In Country

I had a nap in the morning, I had a nap in the afternoon. The thing I do best. Sleep. I went for a bike ride, in the late afternoon. Oh, I just had to. I can't justify banging on about my weight, if I didn't. Well, of course, I can, but it sounds hollow if I'm just lazing around eating Nutella toast. I made myself.

Pushed myself. To the point where the next thing I knew I was sailing down the street rubbing the sleep out of my eyes thinking, where am I? As Victoria Parade loomed large, I wondered if I was, in fact, still stoned?

My legs are like pistons. Actually, I do have good legs from riding, I can say that much. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, a cold breeze blew. I wound the tension out of my legs with every turn of the peddles.

Lots of people were out in the bright day.

I caught the 7pm train out of there, last night. Glide out in the mass of steel worms slithering through. Chick chick. Chick chick.

I like Southern Cross Station, even if I don't like the name. There's nothing wrong with the name, itself, but why change it? Where's their sense of history? Why does branding always have to win? The new building is big and cavernous and purposeful. It reminds me of the great train stations of Europe, in design if not in style. It reminds me of a gigantic hanger; all noise and movement. It's like a world, all on its own. Pumping. Throbbing. The engine room.

It's another world on the train, other people, other lives. I got a nuff-nuff with a girl kid and a baby boy kid, with bright orange hair, in a pram, who bore no resemblance to the older sibling. (Like there's a shock) At the beginning the girl, Grace, stuck her hand through the gap between the seats and tickled me, saying how well she could tickle. She learned quickly from my wide eyes and look of surprise that she shouldn't do that again. She'd sit in the seat behind and say hello through the crack, after that. Later, she told me she had been taking her crazy pills; I wondered if that meant she had a garot and knife back there.

The mother sounded like an out-of-it dimbo. I realised, quite soon, that "the crazy pills" was an expression that came straight from her drug ravaged mother's mouth. I soon wondered how the child could seem so sweet, smiling and saying hello and then flitting off, as her mother wailed from some where behind me,

"Graaaaaccce, Graaaaaccce, don't disturb that man. Graaaaccce, Graaaaccce, don't disturb that woman. Graaaccce, Graaaaccce, don't run around the train. Graaaaccce. Graaaccce..."

I found it more disturbing that they got off at my stop. I wanted to say to Grace, "Come with me, I can't promise you anything, except that it will turn out better than - glance at her mother, look her up and down - that!"

However, my attention was soon taken by the Bolago lads who got off ahead of me, the kid and the wailer-mother. Eighteen year olds, out on the town. Their arses were face height as we climbed the stairs to the flyover, them in front of me. Soft cotton pants and pert, eighteen year old boy's arses.

Lunch, anyone? Two of them were unbelievably pretty. They met another gaggle outside the train station.

The night was cool. I walked down to the highway. I love arriving some where, on my own, under my own steam, there is something exciting about it, even if it is only Bolago on a shiny, Saturday night.

Luke picked me up a few minutes later.

I caught Grace and her mother and the baby brother in the pram, out the corner of my eyes, scuttling down the main street in the shadows, as Luke and I motored out of town.