Low life | 11 October 2012

We hop on a bus. It’s moderately full. We stand downstairs, next to the doors. The bus pulls off and I study her from the side without her noticing it. In a Sunday newspaper style magazine that I read recently, there was a piece by a woman writer about ‘the ten things women really want from a man’. These ten things were contrasted with the ‘11 myths about what women want’. I read both lists closely, having no idea either about the myth or the reality, even at my age.

It is a myth, she claimed, for example, that women like their men to take a serious interest in what they wear. They don’t, apparently. ‘We want you to say, “That’s new. You look fantastic,” not have an opinion,’ she said.

We are at that early stage of a relationship where I am astonished to see her wearing clothes, any kind of clothes at all. And as the bus lurches and kangaroos from one red light to another, I silently study hers with the curiosity and wonder of an aboriginal from a hitherto undiscovered tribe encountering a fully clothed individual for the first time.

While the bus is briefly motionless at a bus stop, she moves forward to consult with the driver about his route. The driver answers conscientiously and at length, entailing a small delay. Some of the information he gives isn’t clear to her, and she asks for a restatement and clarification, which the driver patiently supplies, extending the delay by perhaps a further 10 to 15 seconds. She thanks him and makes her way back to the standing area.

Seated close to the front of the bus is this Valkyrie-type woman. Her heavy make-up and thick blonde plaits suggest a frantic fanning of the dying embers of her former youthful beauty.