Every morning my alarm goes off at 8am. I usually hit snooze, which means my alarm clock goes off again at 8:09 and some change. At this point I usually leap out bed realizing that I have all of 8 minutes to get dressed and run outside to catch the 8:18 ferry from McMahon's point to Circular Quay. Now, in theory, I don't need to catch the 8:18 and, for the record, I have never actually managed to catch the 8:18 ferry. This is for two reasons. One: I've only made it to the ferry wharf by 8:18am twice. Two: the pilot must hate yanks, because even if it's 8:14 (*cough* this morning *cough*) and I'm running frantically towards the wharf in full view of the ferry, it always leaves just before I get there.
So why bother catching the 8:18am Ferry from McMahon's Point to Circular Quay (pronounced "Key", for all you Yanks) if, in theory, I don't have to? Two words: Sydney. Buses. I am thoroughly convinced that somewhere between Watson's Bay, where my bus line terminates, and Circular Quay, where I catch it, there is a very large sink hole, or maybe a eldritch* apparition/portal to another dimension of Bermuda Triangle proportions that swallows all the 32X buses on their way to pick me up. Nearly on a daily basis, the 325 doesn't appear at its allotted time. The 327 doesn't appear. Finally, through some luck or perhaps through some sort of group prayer or mantra...maybe some sort of a talisman only the bus driver has procured by less than valiant means, the 326 bus arrives at the exact prescribed moment. Poor sap is chained to the gear shift, though. Anyway, that means I'm going to be 15 minutes late for work. Thank you, universe. I love you too. On the bright side, at least my commute is beautiful. I guess I can't really complain too much, can I?
So goes my endless saga of trying to catch the 8:18am ferry continues,
*Fan's of H.P. Lovecraft will enjoy my choice of vocabulary here, I imagine.
We went out into the moonless and tortuous network of that incredibly ancient town; went out as the lights in the curtained windows disappeared one by one, and the Dog Star leered at the throng of cowled, cloaked figures that poured silently from every doorway and formed monstrous processions up this street and that, past the creaking sigus and antediluvian gables, the thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows; threading precipitous lanes where decaying houses overlapped and crumbled together; gliding across open courts and churchyards where the bobbing lanthorns made eldritch drunken constellations.