Virtual Reality

Virtual Reality
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday March 14, 2015

The train doors hissed apart. My youngsters scampered inside the near empty carriage, debating the merits of north-facing window over south. They scooted towards the driver’s door and clambered onto the bench under the largest expanse of window, a foot apart, each claiming the winning view. Babbling to each another, they pressed their noses to the glass as the train glided out of the station.

Teenage son and I sat down beside them. I assessed the couple opposite – a well-preserved grandma in a floppy felt hat and her pint-sized companion, a boy about the same age as my four-year-old daughter. He was sitting quietly, his thonged feet dangling, head bowed, transfixed by the iPad in his lap. Every few moments, he’d jolt into action, little thumbs swiping frantically at the screen, a chorus of bubbles noises accompanying his efforts.

“Next stop: City West,” sang the lady-spruiker over the intercom. My youngsters parroted her in high-pitched voices. They leapt to their feet for a game of statues. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder like the Queen’s guard, they competed to see who’d falter as the train lurched to a halt beside the platform. As the driver squeezed the brakes, small daughter teetered, then stumbled forward, collapsing on the floor in a fit of giggles.

“I win!” gloated seven-year-old brother as she scrambled to her feet.

“Again!” she squealed, resuming her sentry post as she waited for the driver to accelerate.

That’s when I noticed a flicker of disapproval on the grandmother’s face. Her mouth set into a grim line. I checked myself before smiling at her: “They love that game,” I said, attempting to humour her.

“Pfff,” she harrumphed. “The train’s not a playground.”

“I know. But it’s empty,” I said. “I wouldn’t let them do it if it was full.”

She wasn’t buying my mitigation.

“You young ones,” she said. “You’re the parents who won’t parent!”

It took me a moment to register her back-hander. I scanned her stony face for signs of amusement but saw only contempt. I was saved by the tinny train-voice chiming “Next station: Fremantle.”

My children capered by my side as I gathered our bags. My brain scrambled for a riposte but the woman’s snipe had thrown me. I gave her a conciliatory nod as I stood up, wishing I’d joined the school debating team. For the rest of the morning, I felt rattled. I deconstructed our conversation and questioned my parenting.

Had my children made a nuisance of themselves? Should I have discouraged their playful exuberance? Was train-nanna the more considerate parent for occupying her grandson with an iPad?

The little boy had barely registered the journey, let alone the view. He’d missed the train clacking over Fremantle Bridge; the vertiginous drop to the swirling water below. He hadn’t spotted the two tugboats ploughing in from Gage Roads, nor marvelled at the bulk carrier unloading its cargo of white Hyundais like so many Matchbox cars. His curiosity about the world outside his window had been stifled by the attention-seeking gadget on his lap. The virtual world was his babysitter while real life passed him by.

I, too, have succumbed to the charms of electronic child-minding. Our two-hour trip to the family farm near Collie is now driven in rapt silence. Our three kids are allowed to power up their screens as soon as we hit the freeway. The bickering subsides as we coast over the Narrows Bridge. I swivel to see who in the back seat is silently crying. I’m greeted by my trio in matching pose, heads down, headphones clamped to their ears, thumbs hovering over shiny glass. I no longer bother to point out the Old Mill, the jet-skis foaming up the river, the parasailers tethered to their harlequin canopies.

I miss playing I Spy. I miss the alphabet games that taught my daughter her letters. I miss the collective groan from the back seat when I suggest a round of Who am I? (An hour later, no-one wants our charades to end.)

Lately, I even pine for middle child’s frequent piddle-stops. They gave us an excuse to explore the bush. But bladder breaks are a rarity now there’s computer time on offer. (My lad would delay a wee through an earthquake rather than cut short his weekly ration of a Minecraft game.)

Our drives to the farm, the five of us in forced company, are now sterile. I like my family boisterous, not tranquilized. It’s no fun without smallest child whining “How much longer?” as we pass Jandakot Airport.

The next time we go to the farm, I’m banning the iPads. I’m going to hold court from the front seat and parent the old-fashioned way. We’ll have spelling bees and play Spotto. They’ll hate me for it but I don’t care. That train grandma has done me a favour. I’ve seen the future of parenting and I want my family back.

Lending an Ear

Lending an Ear
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday May 31, 2014

Someone once said train stations are the gates to the glorious and the unknown. As our train slid into Fremantle station, the kids and I spilled out into the chequerboard foyer. I stopped to do up small son’s shoelaces. That’s when I heard a quavery voice over my left shoulder:

“Can you plug me in?”

We were the last passengers left. All I could see were four small grey wheels behind a mobile advertising stand. I took two more steps and realised the wheels belonged to a motorised wheelchair. It was tucked into the corner, backed up to the wall. Its occupant, an old man with rheumy eyes and a grubby green shirt. His woollen vest was peppered with moth holes. He waved a power cable at me.

“Plug me in?” he asked again.

My first shameful instinct was to look away and hurry past.

But he caught my eye and pointed down to a power point: “Can’t reach it. Flat battery.”

He wasn’t irrational. He was stranded – trapped in a comatose machine.

My youngsters scampered over to inspect the mystery man behind the billboard.

I took the cord from his hand, crouched behind his wheelchair and inserted the plug. His chair emitted a shy peep as the battery awoke.

“Where’s your ear?” I heard my four-year-old daughter say. I scrambled to my feet: “Don’t be rude!” I whispered. And then I saw he was indeed missing his left ear. I squirmed at her impertinence, but the old bloke didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what happens when you don’t wear a hat!” he said. He winked at me as small child studied his bald, pink head.

“The sun got to my ear” he told her. “First they cut off this little bit,” and he grabbed the top of his remaining ear. “Then this bit went.” He waggled the lobe. “And before I knew it, I just had a hole.”

This gruesome tale only emboldened my daughter. “Same as a snake,” she said.

I cringed. But the old fellow chuckled, then motioned towards my 6-year-old son who’d been struck dumb by fear or curiosity.

“Got any questions about my ear, son?”

My boy shook his head and inched closer to my side.

“Will you grow another one?” his sister piped up.

“Could’ve, but I’m too old now.”

Satisfied, she took off to play hopscotch on the tiles. Her brother began hopping too.

Why had I been so reluctant to stop and talk to this witty fellow? He was scruffy, but then, so was my four-year-old. He’d unnerved me by calling out, but how else could he attract my attention? Confined to a wheelchair, he was hardly likely to leap out and snatch my handbag.

“Name’s Ned,” he said, and raised his arthritic hand in salute.

“Was it skin cancer that took your ear?” I asked him as we watched the kids, his wheelchair tethered to the power point.

“Twenty years on Koolan Island’ll do that to you” he said. “Worked for BHP. Just a singlet I wore – a singlet and footy shorts. I’m covered in these blasted splotches.” And he rubbed the dark mottles on his arm.  

We fell into an easy patter about harsh summers. And when my youngsters began bickering, I said: “Nice talking to you,” and the kids and I trooped off.

A week later, I’m still thinking about that stranded pensioner. My children are still skiting about Ned’s missing ear. I repeated the story to the German student we’re billeting.

“I would have kept walking,” she said. “In Berlin, we avoid eye contact in the street. We call it ‘wie Luft behandeln.’ It means to look through someone like they’re air.”

Many a time I’ve given a passing stranger a friendly nod and been snubbed. How that irks me!

A sociologist in Chicago reports that commuters who acknowledge each other enjoy their trip far more than those who ignore their fellow travellers. Even a small smile, or a throwaway line about the weather, makes people happier.

Ned’s story about life on Koolan Island made me curious. My laptop told me that in the 60s, Koolan was the largest and most remote iron ore mine in the country. Not much bigger than Rottnest, the island was then home to 900 workers. (Koolan also claimed to have the world’s longest golf hole, an 860 yard, par seven, which doubled as the air strip.)

I don’t want my children being fearful of strangers. Out with me, I want them to be comfortable saying hello to the kaleidoscope of passers-by. I want them to empathise with people who are different.

Keen to keep her ears, my daughter now wears a hat without argument.

All credit to you Ned!

Fast Track to Nowhere

Fast Track to Nowhere
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday July 13, 2013

Train travel is the ultimate vehicle for people-watching. It’s the perfect antidote to the four-walled claustrophobia of housewifery. I like to feel part of the throng to-ing and fro-ing, strangers heading briefly in the same direction.

On my way to the station, I cast my eye over the dozen commuters up ahead on the platform. Everyone does their waiting in their own way. No-one looks agitated or out of breath, so I conclude we haven’t just missed the train.

My three-year-old daughter scrambles out of her stroller to empty her ten cent coin collection into the ticket machine. A dishevelled young bloke with wild hair and no shoes shuffles past us. He settles himself down in a patch of sunlight strobed by the wooden bench and closes his eyes. For a moment, my toddler stops feeding the machine while she studies his face.

“Hit the jackpot yet?” An elderly gent in a tweed jacket has strolled up behind us. As the last of the ten cent pieces clunk down the slot, small daughter fishes for the ticket as it drops into the tray. “I winned!” she yells, waving her prize in the air.

We crane our necks to see who’ll be first to spot our train snaking round the bend. We hear the hiss of metal brakes and soon after four carriages rumble into the station.

I always turn left once inside the doors, just to imagine the thrill of first class travel. Three-year-old, kneeling on her seat, presses her face against the window. I settle in for the ride to town, trying to guess where my travelling companions are going and why.

Next to me is a nerdy-looking bloke wearing Woody Allen glasses. He holds his smartphone in his lap and texts: “Be there soon, darling” I feel guilty reading over his shoulder, but I can’t help myself. I wonder if he’s texting a lover, a girlfriend or his wife. I settle on ‘girlfriend’ and picture her as Annie Hall in wide-legged woollen pants and fedora hat.

Opposite us are two middle-aged women talking in sign language. I am mesmerised. In between bouts of furious hand movements they throw back their heads and laugh raucously. Their merriment is the only human sound in our carriage.

Everyone else has their head bowed, fixated by the gadgets in their laps. There’s not a book or newspaper in sight. No-one is talking, or taking in the view. There is only quiet concentration as thumbs sweep over keypads. Technology is hard at work here.  

I’m struck by the notion of eye contact, and what has happened to it. There’s certainly none in this carriage. Even the three teenagers huddled by the door are isolates bent over their devices. They are strangely expressionless, oblivious to their surroundings. A businessman standing near them stumbles and grabs for the handhold as the train brakes start to grip – but not one of the teenagers look up. Twice he has to say “excuse me” before they begrudgingly move aside to let him off. 

Perhaps the virtual world makes reality dull by comparison.  But I remember the bus ride home from high school as the highlight of my school days. The novelty of having boys on board sent our girly chatter into hyper-drive. One sly smile from a cute boy would provide endless entertainment. We would duck behind our seats giggling, then dissect his body language so intently we thought we could read his mind before he even spoke it. (“Can you reach the bell for me?” became as exciting as a first kiss.)

Yesterday, at my favourite corner cafe, I was puzzled by two young women having coffee at a nearby table. They looked to me like old pals, but for several minutes, they sat in silence, absentmindedly punching their thoughts into their phones. Perhaps connecting on Facebook is more fun than connecting across the table, I thought. But it was an odd sight. What’s driving this obsession? Fear of missing out? On what? The rapid-fire rush of social networking.

At dinner I tell my eldest son about my train ride. I recount for him what it was like before smartphones and iPods. How I would catch buses and trains and have no choice but to kill time watching the passing parade of commuters or the slideshow of suburbs flitting by. I tell him I quite enjoyed the downtime after the frenetic pace of the newsroom. 

I wonder out loud whether we’re all the more productive for having the internet as our constant and available companion. Whether this ever-present connectedness is making us super- efficient. And are we happier for it? My son pipes up: “Maybe those people on the train were just plain bored, Mum.”

That got me thinking. Dead time is now considered a waste of time. Portable technology fills the quiet gaps in living and keeps us permanently switched on and plugged in. Perhaps that’s why I love forgoing the car for the train: someone else to do the driving. Twenty minutes of mental holiday. That’s what I crave.