Don’t wear this @ AusPost

Yellow is not a good idea @ Ikea

Mistaken identity is not a concept that I’m unfamiliar with, from my school boy days of tireless “Mr Bean” taunts to my travels across the globe with an uncanny ability to be asked for directions in every city I visit it just seems to be one of those things I’ve become accustomed to. Today’s effort was without a doubt the most ludicrous to date, so much so that I just felt the need to share.

I had a few packages that required mailing, nothing particularly exciting there, in fact going to any post office within Melbourne’s CBD is like stepping in to a void where queues to tellers seem to grow longer rather than shorter and god forbid you visit one during your lunch hour because you’re bound to return to the office well beyond the hour you had to take in the first place! I’d done the right thing today, getting down to a new-to-me building as my working quarters has just relocated. It was much larger than my previous local, tellers at both ends of what seemed like an endless plateau of packaging wonders born down by eye piercing fluorescent light.

Collecting my required boxing materials I proceeded to one of the free “addressing areas” or as the casual observer may put it, “big black desk with pens on it” in the middle of the imaginary that is the Elizabeth St GPO. Two packages in to my five and an elderly gent beckons my attention wavering a scrawled shred of paper and looking clearly confused about where he was perhaps mistaking the brightness of lights for St. Peters gates.

“Excuse me, is this Bourke St?”
“No, this is Elizabeth St.” I replied.
“I’m trying to get to Little Collins St” he continued on, “Isn’t that it crossing over there?”

I felt sorry for the poor old guy he was practically entering cardiac arrest with confusion and being that this was, for once, the actual city I lived in where I was being asked for directions I didn’t mind helping him out.

“If you go back down this main street you’ll first cross Bourke Street and then the next one is Little Collins.” I explained.
Now as simple and clear as these instructions were there was a further five minute discussion detailing this sentence in perfect and repeated clarity until at some point the stars aligned themselves with Jupiter and a sense of calm broke out over his face with a sudden realisation that he didn’t have that far to go.

Satisfied with my good deed for the day I returned to my prior position behind the table picking up my pen to continue arduously inking addresses to cardboard, quickly flushing the warm glow that adorned me mere nano-seconds earlier.

“Excuse me, I just want to send…”

Looking up halfway through the postcode for Toowoomba (4350 by the way) across the black laminated surface of my desk stood not one, not two, but three complete strangers who had taken it upon themselves to queue for my rather inadequate postal services.

“I’m sorry, I…”
“I just want to send this to Sydney” she cut in, thrusting a yellowed envelope beneath my face.
“I’m sorry I don’t work here, I’m just trying to address some packages” I finally managed to say.
“Oh… I thought you did.” (well that’s kind of obvious really now isn’t it) “It’s that red shirt you’re wearing” she stated before trouncing off in disgust.
“You mean the red shirt with the giant logo looking like Colonel Sanders from KFC on it?” I thought to myself before looking up at the remaining pseudo queue with a comical shrugged look to which was returned, and I kid you not, a roll of the eyes and an audible “tsk”! I’m sorry Sir, the next time I’m trying to mail something I’ll be sure to make sure I’ve completed Australia Post’s induction course and can tend your enquiry in a more satisfactory manner next time. Moron.

I can’t blame them though, it’s like Christmas walking in to a post office and seeing no one in the queue I would’ve dove in like them too more than likely! The point is it was the shirt that did it, wearing a colour that was in some way reminiscent of the establishment’s uniform and that I should’ve been more aware of that as it’s not the first time I’ve had it happen, Ikea being the other major offender. Blue jeans and a yellow shirt in Ikea is either a recipe for constant annoyance or utter mayhem depending on your psychological stance. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been asked for directions/building advice/to lift something/measurements/and alike in Ikea, one day I think I’ll jump behind a register and start scanning things while yelling “beep” and proclaiming the line to be “cash only”.

The moral of the story boys and girls is that all of this was clearly my fault for choosing to wear the wrong thing in the wrong place, god forbid humanity to be aware of their surroundings. I will endeavour to ensure my clothing better contrasting those places of chance social interaction to not confuse you world. My bad.

This morning’s train ride was just like any other, a fun filled ray of sunshine on Melbourne’s finest public transport system. Without a doubt the most enjoyable twenty minutes of mine and my zombie like fellow commuters day. Quite obviously I’m not the only person who has morning issues in Melbourne, who would have thunk it?!

There was nothing particularly special about today’s “journey of joy”, the scenery outside the window was the same as the day before and while my eyes could barely part to let the sunshine pierce my retina for fear of aggravating yesterday’s drunken Super-bowl celebrations they were given grace by the final legs of the ride being underground. Ah, nothing compares to the comforting warm glow of that oh so familiar artificial light my pale skin had grown all too accustom.

It’s usually about this point I have a look around at fellow passengers, see who’s decided to bask in the radiance of my own special brand of morning beauty, I wouldn’t exactly call the sweep around the carriage as anything more than a passing glance but it’s always good to “evaluate your surroundings” if you know what I mean. *wink*, *wink*

Anyway, just as I was approaching my final stop I was picking up my bag and making my way to the door when I noticed that the woman in front of me, who was wearing a lovely white business shirt and charcoal pinstriped skirt, had unfortunately neglected to notice that right down the centre of the back of her skirt’s seam was a tear about three inches long starting about an inch from the hem and going upwards to her bum. The skirt was lets say, on the shorter side of things, a few inches above the knee so you can imagine a three inch tear was getting up to slightly revealing territory.

(Note this is not the actual skirt I saw… sheesh, who do you think I am?!!)

This is where my conundrum comes into play… Obviously I wanted to tap the poor lass on the shoulder and tell her politely that “Hey, sorry to be the bearer of bad news but you’ve got a tear running right up the middle of your arse, perhaps you might want to go home and change” in perhaps slightly more delicate words but should I go and do that I run the risk of being perceived some pervert who in her mind only noticed said tear because I was staring at her arse; which, although you may not believe, I was not.

I decided it wasn’t my place to tell her but as I watched her walk away and more and more people quite obviously notice as she passed down the train station’s platform I began to regret it with each passing glance she received. The thing is no one else bothered to tell her, well none that I saw her anyway, but how embarrassed would you be?

So my question to you teh-internets is what would you want to happen to you if you were that person walking off a train at 8am in the morning with a rather significant tear in your posterior’s clothing. I think I’d want to be told, whether it was by a male or a female, old or young, but that’s me. If I did find a tear like that I’d probably call in sick and call the day a right off! hehe.

Quite often I find myself walking down the street at any particular random time of the day in any just as random city approached by complete strangers who want to know if I’m the guy behind this website. More often than not almost immediately after I’m approached I also get to meet the warm embrace of their open palm or on particularly lucky occasions I have a more hard, clenched fist approach to the upper bridge of my nose further perpetuating my never ending quest to join the crooked likes of Hollywood greats such as Adrien Brody or Owen Wilson. You see, just in case you hadn’t figured it out already, these “fans” are in fact random persons who have no knowledge of myself and are probably wondering just who is this weirdo and why on earth should I know him?

Whilst the previous scenario may be entirely fictional it does provide a rather convenient segue into this particular post’s topic of who actually reads this blog? Someone must, there’s a few hundred hits every week and judging by the wonderful world of web statistics you’re pulled in from all corners of this big round ball I like to call “Earth”. So what I thought would be an interesting social experiment that I’m sure a tiny, tiny majority of you may partake in would be to ask you, the reader, to comment at the bottom of this article and tell me a little about yourself. I mean it’s only fair, you know all about me and my petulant ways why not tell me a little somethin’, somethin’ (to borrow a phrase from the kids these days) about your bad self!

“But Raj, what is it that you want to know about me?” I hear you painstakingly asking yourself. It’s OK my child, don’t fret I will help you out by providing some wonderfully well rounded and scientifically deduced questions below this very paragraph of all places! All you need to do is copy and paste them into the comments field and fill in the blanks! Ready?? Here we go…

The Questions about your “bad self”

• What is your name?
• Where are you from? (ie. City/Country)
• Do you know Raj in the real world and not just in a stalking online fashion type of way?
• Two part question… Do you come here often? Can I buy you a drink? Hang on; 2nd part applies to females only.
• Why is it that you’re reading this? Work that boring?
• What would you like me to write about more/less?
• How many roads must a man walk down before he can call himself a man?
• Tell me something interesting, anything… quickly, first thing that just zipped through your head!

There you go, they’re not hard at all are they?! To prove it I’m going to answer them myself to show you exactly what I’m expecting from you…. oh and if you’re wondering how to get to the comments section you need to click on the article’s title to take you to the right page.