Getting away from it all (... slowly)

We rose at five a.m. Spike started then me. I was in my wheelchair by 5:40. The taxi arrived on time (which was a great relief) and we were at the railway station by 6:30.

The cat knows when we are going away, I think. You sense she recognises the suitcases when Spike first gets them out. The packing activity -- clothes to be confirmed or rejected spread out on the floor for a couple of days, my quad supplies, electrical gear enough to power a small city -- all agitate poor Thistle. So, this morning when the cab arrived, our cat disappeared. I think she does not like goodbyes. But does anyone?

Thistle-the-cat in her least favourite place

Coming the day after we took her to the vet (for a cat arthritis injection) in the pet cage she detests, this morning's departure was all just a bit too much for her. Offski, she thought. Into the undergrowth. That'll teach them.

The train was on time (which does not mean it's fast). There are about 300 kms between the nation's capital and its largest city. The wee blue choo choo train takes over four hours (in ideal conditions). The trains we took two years ago on Europe's high-speed lines, some of which have been operating since the 1980s, cover that much ground in not much more than an hour.

And so it begins (again). Early morning choo choo to Sydney.

It's a bit sad really. As a nation we are so Margaret Thatcher about trains. Although, come to think of it, even the nincompoop's favourite Tory understood the essential macro-economic benefits of high-speed trains by giving her reluctant blessing to the cross-channel tunnel. Aussie's? We bow down to the airline duopoly and pretend we're modern.

Nevertheless, it was nice to be back in Sydney, even for a short time. It feels familiar. I like it. A bit like London in a way: I like them both far more now than I did when I lived and worked in them.

Fickle men. What can you do about us other than despair?

We fly out tomorrow morning. Check-in is at sixish which means another five o'clock start for this old quad.

We had, therefore, no plans to go wild in the big smoke. But Spike needed something from a pharmacy and a new pair of cheap, comfy sandals / flip flops / shoes cos the current new sandals that arrived in the post a couple of days ago are not 'broken in'. Half a day's wear and Spike was limping. Not a great start to one's holiday. Emergency shoe hunt.

So, I sat in the sun outside the Grand Concourse at Central Station. Minding the bags. Spike toured shops in Haymarket, not far from the office in Castlereagh Street where we met.

Was that really seventeen years ago?

Yes, it was Douglas.

I sat ruminating on the way time flies (in sight of the different towers where a) Spike and I met and b) seven years later I started work as the Band One SES Branch Manager of the National Disability Insurance Launch Transition Agency responsible for Comms & Engagement. Big city. Small world.

A text message arrived from Spike. A photo of row upon row of pot noodle pots in an enormous Chinatown convenience store where, it would seem, nothing is inconvenient.

This photo. And a question mark.

?

I answered yes.

So here we are, several hours later. In an unimaginative, overpriced, completely ordinary airport hotel 15 hours after abandoning a huffy cat (which -- I assure you -- will be well-fed, cared for and mollycoddled while we're away).

Spike is completing a last-minute quote for an unsolicited commission. I've just finished reading The Leopard by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa. I laughed out loud when I learned the fate of Bendico, the prince's much loved Great Dane. Then I started writing this.

International jet-setting hipsters R Us.

Living the high life. Pot noodles. Hotel tea bags and long-life milk, Bed as soon as possible.

Tomorrow it's a flight first-thing to a French speaking island nearer to home than almost everywhere in Australia.

Au revoir mes enfants.