un-businessman-torsoed, polluted, smoggy air. BTW, those women have balls to do that. Or they get paid a pretty penny.

After a spot of train-hopping, I got off at Museum Station. That train station gives me the heebies, its walkways were so small, it was like being born again, and I reached for my smokes as soon as I hit the stairs to the park above me. I called M to let him know I made it, then I trudged up the street to where I wanted to go, Taylor Square.

...to be continued...