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What’s in a list?

One of my favourite movies of recent times is Ruben Fleisher’s Zombieland. Apart from the obvious appeal this movie offers with the killing of a whole lot of already dead people, there’s also Jesse Eisenberg and Woody Harrelson, and how can you not be impressed when a ‘list’ is a key character. Columbus’ rule list of the things you need to survive has kept him alive to this point (the list character is introduced at the beginning of the movie – I don’t want to give away the plot for those who haven’t seen it).

Unlike Columbus, as a non-list maker it’s clear to me I probably wouldn’t survive in Zombieland (also I fail rule number one which is to maintain cardio, so would probably be easily caught and eaten by a crazed zombie).

However, list-making is something I really admire in people. I have friends who make lists and blog these on a regular basis. I have work colleagues who write down everything they have to do in a list format and tick them off as they go. I know others who write down birthday dates in a list so they don’t forget anyone.

The most I do is write a shopping list. However, I only ever remember to pull it out when I am in the checkout queue with half of my groceries already on the conveyer belt and by then it is too late to go back and grab anything else without offending the checkout operator or the people queuing behind you.

It’s not like I don’t understand the value of lists. I do. They are crucial. Imagine if the builders of the space shuttles or cosmo-rockets (what do the Russians call their space ships?) didn’t consult a list to make sure they’ve put the right sprocket thingies next to the booster bits. Imagine if they forgot to put in the space food. ‘Sorry Uri, you’re on a bit of a diet while you’re up there in the stratosphere’. (Apologies to anyone who actually knows about space exploration. I obviously have no idea.)

Visualise there not being a telephone list. How would we ever find one another? Particularly in the old says without a ‘Siri’ to consult. People’s contact numbers would just be….where? Stuck on our fridges, randomly, on adhesive notes.

Consider if we didn’t have surgical lists? You could turn up to the hospital to have a couple of suspicious looking moles removed and end up having a gender reassignment operation. Okay I expect a gender reassignment takes quite a few surgical procedures but do you really want any of your bits fiddled with in an ‘operational’ way if you’re not expecting it?

What if we didn’t have the ‘Australia’s richest’ or ‘the world’s richest’ lists? We would never know who to admire and place at the forefront of gossip magazines. We would never know whose rhetoric to place on the front page of the newspaper about the best way to run the country’s economy (of course they would know!). We would never have to hear the ridiculous disputes these people have about when other family members should receive access to their $76 gazillion in trust funds. Maybe these are lists we could do without.

Most importantly, what if the AFL (Australian Football League for those not in the know) didn’t create a list of game times? How would I ever know when to turn up to the SCG (Sydney Cricket Ground – again for those who have no idea) or to turn on the television. Crucially, how would my Sydney Swans know when to turn up to beat whoever lands in front of them (if indeed the other team did have a list and did know when to turn up – now it’s getting confusing). But, if we are going down this path, if there were no such things as lists, would there even be a Sydney Swans….?

Nooooooooooo. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Lists are crucial.

As a non-list maker, maybe I wont survive in Zombieland. However, on reflection, Tallahassee, Wichita and Little Rock didn’t keep lists and they had managed to survive. They had ‘smarts’ and bucket loads of weaponry. And maybe they followed Columbus’ 32nd rule – ‘enjoy the little things’, which is something I think I can do. Especially if it involves spending 88 minutes watching a movie about zombies.

The breakup letter

Dear Julia,

I am writing to tell you it’s over between us. Over the past three years I have worked hard to find the commonality between us but I am now lost in the wilderness. A Forrest peppered with mining rights has grown between us and I can’t see how you could ever find an axe, chainsaw or any other machine capable of bringing it down.

I have tried to understand your ways. I keep thinking you must have something up your sleeve, some card to play, a helpful skeleton to bring out of the (read Tony’s) closet. And maybe you still do, however I can’t wait any longer for it to be revealed. Maybe there is a Gennifer Flowers or cigar which could come in handy but I seriously doubt you could make them stick in any meaningful way.

To be perfectly frank, and I feel I can be after all the years I have shared with you and the Party, I really don’t think you know what you’re doing. Your voice makes me think you should understand me but your actions always let you down. You speak like most of us but your words are often primed for those of better schooling. As I sit here, in the cold and dark, scared to turn on anything requiring electricity, I wonder if you ever try to understand how I am feeling. I don’t think you have ever asked and the one time I tried to tell you I had to wait over nine months to get a response from one of your minion … oops, I mean ministers.

As you know, or maybe you don’t, I am one for democracy and fairness but from my perspective you and Kevin made a bit of a meal of things. Do you think you could have used a few more manners and saved the bust-up for when you were at home alone – like John did (please don’t see this as an endorsement of an era of politics I would rather was permanently burned from my mind)? It’s just nobody wants to see a fight at the party.  We don’t care if you come to us the next day and tell us you are irreconcilably separated. We see this as a civilised approach.

I know you will want to blame this all on Kevin, but you are both grown-ups. I liked both of you – you were like the A-Team but with suits and no shaggin’ wagon – and suddenly you were making me choose? That really sucked. And I think this makes it even super hard because there are still some friends of yours I really really like.

Bill, for example. He’s young and has a good sense of humour and well, to be honest, seems to still care. I will admit, I have a huge crush on Greg but feel he has been hidden, lost in the shadows – maybe a deliberate ploy and good on him if it is. It’s sad Nicola decided to pack up her things and move out, but the timing is probably right for her. She was a gun and achieved something very admirable. I think the addition of Bob was good in theory. Peter was awesome, when he was still in the band, but I think some of the fight has left him or at least taken him from the left. A pity really.

However, now feel I can no longer enjoy their company – not even on Q&A. My Monday nights have gone to wrack and ruin (except for last Monday’s The F Word episode which was really fabulous – watching Germaine Greer is always an inspiration even if she did make comment on your get-up).

In truth I think I miss the good old days. Call me naive but I long for a tall, dark-haired treasurer with the spark of a meerkat and a tongue of fire sparking out one liners with ease.

Rest assured I am not heading to the dark side. Your almost namesake and the Mirrorball are enough to keep me away from there. I am not sure where to head. With the loss of the Brown phenomenon, I am not sure Green is my colour.

Julia, I pray (not in a religious way) you find an answer. Might I suggest more eloquent speeches, those with gusto and drive? I don’t expect a ‘I have a dream…’ moment but something to end the nightmare for the true believers.

Good luck,


A devil of a holiday – part two

As the days have passed I have been reflecting on my last post. I have two issues with it. The first is the amount of times I used the word that in the post. That is often a redundant word and can often be left out. I know there are often cases when including the that improves the flow of the sentence, however sometimes it can, and simply should, be avoided.

The second issue I have with my post concerns anyone mistakenly thinking I really believe ‘the Devil’ played a part in my holiday. I don’t. It was just very very very bad luck we had rain and wind everyday we were on the Gold Coast, and the series of strange happenings in our apartment, well they were just ‘unfortunate’.

The official tourism website markets the Gold coast with the slogan ‘Famous for fun’. Do you know what? We did have fun. On our first night M and M’s Aunty K taught them to plank on those metal and plastic fold out luggage stands you find in hotel rooms (and apartments apparently). This is then something they wanted to do all holiday. To be honest there is nothing funnier than watching a two and three year old balancing on a bizarre piece of equipment yelling ‘watch me plank mummy’.

Watching the joy spread over Uncle C’s face when he realised he suddenly had two little girls calling him ‘Uncle C’ was delightful. Until this point these two little creatures hadn’t been a big part of his life and suddenly they were there yelling at him to ‘push me on the swing Uncle C’, ‘take me on the flying fox Uncle C’ and ‘Uncle C, watch me planking’.

Aunty ‘Lene and M1’s speedy trip down the big slide at the play centre we found to tire out the girls after the third day of rain was very amusing to watch. I don’t know who had more fun. The youngest of all the aunties of my side, ‘Lene proved her aunty skills by chasing the girls through three storeys of tunnels, tubes, nets and other climbing things. Then spending the afternoon shopping with ‘Lene and simply enjoying some sister time – priceless (not so priceless actually with the shopping I did).

The tickets Brad gave us to the David Fleay Wildlife Park provided us with an unpredicted adventure. Who would have expected we would see platypus, gliders and snakes, let alone some estuarine crocodiles basking under an overcast sky?

The historic carousel which features in the heart of Broadbeach is a must for anyone with a Mary Poppins filled childhood. For some reason, despite its presence in such built environment surrounds, for me it conjures images of magic and hope. To be able to take M1 and M2 for a ride on it was a beautiful moment. The same night I also took them on a less magical but equally enjoyable adventure on a ‘special train over the roads and water’ (sounds nicer than saying the monorail which takes people over to a casino so they can gamble away their money) You can imagine their excitement when the driver yelled (only for their benefit) ‘all aboard’ and ‘toot toot’.

To be completely honest, all of those Devil’s elves, nymphs, slaves and other Satan related creatures we came across were all very friendly, helpful (whenever they could be) and quite lovely, particularly the young man who came up to try to stop the phone from ringing. M1 and M2 took quite a shine to him (well he was in our apartment for a while so he did feel like a part of the family). The indoor swimming pool was warm enough to have a splash and M1 got to try out her new floaties and swam up a storm (or in a storm).

Our drive back to Sydney, was to include a night in Ballina – it did, and it was fabulous. We were also meant to spend two relaxing days in Port Macquarie – we didn’t because devastating rain caused intense flooding and parts of the highway, not to mention people’s livelihoods, were washed away.

However, the closed highway meant we headed back to Armidale and again enjoyed the company of people we love in a breathtakingly beautiful place. M1 and M2 got to play in a well-equipped park in Scone making them relaxed for the trip home. I got to write the word Scone in my blog and it has nothing to do with little white bread like treats best eaten with jam and cream (except now I have mentioned they are yummy bread like treats…).

As it turned out, we really had a ‘devilishly’ good time.

A devil of a holiday – part one

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged (I’ve made up for it with an extra long post). There are a few reasons for this. The main one being we took a family holiday. It was billed as an exciting adventure – at least in my mind. Packing up the small car and heading to sunny northern climes for times of relaxing fun. Ironic really given the weather we had experienced in Sydney this summer.

We set off with the minimal amount a family of four could carry, plus a stroller and spare nappies – obvious optional extras. Our plan was to arrive in the ‘home of country music in Australia’ still fresh, as it’s such a short distance from Sydney. And we were, only we couldn’t have our booked motel room because the one next door had flooded and they were going to run noisy fans all night to dry it out. So we were upgraded to a super bonus two bedroom room at no extra charge! Awesome (unless you count the flooding which was not so good for the motel proprietor). To top off our first night we found a pizza maker (I hesitate to ever put the words ‘pizza’ and ‘restaurant’ together, unless in Italy) who put together a pretty special dish we all called dinner! What a good start to our trip.

The next day was sunny and bright as we headed up the mountains to visit friends who live in ‘the most cosmopolitan city in NSW outside of Sydney’. It is beautiful – a city that celebrates its past with stunning architecture and glorious gardens. Our stay with old friends was relaxing in the way only old friends can make you feel. Our children enjoyed one another’s company, the food was wonderful, the conversation comforting and the beds warm and welcoming. Another brilliant day.

Waving goodbye to Armidale the next morning was a little sad but with more adventures yet to be had, our spirits were high. We passed through the land of the ‘beardies’; a place that made me want to sing about Rio de Janeiro; a town with an original apple store; and then a town which shares it’s name with one in the centre of England, although I suspect they look very different. We crossed a border with careless abandon (as you can do when it’s all part of the same country [remember the days when you really did need a passport to travel in Europe]).

Then we headed east, to the land of ‘beautiful one day, perfect the …’ – you get the picture.

Except it was a false, dare I say, empty, promise as is often the case when you spend time in the south-eastern corner of Queensland.

While all seemed calm on our gentle arrival, we were really met by the Devil who was out for a good time (please don’t infer any real religious meaning here, I am merely using for dramatic effect).

“I am sorry sir, but there will be no access to the swimming pool during the day,” the hostess of the five-star resort told the Cliche as we ‘checked in’.

“You are joking?” laughed the Cliche. Having read on a very reputable travel site they had done this before we had sent an email with our booking to confirm there was no scheduled pool maintenance. We were told there was none. After all it was February – still summer in the southern hemisphere. We were vacationing only a few weeks after school holidays  had finished and this, if you missed it earlier, was a five-star (one assumes, professional) resort.

“We have young children!” As if it’s a given that having children meant the pool must be open.

“Sorry sir. You can swim after five every afternoon.” Obviously this hostess had no exposure to the routines of young children.

“Get me another suite in your other building, where I assume the pool is open,” demanded the Cliche. He had done his homework and knew how to get around the system (perhaps he had a silver cross in his pocket?). After a few long minutes this devil’s slave found us a new apartment in the ‘other’ building, where the pool was open, most times of the day.

Interestingly enough the apartment was on the thirteenth floor.

The accommodation was sleek, all freestanding sinks and walk-in robes. The views were magnificent. Rolling waves, sand, parklands, the working pool below us. All was calm. ‘This is all fine’, we reassured each other as a pleasant evening with some family members, noodles and Downton Abbey followed. Holidays are great.

The Devil was far from done with us. We awoke to an overcast but fine and humid morning. There was a zephyr stirring. Having been on the road a few days meant the inevitable pile of unwashed clothes was also stirring in the suitcase. Not a problem really as we had a washing machine and dryer, and a drying rack thrown in for good measure. Except in modern apartment buildings often filled with non-owner dwellers (like us) a safety mechanism was built into the laundry ‘cupboard’ door meaning it must stay open to provide power to the washing machine and dryer and so nobody closes it and burns the building down while the two are in operation mode. A great safety mechanism. If they work! Not in apartment 1302.

“No problem,” says the devil’s cohort when I call. “We’ll have someone to look at it asap”.

“It’s okay. We’ll go swimming and it’ll be working when we get back,” we assured ourselves.

The water was cool and the breeze had picked up a little. M1 and M2 swam and turned blue, warming themselves by jumping in the spa occasionally.

We returned to our room. There was a message. “The door needs to be looked at by an electrician. He can come this afternoon. I can’t tell you an exact time.”

Panic struck us. Were we to wait like you have to when tradies visit your home? Were we bound to be there? What were we going to do about afternoon sleeps – the most precious thing in the world?

“We’ll work around that,” we were reassured. “Not a problem. The electrician can come in later.”

Damned shame the housekeeping staff couldn’t.

“We have children in bed. Can you come back after 3.30pm?” we asked the housekeeper/satanic elf.

“Our shift is over by then.”

“Okay well can you just refill our necessities and don’t worry about the room today. Can you put us down for an early clean up tomorrow because we have an afternoon sleep everyday?”

Not a chance.

Every day we were interrupted just a few moments before we were heading off for afternoon sleep by the Devil’s call, knock, knock knock…‘housekeeping’. At one point an elf … er, I mean housekeeper… walked into the room where the girls were sleeping even though we had said not to.

One day, after venturing out, we came ‘home’ to find someone had left us a message. Simple instructions to review said message, pick up the phone and dial ‘star star’. “That is not an appropriate instruction,” said the pleasant voice on the end of the phone. We tried again and again and again. In the meantime we had an incessant beeping on the two internal phones. Then we called Satan’s lover downstairs. “All you have to do is press ‘star star’,” she told us. We told her!

“I’ll get maintenance up to have a look at it.” And they did. The solution – to disconnect the two phones from their sockets and rest them on the floor for the duration of our stay. There was someone who knew how to fix it but nobody knew how to contact him. Any time we did need to call reception (and you would be surprised to read there were a few) we plugged one back into wall, the beeping sound ever returning immediately. We never did find out who left the message.

But the Devil played his best card all week. Better than the power points that didn’t work, the mould in the bathroom that grew daily and the dishwasher that never quite washed everything. He sent us rain and wind. Rainwater tanks of rain and lashings of wind. We didn’t really need the pool, least not the outdoor one, and the indoor one had to be accessed from outdoors… The beaches were closed on our second day. They had to be. The sandy shores became cliff faces where the mountainous waves have carved them away. It was wet and windy. The streets became filled with decaying umbrellas, left abandoned for their purpose was pointless.

As we drove out on our final Queensland coastal day, there appeared in the sky an old and familiar friend. “We know you’ve sold out to Beelzebub,” we shouted with raised fists. “You bastard sun”.

End of part one.


Bless you!

Okay so it isn’t really a sneeze. It’s a genuine word with origins from the late 18th century. What it is is a noun meaning unvulcanised natural rubber (according the dictionary on my Apple Mac).

But it got me thinking about words and phrases we hear and to which I am confused as to their meaning.


This is a word you hear all the time as part of the modern Australian vernacular. But what does it really mean? From what I understand, it means to translate something literally, but without realising it we often use it in an almost slang-like manner.

“Thom Yorke was literally three feet from me at the concert.”

We use it as an intensifier, to make a sentence more important. I liken it to Popeye and spinach – only necessary for bragging rights. Couldn’t we simply say, “I was a metre from Thom Yorke at the Radiohead concert”? Seems equally impressive?

Master chef or MasterChef

They may sound the same, however, one is a leader with culinary skills and the other is the winner of a twelve week (or so) television game show – a person who believes their days of cooking for their family and friends provides the same qualification as those with years of formal culinary training.

The distinction lies in your interest in a particular form of popular culture. However, this can also be confusing as often the two tend to be mixed up by the very people who should know better.


No longer a place where one stops to enjoy a sip of chardonnay after a long day in the office, Winehouse now refers to a tragic alcoholic and drug addict who died alone at the age of 27 even after having fame and glory thrust upon her.  The irony isn’t really lost on anyone is it?

In terms of

This is a weird one. If you are using it to describe exact amounts of something then please go ahead – “I measure the success of my blog in terms of weekly hits”. Why do people feel they need to use this expression in everyday language?

“I have to decide our dinner plans in terms of your birthday.”
“In terms of blog posts, this one is the most interesting.”

I often think people use ‘in terms of’ when they are trying to make their time on centre stage last longer, to give themselves more thinking time or to make themselves seem more important. It’s superfluous (a bit like me saying it’s superfluous really).


What’s concerning here is ‘youse’ gets a listing on Wiktionary. From my research there is a push for greater acceptance of the word youse given it is used in spoken language around the English-speaking world.

I recall a conversation with a beautiful young lady who often used the term ‘youse’ when referring to a group of us. When it was explained she should simply say ‘you’, she responded by saying, “But I was saying goodbye to all of youse. It doesn’t seem right not to include youse all.”

Not a bad argument really. We all want to be included.

The country town – a shopper’s paradise

I love country town shopping – not as much as I love chocolate, or internet shopping. My fondness for the familiar knock on the door, or ring on the cowbells as the case is, when the postman turns up with an e package or similar, cannot be understated. However there is something magical about country shopping. Maybe because it comes from an historical time – before the internet – well at least for those of us who come from a certain generation. I haven’t ever analysed the appeal however maybe this is the time to do so having recently spent time ‘in the country’ doing some shopping.

Things fit in the country

Even if it’s just sheets for the bed, I can get the preferred colour, fabric and thread count I want, shopping in the country.

But the true irony is nothing about me would ever be called ‘country’ and yet I still seem to be able to find the clothes to suit my semi inner city lifestyle. Maybe this is because I don’t really care whether my wardrobe matches current fashion trends. Once, in the mid 80s, I bought this pair of pink and black striped satin, three quarter pants in Shepparton, Victoria and wore them to death – figuratively. They were awesome.

In Bendigo, I once bought the most amazing pair of black patent leather, pointed toed ankle boots. My biggest surprise was they were even available, sitting larger than life on the shelf. They were so cool – very Robert Smith.

The coolest pair of jeans I have ever owned come from the country. Not your traditional blue denim, these babies are black and white striped with a slightly flared leg. What more could a girl want, except maybe the same in a red and white stripe?

You get service in the country

I have an aversion to trying clothes on. I would be completely happy to have a personal shopper, someone the same size as me who would be happy to try things on and stock my wardrobe. I often try things on in the middle of the shop over other clothes, much to the disdain of other shoppers. Even if I do venture into the change rooms my preference is to keep my clothes on and try whatever over the top (this presents a bit of a problem in winter). Of course I make exceptions when buying lingerie. Nobody wants a boob muffin top or breasts flying all akimbo if you need to run for the train, caused from an ill fitting Hestia.

I hate it when you only pick up one size of the item you are trying, get to the change room, take off all your layers, try on the potential purchase, only to find you have a size too small or too big. Then you have to great dressed and repeat the whole process. Not in the country (or at least in the store I recently shopped in in the country, so I might be exaggerating). In the store I went into, after trying on every item, I had the adorable shop assistant there to offer her opinion or ask if I required another size. What was more impressive is this occurred on New Year’s Eve. Plus we shared stories on her family, my family and a whole range of other things, relevant to the country town.

Parking’s a breeze in the country

Driving around in Sydney shopping centre car parks can be hazardous your health. Sometimes you need a whole lot of patience and a packed lunch. Parking rage can be the norm on some shopping days. In the desperate bid to bag a bargain at Bing Lee or a massive mark down at Myer, shoppers will resort to whatever is necessary to get a park. And then, when you do snag a spot you have to walk for (or four) kilometres to get into the shopping centre.

Not in the country. On busy, post-Christmas sale days, you may have to park at the back of the car park, out in the sun. Generally however, you can find a shady tree or a council erected piece of shade cloth and you’re set for the twenty metre walk into the shop of your choosing. And pay for parking? Never in the country. Well rarely. Sometimes in the main street you may see a one hour parking sign but shopping is so easy in the country, who needs more than one hour?

You get different stores in the country

Or maybe they simply feel different. It seems there is always something different to look at (I’ve already mentioned those wonderful pink pants). Nothing pleases me more than when someone asks me where I bought something and I can say ‘I got it in the country’¹, knowing full well they are not going to be able to get one.


Yes country shopping is like a pleasant skip through the Garden of Eden while eating licorice bullets and sipping chocolate milk then not spilling any on yourself. It’s bliss. Imagine how even more euphoric it would be if internet shopping could be combined with the country town experience while eating chocolate … now there’s my idea of Heaven.


1 This is not strictly true. There are lots of things which please me more, such as the Sydney Swans winning a football match, my children when they are ‘being good’, and chocolate, to name a few.

Trains of truth

Last week I had my third experience with the ‘marshals sans pointy badges’ guarding the train doors at Town Hall station in the morning rush times (see my post Just a spoonful of governance for my take on this, and for some damned interesting reading). On the first occasion, I stood in the wrong place on the platform and just as the nanny…oops I mean marshal went to tell me off, the train car emptied and I was onboard before any words came out of her mouth. The other days have been event free. The truth is I am actually traveling at the beginning of the peak hour rush on the one day a week I go into work so I am yet to see any real marshal action.

Railcorp have announced some success with their ‘dwell management’ program (what a cool name), as they call it, in a media release on their website. There have been ‘daily improvements in the time trains stand at the platform’  and they want to thank customers for our ‘cooperation, patience and participation’. So it’s all good really.

Funnily enough though, I did wonder as I was searching for information about the marshals on their site, if I had stumbled onto a fake landing page, set up by a person with a Railcorp fetish. The photo adorning the left hand corner of the page showed some bright, smiling people traveling on what appears to be a well-lit, clean train. It was all horribly wrong and frankly a little reminiscent of The Stepford Wives.

Where are the flickering lights, the soot stained windows, the vinyl seats covered in who knows what? Where are the grumpy, bullied people tightly squashed into each other to form one jelly-like mass? Where are the people who don’t make any eye contact and therefore don’t feel the need to stand for pregnant women and the elderly? Where are the sweat stained creatures who lean their armpits into your face as they hold on for dear life? Where is the graffiti, the lack of air-conditioning, the vomit stains, the discarded newspapers, the ‘Police – do not cross’ tape?

You get the picture – or in truth, you don’t.

Life on Cityrail/Railcorp’s trains is rarely a pretty one. It tends to be more a grass roots experiential ride. I remember once catching a train, nabbing a clean seat – it was my lucky day – and overhearing a telephone conversation from the person sitting next to me who was carrying their goods and chattels in a plastic bag. It went something like this¹:

“Hi, is that Marie?”


“Hi Marie. My name is Rhonda. Yeah hi. Look I’m calling youse because I just spent the night in the lock up in the city with your daughter Tracy. She arksed me to call youse because she needs some things.”

Pause for a few seconds.

“Yeah right. Look to tell you the truth I think youse need to get down there and see her, or get someone to see her because I don’t reckon she’ll last the night.”


“Yeah well I’m just calling it the way I see it and how I’ve seen it before. She’s not coping too well and I just don’t reckon she’ll make it.”


“Alright. Yeah… she wasn’t that great when I left. She’s in the lock up in the city but they’re gunna move her today.”


“Yeah, I think youse should. Okay … yeah… bye.”

How on earth you capture this image for a picture on the website is beyond me. However, I would love to see Railcorp try. This would give a real snapshot of life on the train.

Experiencing this element of existence, this shift in comfort levels, this inspiration for writing is why I can’t wait to see you tomorrow marshals.

1 Names have been changed