There are only three things I fear about catching public transport in Melbourne:

1. Getting one of the old rattlers with no air conditioning on a hot day
2. Seeing people I know that I don't want to talk to, and
3. Forgetting my iPod.

Guess which one happened to me today?

Rushing to get to work "one time" (currently sitting at 9:30am and rising), I dashed out of the house without checking my bag. Got on the train, sat down and realised I'd left iJosh at home. This was going to be one long train ride.

I scrambled for a replacement. With a sudden burst of resourcefulness, I realised I had my mobile's headset with me, so I could at least listen to the tunes on my phone. The bad news? The only tunes I'd ported across were camp songs I thought could work as ringtones. So my playlist consists of: Madonna's Hung Up, Aqua's Calling You Now and - I kid you not, it's so sad - Cher's Turn Back Time.

Clearly the phone wasn't going to help.

So I sat. And stared.

Usually, there's at least one hottie on the train you can play the staring game with. (Even if they don't realise they're playing, and they suspect you're someone with an odd facial tic that's set off by looking back at them when they stare at you. The fun never ends. Or starts, I forget which one.) But today was unfortunate, as the only other passengers were school kids. Not the hot, American teen movie kinda kids - the pimply arse-faced kinda kids.

While I did my best to pretend I wasn't hanging on every word of their conversation, I did just that - and was sadly reminded of a sad fact: teenagers talk absolute shit. "I went to this fuckin' party, fuckin' Tom was there, fuckin' we got wasted, fuckin' how hard is math," etc. 

Though you have to admire the little scallywags' ability to hold a high enough opinion of their purile crap to think it's worthy of airing in front of a peak hour train. Big Brother holds a bright albeit brief future for many of these young 'uns.

The trip home was even worse, despite having the mildly diverting MX. You see, I encountered yet another form of pollution way beyond teenagers' noise pollution. That is, fat pollution. In a row of three seats, I sat on the seat closest to the aisle - as you do when you're a tall bugger like me, thanks to the leg room. However, two little Miss Blocking Sunshines sat next to me, and their combined girth forced me halfway out the aisle.

Which wouldn't have been so much of a problem, if this train wasn't overcrowded. As a result, thanks to the passenger standing directly next to me, I had arse shoulder.

To compound matters, I was in the seat nearest to the door - the one with a handrail on the roof, which was being utilised by another passenger directly in front. So not only was I barely sitting with the world-famous Two Fat Ladies with a monumental case of arse shoulder, I now had full-blown crotch face to deal with.

And every rustling noise of the fat ladies' chip packets (seriously, they're always eating, eh?), the thrusts to my face, and the arse wiping on my shoulder was amplified.

Chinese water torture has nothing on a music-less trip between Frankston and the city - although I do hear the old rattlers are being used as quite effective counter-terrorism aides on hot days.