300 Metre Dash

With two administrators away on leave and the lack of volunteering on behalf of others, it was my duty to attend the bank this afternoon. Ah well, it's Friday, I don't mind a stroll down the high street and an early mark at that and ButterflyGirl did the mail and tackled the franking machine so it's the least I can do.

So after negotiating the front of the building and pushing past the smokers from the Real Estate Agent - two of whom look like flat top marines - I took my life in my hands and wondered across the zebra before being forced to back off by a bloody big bus who felt it had right of way at all costs. "This isn't bloody Bangkok . . " I yelled after him much to the amusement of hundreds of school children waiting for their buses to arrive among the thick bank of the yellow and maroon monsters.

Phew, over the zebra safely, I have to negotiate the minefield of navy and maroon uniforms, emo hairstyles, bizarre piercings (that bolt through the back of the neck isn't very attractive) smoking tartlets spewing words young girls shouldn't know and pre-pubescent boys feeling the need to clear their throads and spit on the pavement. And these are the private school kids! And, at 4:30 in the afternoon, they all smell horrible. I find myself thinking like a grumpy old woman that they should all stand in line two-by-two, get a hair cut and be given detention for behaving like normal kids. What happened to the should be seen and not heard rule! I begin mumbling something about bringing back national service and pulling them all into shape.

Clear of the teenage rampage, I now have to negotiate another double driveway zebra which marks the exit of one of the shopping centre carparks. People are so intent on exiting the car park that they frequently 'bump' pedestrians. I'm lucky today, only a guy on a motorcycle and he's too busy reajusting his crown jewels to notice traffic or pedestrians. Another obstacle out of the way.

Ok it's all going well now, past the taxi rank and the main doors of the mall and it's a quick game of 'spot the aussie' amongst the plethora of Indians, Afghans, Seiks, Lebanese and lately Somali drivers. "I wonder if any speak English" I mutter under my breath. "bet their taxis smell too . . " Oh I'm in a great mood. I love being the boot-licking, gofer . . .

Then I saunter past the discount CD store playing some kind of funked up greek music and briefly imagine myself, sailing in the Agean before reality bites and I've reached National Bank. OK, I don't need to queue, I have an express cheque envelope so I just need to find the friggin' express cheque chute. Past three completely unattentive girls preening and complimenting each other on their nail art "Aww, I love the diamante on your pointy finger . . ." and following the signage . . . yep, there' she is. I can see the word "open" on the chute but there doesn't appear to be a handle, hinge or arrow . . . no instruction on how to get into the thing. I want to look cool, like I do this every day but now I'm getting flustered and looking like some old bag on work experience on her first day of the job. So finally after fiddling around and feeling quite relieved that I don't have long fingernails (I would have broken one for sure), I work out where the 'pull' bit is and deposit my cheque almost quickly enough to prevent my fingers being snapped off by the gaping chute.

Mission accomplished, I decide this time to cross the road and walk on the quieter park side so that I don't have to revisit those smelly shool kids and traffic hazards . . .I look right . . . It's a one way street . . . all clear . . . start crossing the road and nearly get collected by someone driving the wrong bloody way . . .yep . . . I have only three more words and a sort of growly expletive:

Fucking Chinese drivers . . . .fwoooooooaaaaaaar