… everything comes back: the necessity of scoping out the best possible places to eat at lunch, the divide between the great range of eating options within walking distance versus whatever is quick and easy and cheap that you can take back to your desk; perving on the reading material of fellow passengers on the train, forming instant respect for the one reading History of the Peloponnesian War as opposed to another who might be holding Twilight. Such comparisons are snobbish – I know – and all it really serves to do is remind me that the last time I commuted, ten years ago, that it wasn’t uncommon for every second person to be holding a copy of a Harry Potter, myself included.
Not all coffee houses are equal, either, even in Melbourne (or perhaps especially here). Some places might serve their brews too tepid (a peeve of mine) or too bitter.
There’s the sway of the train; the bile-rising braking of certain drivers; the deciphering of Myki card rules and operations; the stink of human exhaustion at the end of the day; how a train approaching an underground station seems to pull and suck the air from the very platform, blowing up loose clothing, before its lights pop out from the darkness.
The peddlers; the hawkers; the Greenpeacers; the Save the Animal-ers; the protesters; the dapper gentleman with the tan suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, just like a model in a catalogue, walking down the street (in fact, I think he WAS a model).
All these I saw; and I wanted to come tell you before now, but I was tired.
