Richmond Roulette
Every day, I play a this super fun little game. I get up in the morning, put on my 'costume' (shirt 'n' slacks), and go to my office and pretend that I'm a fully fledged adult.
I have a playmate each morning, too. Together we play make believe, me and Connex, and pretend that there's a functioning public transport system in Melbourne.
I have to catch the train from Seaford to Southern Cross Station. If stations were magically in alphabetical order, that'd be a dream, but as anyone else who catches the train from my 'hood can tell you, it's a hell ride that takes a full hour. So I look for any shortcuts I can - including figuring out the exact door I need to exit from to reach the escalators before all the slow fatties do.
There's also a dangling lure in the prospect of changing trains at Richmond to catch a train that goes the other way around the City Loop, which could very well save me upwards of 10 minutes. If it all goes pear-shaped, it could make me even later.
Welcome to the next level of this wonderful game - Richmond Roulette.
And the smoking revolver in this game of chances is those friggin' signs at Richmond Station that tell you where - and most importantly, when - the next Flinders Street direct (or City Loop train) is departing from. From a sprint-inducing one minute to an agonising 15 minutes, The Sign can make or break your morning.
So, this morning, I decided that even if a Flinders St direct train was up to 8 minutes away - as it was the prior morning - that I would, by fate of chance, actually arrive at work earlier than if I decided to stay sat and go underground. I exited the train carriage, positively aflutter at the prospect of hurrying to whichever platfrom The Sign told me to approach. 'Platform 7', it quite confidently told me. '7 minutes', it affirmed.
Seven minutes is quite ample time to traverse between platforms three and seven, the distance between platforms not even being a quick five second stroll.
So imagine my surprise when I approached the stairs to platform seven to find The Sign's mortal enemy, The TVs, boasting that, in fact, the Flinders Street direct train was departing "NOW" at the top of the stairs I was now scrambling up, leaving frail elderly women fallen and general weak vagabonds in my path.
I made the train, and let my heart relax in the knowledge that I had skimmed at least 10 minutes from my daily commute. Those who travel will intimately know my joy.
However, the cunt of a train then stopped just outside Flinders Street for at least 15 minutes.
I don't want to play any more.
I have a playmate each morning, too. Together we play make believe, me and Connex, and pretend that there's a functioning public transport system in Melbourne.
I have to catch the train from Seaford to Southern Cross Station. If stations were magically in alphabetical order, that'd be a dream, but as anyone else who catches the train from my 'hood can tell you, it's a hell ride that takes a full hour. So I look for any shortcuts I can - including figuring out the exact door I need to exit from to reach the escalators before all the slow fatties do.
There's also a dangling lure in the prospect of changing trains at Richmond to catch a train that goes the other way around the City Loop, which could very well save me upwards of 10 minutes. If it all goes pear-shaped, it could make me even later.
Welcome to the next level of this wonderful game - Richmond Roulette.
And the smoking revolver in this game of chances is those friggin' signs at Richmond Station that tell you where - and most importantly, when - the next Flinders Street direct (or City Loop train) is departing from. From a sprint-inducing one minute to an agonising 15 minutes, The Sign can make or break your morning.
So, this morning, I decided that even if a Flinders St direct train was up to 8 minutes away - as it was the prior morning - that I would, by fate of chance, actually arrive at work earlier than if I decided to stay sat and go underground. I exited the train carriage, positively aflutter at the prospect of hurrying to whichever platfrom The Sign told me to approach. 'Platform 7', it quite confidently told me. '7 minutes', it affirmed.
Seven minutes is quite ample time to traverse between platforms three and seven, the distance between platforms not even being a quick five second stroll.
So imagine my surprise when I approached the stairs to platform seven to find The Sign's mortal enemy, The TVs, boasting that, in fact, the Flinders Street direct train was departing "NOW" at the top of the stairs I was now scrambling up, leaving frail elderly women fallen and general weak vagabonds in my path.
I made the train, and let my heart relax in the knowledge that I had skimmed at least 10 minutes from my daily commute. Those who travel will intimately know my joy.
However, the cunt of a train then stopped just outside Flinders Street for at least 15 minutes.
I don't want to play any more.
the richmond roulette... used to know it soooo well but never knew it's name.... sensational entry... loves it. hates the game too... feel very blessed i now drive to a workplace nowhere near the city!
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Richmond Roulette... I used to be one of those people, craning my neck to try and read the sign half way along the platform, running up and down stairs to platform 1 or 7. I then realized that the time saving is negligible. All it takes is your train to stop between R and Flinders a few times, that combined with the amount of time it takes the second train to get there and the (maximum 15min) timesaving is obliterated. A good read though. I would love to see more observational stuff from you Bro.
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