Wet seat

This is the story of why sometimes I'm courteous.

For a while I was catching the route 16 tram to Kew. Admittedly this route is not the greatest way to get to Kew from the city as it's mind-numbingly slow and it passes through St Kilda. Now I'm not saying St Kilda is without merit, cos it's a pretty fun place to hang out in Summer, or if you are a druggie or a prostitute. But it's a fuckin' shit place to catch public transport through. And I must emphasise, it's the 'through', not the 'to' St Kilda that's the problem.

If you catch the tram there and get off in Acland Street, you're all fine. But if you need to go further than that you are in for a bumpy ride. This is because the druggies and prostitutes get on there in search of greener pastures. The vastly overrated greener pastures of Caulfield, Armadale, Hawthorn and Kew.

One particular day I was sitting down the back of the tram, iPod in, eyes closed, when an extremely large, extremely drunk woman got on the tram. I shifted nervously in my seat, hoping she wouldn't sit next to me. She didn't, thank god but she sat on the seat directly in front of me. I was immediately grossed out by the slice of takeaway pizza that she had bought. Normally the smell of pizza at 5.30 at night on the tram would make my stomach rumble with hunger, but something about the way that she clutched hold of the greasy cupboard container really made me feel ill. She devoured the pizza in a matter of seconds and shortly afterwards got off the tram. She wasn't on here for very long, I thought to myself before glancing down her empty seat.

But it wasn't totally empty. She had left behind a puddle of urine. At first I thought maybe it was just a discolouration, an old dark stain from days of piddling past, from some other drunk who couldn't control their bladder back in 1994. But alas no, I realised all too soon when the smell of fresh wee wafted underneath my nostrils.

OK fine, I'll just move seats, I thought. I was about to get up when an unsuspecting commuter boarded the tram. They made a beeline for the empty seat. My heart started pounding as I weighed up my moral dilemma. Alert them to the issue or let them sit in it? That seat's wet, I squeaked. What? the passenger scowled back at me. It's wet, I returned, I wouldn't sit there if I was you. They walked away.

So I spent the rest of my journey home as the piss monitor, official keeper of the yellow wetness. Although it was a small act of kindness, it did reassure me that I'm not totally desensitised to the well being of strangers. Even though sometimes I do bump into people in the city and don't say sorry...