Originally Published in The Clifton Courier, September 6, 2017

Catching public transport before dawn is like belonging to a club you were forced to join.

I generally catch the 6.30am train into the city, hurtling toward productivity while most people are still waking up. But for a brief stint in the past fortnight, I’ve been hitching a ride on 5.30am train as an early bird trying catch the proverbial worm. And while it’s only an hour earlier than my normal ride, the difference is staggeringly different.

For one, the entire train reeks of morning breath. It basically smells like stale skin, onion and old couch with a hint of ciggies. It’s so powerful you can almost see it, like that smoky haze that hangs around when someone nearby is burning off. In my mind, it’s the yellowy beige colour your tongue goes when you have a sinus infection.

At 6.30pm the train it doesn’t exactly smell like a scented candle stand, but it’s less offensive. It’s not that it smells better; it’s just a lower potency of these smells.

It’s also very difficult to tell what jobs people are headed to, because most people are in trackies, sloppy joes and, like me, the kind of shawls the stereotypical cranky great aunt wears on bad daytime movies. At 6.30am, it’s much easier to distinguish what people do for a living. You have the tradies in high-vis, the site foremen in slightly-smicko high-vis, receptionists in pencil skirts and the banker wankers in suits that cost more than my car. But at 5.30am, it’s just a mash of non-descript comfy clothing.

It’s like people don’t really care at that time of the morning. The societal norms are relaxed. You don’t have to be as clean or well dressed or even lucid before dawn, because it’s a miracle you’re up at all. And everyone seems to be rather forgiving of each other, because we’re all in the same boat/train.

We’re all up hating life, avoiding eye contact as we shuffle groggily to whatever location we’d pledged ourselves to be at that time of the morning.

And if on the very off chance we did make eye contact it was the non-judgemental kind. We would each give the other a look that says: “yeah mate, this is a grievous injustice that we’re awake, bumping into one another when we could be in bed like all other people who have are not currently being smited by the universe. But we’re in this together. I get you. I feel your pain. And while I have no evidence to base this on, I believe you can do this”.

It’s amazing how much one cranky but non-threatening glance can communicate. We’re all like that bird Ronan Keating was banging on about when he sang When You Say Nothing At All – except we collectively smell like damp bed sheets that need a wash.

At first I thought this 5.30am club were a crude kind of people, but after just a few days, I became one of them. I mean, I would still brush my teeth but I certainly began caring even less about my outward appearance. I relied much more heavily on dry shampoo. I wore socks with my sandal-ish flats. I wore a shirt twice in one week without a wash in between (although I did strategically space the second wear from the first by a few days to make it seem plausible that it could have been washed).

Because, let’s face it, no one important was going to see me at 5.30am. And by the time I headed home again at 2.30pm, everyone important would be in meetings or getting a coffee to ward off the 3pm slump. I would come and go without really being seen.

By virtue of the time of day, it was like I was invisible. And I have to say, I liked the power that came with.

I may not be able to integrate back into society.*

* UPDATE: I’m still wearing my shawl to work and I DID get about with three-day-old hair despite going for two jogs. I mean, sweat plus head grease plus dry shampoo equals volume. I did, however, wear make up today to counteract my grungy hair because it’s all about balance.