Surly to rise

The scraping metallic whistle signaled the approach of a train that was already apologising for any inconvenience that it’s tardiness had caused. It’s been a long time since I have caught a peak hour train, I must have put on some weight in the last six months, as this one seemed a lot tighter than I recalled. Hemmed in on all sides by commuters, I did my best to ignore the restrictive journey, but I couldn’t ignore the chirpy female voice emanating from the speakers in the carriage “Myki can now be used on all Metropolitan trains!” Yes, well, my key opens the front door of my house but it didn’t cost me $850 million.

I was supposed to meet my fellow bloggers for a caffeine baptism to start the festival off with a jitter, but no one was at the café. I bumped into a man that resembled an extremely Irish Yul Brynner. He introduced himself as Chris Flynn and asked if I’d like to see his Torpedo. I recalled the time I had dialled a number I found on a public toilet wall, despite it’s claim, there was definitely no good time had, not by me at any rate. I politely declined his offer. Chris shrugged and told me he was off for his Morning Fix. My bowels gave off a Pavlovian gurgle and I followed him into a large café called Feddish.

The café was warm to the point of stifling and the air seemed thick with pungent chemical fumes. I sat down next to a well-stubbled man and asked if there was a gas leak in the room. He gestured towards a group of pallid people seated around a table. The air above them rippled with last night’s alcohol. Two were propping their heads up with their hands while the third was grimly clutching the table like the steering wheel of an out of control big rig. I watched as the waitress placed three croissants in front of them. The table-driving lady reached into her purse, producing a large pack of Berocca that she emptied into the pastry. She caught my eye while crunching down on her Beroccroissant and apologetically mumbled “Text Publishing party last night”.

Through the wobbling booze air I listened to four authors whom all seemed worlds apart. Despite hailing from different countries, with vastly different upbringings, they all serendipitously read passages from their work that focused on recapturing and reinventing childhood memories. Their words gripped the crowd, bringing forth laughter, smiles, even tears. Although that could have been the fumes coming from table 9.