Peter Bromhead: Relish in railway mayhem

Cartoon / Peter Bromhead

Born into the lower working classes, I've always gravitated to residing next to busy railway lines, the traditional address for those of humble social standing.

As a young man earning my first wage, I shared Dickensian lodgings backing on to one of London's busiest railway stations. This was the age of steam, so my shirts - even when freshly laundered - were invariably covered in soot, thanks to the backyard clothesline receiving a constant blast of smoke from trains chugging back and forth.

Railway grime has followed me everywhere - even today - which is faintly surprising, considering steam engines have all but disappeared.

I maintained the link years ago, while fleeing the wrath of young ladies.

In my dissolute bachelor days, I decided it was prudent to purchase an apartment in a high-rise block, close to the city.

Equipped with electronic doors and gates, it made invading my privacy more difficult for those wishing to engage in the sort of unfathomable psychological harassment that only women enjoy.

As usual, I purchased my hideaway with barely a thought to the exterior surroundings.

Facing Parnell Domain, I recall leaving the French doors open one morning, only to return to find the furniture covered in old-fashioned train soot.

In my absence, a couple of vintage locomotives had emerged from a nearby shed and were puffing up and down outside my apartment windows, taking small children for rides.

Naturally, originating as I do from the ranks of the subservient, I welcomed the return of railway effluvia and grit as part of the environmental stigmata that I was accustomed to.

Of course, my bachelor-fortress eyrie was long ago besieged and finally overrun by the present caregiver.

Under her ruthless occupation, I now sub-exist only as a housebound prisoner, indentured once again into never-ending servitude as a parent, picking up Lego pieces and enduring highly toxic nappy-changing sessions.

Over the Christmas break, KiwiRail temporarily closed its city line and commenced a major realignment operation of the tracks in preparation for a new railway station overlooking our apartment.

It has been three weeks of hellish sleepless nights, with round-the-clock dust, noise and arc lights invading our space.

"I can't stand it for another moment!" screamed the caregiver.

I, on the other hand, originating from a more lowly background, have found all this night-and-day railway mayhem rather magically nostalgic.