Luckily, I got into the train's "Quiet Carriage", several carriage doors away from those ghetto-blaster-carrying unemployeds who while away their Jobseeker-funded time riding the railway on free tickets and greet each other with names that refer both to their penis and their cranium.
I'd taken along Alain de Botton's "The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work" which, after these encounters, first at the station and then on the train, no longer seemed appropriate, and so boarded my own train of thought.
I don't know what's worse: Alzheimer's disease or Old Timer's disease? With the former, you forget everything; with the latter, you forget nothing. And there's nothing like train travel to re-awaken memories which had been dead and buried. They say life is short but it's also immensely long and crowded with faces, voices, adventures,and catastrophes. And filled with guilt about deeds committed and regret, guilt's gentler relative, over deeds omitted. Perhaps it's kind rather than cruel that so many people lose their memories towards the end.
I was glad when this journey ended and the train pulled into the station at Bomaderry. Just as I spotted Padma waiting for me at the end of the platform, I heard one of Australia's next leaders yell out to another to urinate and depart. I'm glad I won't be around to vote for any of them.
