A 50 minute journey from shopping mania back to the suburbs shall take place in this carriage. Please God, no strange or creepy people this time. Next stop: Redfern. You sit a few rows behind an older woman with messy tangles of salon-dyed hair trimmed into a bob wearing thick gold sleepers, Rudolph bobble head pen in hand, trying to solve a crossword puzzle in a magazine that offers an antique brooch of a smiling kitten for the prize just as you bite into the sweet part of your so-far- sour nectarine. Eating on the train is legal, right? Scan scan scan for the red stickers on the wall- keep your feet off the seats, thoughtfully dispose of your rubbish- yes good, eating is fine. You notice a guy with a scruffy auburn beard in a red flannelette shirt raising the earphone cables that are attached to his scratched up MP3 player because they probably need to be elevated in that particular way for the wires to actually let music pass through and just then you gaze out from the glass and notice from afar- the fresh green lawns of people’s front gardens speeding past, small leafy shrubs dancing to the sweet whistling of the breeze and releasing their loose leaves to freely fly across the earth. Oh no, Mr Flannelette, you are sitting directly in front of me, please do not scratch your less- than- clean- looking hair right above me- Christmas is over and I do not appreciate free showers of snow. A recurring pattern; that odd person at every station who chooses to sit at the very end- cross- legged on the dirty public ground, rustling through their bag for something difficult to find. And oh crap don’t you hate it when bits of the nectarine catch in the gaps of your teeth and just stick there, entirely out of place and ridiculously irritating. Get out.