In Training

This is not the train I caught to town, but oh how I wish it was.  I can faintly remember the buffet car with the fifties counter and stools on the Melbourne to Sydney XPT, and still fantasise about the carriage pulling up out of the mists of time and rolling me away to the Oceanic Cafe above Central Station.  There, I would sit in a hard flaking cream enamel painted booth and have a cup of tea with the bag still in for $1.50 and listen to the ladies talk about pills and gin in old Surrey Hills.  I would battle with myself.   Then I would have an ale in a tiled front bar.  Then I would hit the dry street with my suitcase full of samples.