My wife is travelling. Frankfurt. Prague. Budapest. The Danube. Seeing the sights with her sister. Salzburg. Amsterdam. Paris. The Eiffel Tower. The Champs Elysses. Switzerland. By SwissRail. Mountains. Alps. Summer.
I catch a Melbourne train on a cold, quiet Sunday. Winter. Any train. The first one going past. I catch glimpses of footy grounds but I’m not in the mood for disembarking. It’s warm inside the first carriage. The MCG. Glenferrie. Fans in scarves on their way to victory. Or defeat. I’m more interested in backyards. Fences. Sheds. Gardens. Trees. Clothelines. Even dogs. Blackburn, Nunawading, Robert Mitcham Station, Ringwood, Croydon…
The train takes me to the end of the line. No plans. Maybe buy some hot chips. Or just eat my manadarine and my muesli bar. But there, at the end of the line, right next to the train station, is a footy ground.
The ground is damp. The grass is, well, it’s not green. Not the real stuff. The sun has knocked off early. Or not turned up at all The trees look like they need to take sickies.
I’m too early for a game. Or too late.