Free Sydney's Song by Ia Uaro Page A

dialling our country code first. I had direct calls from England and Canada. At times I sounded like a Sydney tourism advisor because callers required it of me.
    â€œFrom Central take bus 372 to Coogee. Stunning view along the cliff-walk up to Bronte, Tamarama, and Bondi. You can swim on these famous beaches, yes. Then take bus 380 to Watson’s Bay. Great seafood. A fabulous ferry ride to Circular Quay. Interesting buskers, fascinating Opera House, Botanical Gardens. Take a ferry to Darling Harbour. Casino. Aquarium. All on a day pass. Call us for timetables, we’re here to help.”
    A guy from Newcastle was very impressed by me.
    â€œGreat service. You’re the nicest person in your office I’ve ever talked to, Sydney. May I have your phone number?”
    Whaat? He was flirting with me? So I said, “One-three-hundred five-hundred.”
    He burst out laughing.
    I wondered if these callers imagined how we looked. Some of us were blond. Some bottle blond. And we all resembled Miss World contestants, you know. Just… some had to join our in-office Biggest Loser challenge.
    When a nice old lady called, I imagined my smiling Nanna Véronique. Or my cousin Kirsten, a hairdresser on a cruise ship, each time a grumpy girl called. Whenever a pleasant young man called, my mind envisioned Christopher Reeves, strapped in his wheelchair, looking up at me with the brightest, most-peaceful, clear eyes. Eyes reflecting his tranquil soul despite his terminal illness. That was how I met him once. At the Queen Victoria Building in the City. He was my model for polite callers.
    And no, you don’t want to know how I imagined a rude caller.
    This particular morning I still received the you-wouldn’t-believe-it calls.
    â€œI lost my dress on the back seat of the bus Saturday evening,” a girl announced. “It was the L90.” Right. I gave her the number of Mona Vale Depot’s Lost Property. I wouldn’t even ask how she lost it!
    â€œWhat the ( bleep ) do you think you’re doing???” screamed a woman from Perth.” ( Bleep ) trackwork so close to Christmas?! Can’t you ( bleep ) pick a better time? I’ll be arriving in Sydney with luggage, a toddler, and a baby in a twin pram! How will I get on and off your ( bleep ) replacement bus to Scarborough? And I’m a single mother! Who’d ( bleep ) help me?”
    In lashing tones she raged against CityRail, swearing her head off. We weren’t paid to take abuse. If she had not mentioned the babies, I would have terminated the call immediately. Her kids—like myself—had not asked to be born, right? They could not choose their parents either. It was these helpless children I was determined to help. I gave her the station’s phone number for assistance in moving her luggage and kids.
    Now what exactly was the privilege of a single mother? Did it entitle her to unrestricted tolerance? Was her offensive language justified? Could we take a poll on this? Or, was she a single mother in the first place because she was so vicious her man couldn’t stand her?
    Eating alone had to be one of the saddest and loneliest activities on the planet. Eating alone forced on you the excruciating fact that you had nobody to love and nobody was there for you. Simply unbearable. At home, I never ate except a bit of fruit on my days off.
    I forced myself to eat while I had company, whoever was scheduled to have the same lunch break. Yesterday it was Bristol’s backpacker Mark, who looked so English like a young Paul McCartney. Before that it was new manager Ratko, a Czech.1300500 was a revolving door. My manager Justin would soon disappear to a lucrative job in Kings Cross, where the lifestyle was also convenient for his sexual preference.
    Today I lunched out with former-geophysicist-turned-mum Nina.In the lift we encountered our then Immigration Minister, whose office was one floor down, with his hulking bodyguards. He