A little trip

 esterday the sun was shining on Carlisle Street, Balaclava. I'd just had my hair cut and coloured, and there are very few moments when I would look as styled, despite the half active wear half casual wear outfit. My hands were full of brown paper bags from an unexpected purchase from a bakery, heavy sourdough laden with fat kalamata olives, cinnamon scroll coiled and dusted. 

I needed to cross the road, busy with trams and cars and people shining in the winter light. 

I've always been clumsy, bumping into tables bruises blossoming on thighs and shins, sleeves caught on door handles, toes stubbed. My phone has been dropped too many to count, the screen telling the story with cracks like a river and its tributaries stretching across the glass. 

The curb angled down, but my ankle twisted, then in slow-mo the aspalt was coming up to meet me, knees then palms, bags flung out towards the tram tracks. 

I pulled the bags towards me, then shakily got to my feet. People were all around me, sitting at tables sipping their lattes, walking their dogs.  No one approached me, no one made eye contact.  

The science behind crowds of people not offering help is manifold. 

I picked up my bags, and it hit me, my knee was throbbing and I started to cry. Not sobbing, no chest heaving or noise, just a quiet steady flow of tears seaping out uncontrollably.  I crossed the road managing to stay on my feet, and a pharmacy was right there. My eyes still leaking I found a plaster (bandaid) and disinfectant, went to pay, the assistant didn't make eye contact. 

Carlisle Street has many colourful characters,  loud and unpredictable,  intoxicated or otherwise.  Did all the people around me think I was not well or high, were they fearful of violence or awkwardness... 

I found a bench, green, cold and metal. I sat down and rolled up my trouser leg and cleaned my knee and put on the large white plaster over the bloody graze.

I felt raw and sad and exposed. I walked down the street, and a woman sitting a small table, looked up to me, "oh darling,  hows the knees are you ok?". I thanked her for checking on me, and I started crying again, embarrassed I moved on. 

Round the back of the shops, behind cyclone fencing (is that what its called) is a cafe, tiny, vegan. Under the counter, under thick glass are slabs of  sugar laden deliciousness. 

"Whats your favourite sweet treat?" I asked. 

"Oh, thats a hard one, well, you can't go passed the lammington."

"I'll take one of those, please"

"No problem" he reaches under the glass, paper bag in his other hand. "How's your morning been?" 

"Well, I just feel over on the street and noone came to help, so I need  a lamington." 

"Oh the lammington is for you, no charge." 

"Thank you, bless you." And I started crying again, like a leaky tap, I hastily made my retreat huge lamington in hand. 

Clumsy, invisible, seen, teary, grateful. Complicated.