Things that sneak up on you

I met my first unfriendly Aussie the other morning. A Huntsman spider stalked me from the corner of the ceiling in the kitchen. It was black and all legs, as big as the average Avondale arachnid.

“Ah, there's a big black thing in the kitchen. Do something,” I commanded Roger.

“Like what? It's a spider,” he answered inexplicably nonchalantly.

Yes, that's right, it is a spider and that should be enough don't you think? He was showing a distinct lack of seriousness for the situation I thought so I reluctantly spelled it out.

“Like get rid of it. I don't care how, I don't like spiders.”

The unspoken look on his face indicated that he thought I was in the wrong country then but humouring me he went into the kitchen to check it out.

“Oh it's only a baby,” I heard his disembodied voice announce and considered his joke to be in very poor taste.

“Well it's bigger than I've ever seen. I'm from New Zealand, we don't have beasts that can eat you in one swallow.”

What happened next made me squeal like a girl's blouse. He picked it up in his hand and let it sit on his arm while walking the thing to the door. Eee-yew.

“No seriously it's just a baby,” he said as cool as a cucumber icy pole. “Wait till you see what it grows up to be.”

“Ah, yeah, I'm good with not thank you.”

A few days later I spotted a book in the library called 'Melbourne's Wildlife'. Melbourne mind, not Victoria, not Australia's wildlife – just Melbourne and it was still the size and thickness of the complete Oxford dictionary! I look up Huntsman because I had a ghoulish curiosity. Yep, pretty frigging huge, Roger was not joking.

“Of course,” remarked my Queensland colleague. “They get bigger than that in Brisbane.”

Placing her fingers and thumbs together to make a circle she showed me a shape the size of, oh – I'm thinking a hamster! Remembering the comment of the old guy on Brighton Beach about it being too cold in Melbourne for most beasts, I knew there was a reason I chose Victoria over Queensland, the most deadliest place on the planet it would seem. Queensland boasts one of the only two animals in the world to hunt humans for fun. That would be the 'Salty' or saltwater crocodile. The other is a polar bear but thankfully Melbourne is not quite cold enough to attract them either.

Anyway back to my friend the Huntsman spider because the story doesn't end there. Saturday morning, bleary-eyed, grumbling about having to get up at 7.00am, I stagger into the toilet. It's a gloomy day so I turn on the light and as I look up – Ah! Harry the Huntsman's big brother Everett (as in Peter 'Spider' Everett the local sportsman) is looking down at me. Little Harry was more like Dirty Harry setting his older, hairier sibling on to me. Well I was not feeling very lucky punk so yet again Rog the disposal expert is called in only this time I'm not prepared to watch him bare-hand the beermat sized creature. I retreat to the bathroom to shower away my shattered nerves, making sure of course that I check every ceiling crevice first.

Far out, I'm still having palpitations thinking about the thing. The good news – they are apparently friendly spiders by comparison. Comparison to what!?! Black Widows? Darth Vadar? But yes it's true, the Huntsman is not a venomous arachnid and they don't nest, hunt in packs or curl up in shoes, clothes or bedding, unlike the White Tail, Funnel Web or Red Back. Except that they are all Australian crawlies too! Huntsmen, or so I am reassured and I hope that they're not just being kind, only like to hang out in ceiling corners so while they can be pretty much the size of small rodents, they don't come near humans much.

In fact Harry and Everett were as scared of me as I was of them - apparently. So while I'm screaming at Harry, Harry was not taking any of his eight beady eyes off me in terrified fear that he might lose track of the human and not know which part of the house I might be lurking in. “Ah, a girl,” would no doubt have been the shaky words on his fangs if a spider's mandibles had the ability to form words. Okay look I'm trying but Roger's advice to shake my irrational fear by thinking of the poor spider and giving is a name to become it's friend is just not working when every time I close my eyes I see an image of it having four times as many eyes and legs as me. I don't think Harry, Everett and I will ever be enjoying tea together unfortunately but if this beast meeting carries on, I might have to see a therapist.

Oh and by the way, book on 'Melbourne's Wildlife'. I don't care if you decide to call it a 'legless lizard', I'm afraid it's still a goddam snake.

Doggies canned in Pies

Well, here we are again nearing the end of another AFL season, the Grand Final looming next weekend. It's a menagerie fight between Cats and Dogs over a bunch of Magpies and Crows it would seem with Geelong, Collingwood, St Kilda and Footscray the prominent teams hanging in there in the finals. Oh, and the Adelaide crows are there too but we don't talk much about them 'cos they are not a Victorian team. It seems that there are still the diehards that believe the uniquely strange game that started as the VFL (Victorian Football League) should never have gone national. They take comfort in the knowledge that the Sydney Swans migrated from South Melbourne and that Brisbane's team is Fitzroy in disguise. I know diddly-squat about footy but I can't help overhearing the passionate conversations. Even those who support other sports as far removed as motorsport and yachting still know the names of the Victorian teams at the very least. It's a Melbourne thing and you can't call yourself a true local until you know a war cry or two.

I once asked why Australians couldn't just play rugby like everyone else and be happy with international competitions. The indignant answer came back; “we had to have an identity, a sport that belongs just to us. The U.S. has grid iron, there's Pacific Cricket and Canada is pretty much the only country to go nuts over ice hockey. Ergo we invent a wacky way to play football so that it will be neither soccer football nor rugby football. And it shall be known hence forth as footy.”

So how do you support footy? Well apparently you pick a team based not on form but on prejudice. You are completely within your rights to pledge allegiance using whatever criteria you wish as long as once pledged, you are a supporter for life. There's no option to change without very scary things happening to you. Your choice might have been based on lineage, who your father, grandfather, etc supported. It might have been a whimsical youthful rebellion against afore mentioned paternal influence. It might have been a team chosen in direct opposition to your husband just to piss him off and create healthy competition within the marriage. Support divides families when Mum and Dad barrack for different teams. Parent's openly vie with bribery and corruption for their children's loyalty. It's important to catch 'em while they are young and impressionable because remember, membership is FOR LIFE!

So if you are a team and your supporters have nothing to do with playing form, the idea is to get yourself a raucously wicked war cry that will attract the masses. Hence “Go the Doggies” for the Western Bulldogs and “Carn the Pies” to mimic the call of the Collingwood Magpies. This team would better get my allegiance if said pies were actually handed out free at games but apparently it's not what the cry means. That's all it takes apparently, a cry that sounds fantastic when bellowed at the top of cigarette graveled lungs.

So who does this fresh blood new Melbourne immigrant barrack for? Well I give as much toss about it as I do the back end of a rat which means that my allegiance is up for grabs based purely on the best pie deal. Yes that is correct, I am corruptible and my support is for sale. But remember folks, I'm a vego and have yet to be offered a really good, innovative pastry meal so you will need a sophisticated pie offer to tempt me to your team.

Train of thought

There are of course times when public transportation can raise a smile or our sense of community spirit to the best of humanity. Sitting on a Craigieburn train one day (not in any particular hurry so therefore not stressed), it came to a halt. There we remained, trapped so to speak in our capsule, unable to get off, unable to get on with things. It was a nice day, the train was not full so the feeling of claustrophobia was nowhere in my sight. I was simply resigned to waiting...as were the other passengers obviously.

Two minutes...five minutes...ten...and an announcement from a less than impressed weary train driver...”I'm sorry passengers it would appear that there is only one platform in operation at North Melbourne Station today and that every other train in the city is being allowed on ahead of us. I do apologise.” I looked at the girl opposite me who had looked up from her mobile phone at the sound of the disembodied voice and our eyes met in mutual amusement. Even train drivers have bad days.

My regular line has been subjected to dastardly track works. This means that anyone leaving the city after 7.30pm gets off-loaded at Clifton Hill and squashed on to a connecting bus. This adds its own special adventure to the journey. It's pitch black outside the bus and there are so many bodies crammed on that you couldn't see where you are even if you had night vision goggles. Intelligent drivers then who announce the stations so you don't have to count them off on the unfamiliar road trip, are really appreciated. One such journey where the stops were not being announced led to confusion and subsequent uprising. One passenger started loudly announcing the stations for the driver. We had a very nervous old Japanese man with a bicycle sharing the bus who was anxious not to miss his stop. Why he didn't ride his bike instead of adding it to the cramped space was beyond me but no one seemed that fussed by the inconvenience of accommodating it. This is what I mean about the best of humanity. Take us off the impersonal train and we become people again, able to talk to and help each other out. People talk on the trams and buses, it just seems to be trains that turns us into ice sculptures.

On another bus replacement night we passengers were left standing in the freezing cold, stormy dark waiting for a late connection. Did we grumble? Did we complain? No, we chatted and got to know each other. We stamped our feet to keep warm and compared climates from our originating homes. We reminisced about holidays in the sun. We laughed and made the time pass quickly by betting on which one of us would not last and opt for the gathering taxis. “Ah, where's your balls mate, are you man or mouse?” to the businessman opting out and heading for the cab. You meet some nice people at the bus stop. You meet no one on the train.

Points however for the funniest announcement I've heard so far goes to the driver watching over the cctv, a smart arse school boy force the doors and leap on at the last minute as the train started to pull away. “Would the passenger who just forced the door please note that this is a very dangerous practise. Falling between the train and track could cause death and at the very least the rest of us wouldn't enjoy watching you lose a leg. So don't be an idiot.”