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Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

~ The Home Pub of the Famous Pink Drinks and Trotter's Ale

Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

Tag Archives: train

The Slow Train to Sydney

17 Thursday Feb 2011

Posted by gerard oosterman in Gerard Oosterman

≈ 36 Comments

Tags

Castle, Edinburgh, Family Court, funeral, homeless, train

We took the train from Bowral to Sydney yesterday, as a kind of test run for the future. Living just 100 kms from Sydney we thought we might reduce driving and use public transport.

We had enquired the day before and were told by the Station Master time of departure and cost which for us seniors was a mere $2.50 return. Wacko, who could refuse an adventure of this nature? Next day we got up early, all excited about the coming day. Arrived a bit early at the station and bought our tickets. When the train arrived we were surpised how new it was and spacious.  Many people hopped on-board incuding an elderly couple. The husband had a brand new dark blue checkered shirt with razor sharp pleats still visible on the sleeves. One almost expected the white collar bit of stiff carton to still be peeking from the back of his shirt.

The train took off on a rather somber and overcast day. We weren’t going very fast but time wasn’t important and we settled nicely. It took us past many stations including the one of killer Milat notoriety. The houses there were somewhat dilapidated looking with yards full of junk and cars propped on bricks with large dogs barking at the train. Bargo, Tahmoor, Dapto, Yerrinbool and many others we passed by. This was the train with only 4 stops between Bowral and Central, Sydney.

At one stage I noticed a very optimistic notice board on a terracotta roof. Painted on a large sign in bright blue was written; FUNERAL DIRECTOR and telephone number. The sign faced the train so it was clearly designed for the traveler but I wonder how many would get their address book out and scribble down the phone number. Who on earth would have that kind of foresight?

We arrived after almost 2 hrs (This is the fast Country Link) and sauntered down the platform but no ticket inspection. We walked up towards the Town-Hall soaking in all the changes since the last time we were there. As usual, there were huge cranes and dog-men directing great concrete panels hovering above building sites.  In all sorts of nooks and crannies were available coffees and cakes. Backpackers were spilling over the footpaths busily sending texts and pictures of exotic Australia back to Japan or Sweden. Many were  with those towering backpacks and some, which is’ par for course’ in going overseas, squatting down on the pavement cross legged.

Also, a disturbing increase in homeless, some with cardboard notices explaining their plight, others just oblivious to it all and seemed sound asleep. At the entrance to Myers was a small colony of homeless with mattresses and blankets, shopping trolleys, empty big M bags and a profusion of polystyrene containers. One desperate homeless and bearded man held up very bravely: FAMILY COURT VICTIM!

We were getting hungry and noticed a pub advertising food. It might have been called the King George but Helvi just now assures me it was The Edinburgh Castle. All patrons were seated. This is one of the most baffling cultural changes in Australia, where not that long ago, everyone in pubs would always be standing, except for some blue hair coloured patrons in the “Ladies Lounge”.

Not only were all seated they were also enjoying their beverage with food. We ordered two Heinekens with one Rump steak and one Chicken snitzel, both with chips and salad. This was about 1pm and the hotel was chockers, so were all other eating and drinking venues. What a buzz.

We decided to head home after this excellent lunch and slowly sauntered back to Central station where a sign told us to go to platform 23 for Bowral. Train after train did arrive but not a sign of anything going towards Bowral. We walked back to the entrance and a Rail Information Lady took it upon herself to guide us towards a train. Platform 23 is where you go to Cambelltown and then change over, she said. Oh, we did not know that nor was this indicated on the electronic sign or loudspeaker. She then went out of her way to say why you don’t get on the Country Link at 3.48PM. This leaves at platform 3.

There is a huge distance between both platforms, so we decided we needed another schooner to remain hydrated. This was lovely, seated away from the humidity of the Sydney Station in a air conditioned and licensed premise next to a McDonalds. I had the courage and gall to brazenly also ask for two fifty cent smooth-ice cream cones. Helvi declined, how can you drink beer and lick ice-cream?  I gave hers to a homeless looking man who also did not lick it. We finally walked to the platform and this smooth ice cream in its cone was still un-licked and might still be sitting on the table as far as I know.

After seeing a young man with both legs cut off below the knee and heavily bandaged attended to by an ambulance officer on a mobile phone, we decided to hop on the train. That same couple, with the husband’s sharply creased shirt were also in our wagon. Perhaps they were doing the same as us. Perhaps they might even have taken down the number of the Funeral Director? Who knows?

The return was just as good but we were feeling pretty shagged by the time we arrived back, which was at 6pm. I noticed that in the morning the train came from Canberra and the afternoon train was also destined for Canberra. There wasn’t a buffet or possibility for any water or a coffee on board, which is a bit rich if you are going Sydney-Canberra. It could be that after Bowral a buffet car would be linked to the train.

Who knows?

The Train to Rookwood

10 Thursday Feb 2011

Posted by gerard oosterman in Gregor Stronach

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

bowling, cemetry, death, Poem, rookwood, seniors, train

The Train to Rookwood. http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/37682.html

The Kerry O’Brian’s interview with Woody Allen last Wednesday night on the 7.30 report would have to be one of ABC’s best coups. Woody’s interviews are collector’s items as he is notoriously shy of publicity. His answers to Kerry’s questions were quirky, witty and to the point. His best was towards the end when he seemed to reject the notion that getting older equates to the getting of wisdom. On the questions of why we are here and what the point of life was, he remains modestly unsure. Whatever he gained through all the years, he would gladly have exchanged it all for; quote, ’wiping 35 years of the calendar’, adding with a distant look, that he would probably make the same mistakes all over again.

This might have been a bit tongue in cheek but made me think how much profit there is in getting older. Surely, there has to be some reward for having survived all the misery and sadness of having lived through so much uncertainty and the many difficulties. It is not unreasonable to assume that one becomes better with the passing of years at coping with some of the misfortunes and events that could, with foresight, have been avoided, and that the benefits of getting older begets us the wisdom to not repeat errors and mistakes into the future.

We plod on with expectations of improvements, and hope that with age, we will undoubtedly get rewards for the courage, determination and resilience in having cobbled something out of our lives. When enough time has lapsed we can have the luxury of reflectively taking stock and do the accounts, and hopefully find out, that, by and large, we stayed the course and that we had achieved the things that we sat out to reach with the positives having outweighed the negatives.

When young, and bursting with enthusiasm and raging hormones, we recklessly hurled ourselves into the future, taking and accepting risks, relationships and partners all at once and with wild abandonment. We brazenly and bravely fought to make our mark. Nothing would stop us and we blindly believed that hard work and enterprise would ensure a stake in prosperity and much goodness, not just for ourselves, but also for our offspring and others. Deposits would be made on house and car, schools for kids would be booked years in advance, and inexorably with the passing of a few more years, we would reap rewards by climbing into even better and bigger houses with more bathrooms now and larger cars with DVD player hooked from the back seat for kids to watch Shrek when driving somewhere and anywhere.

Did we also not take in our stride the misfortune of family life gone off at a tangent or even astray, with lives, like forgotten letters in the drawer, damaged or lost through accident, illness and inherited gene, or the scourge of modern age, addiction to evil substance?

With the advance of years beyond the half century, we fully expect that wisdom and experience will guide us to calmer waters and ease us into a nice and comfortable latter part or even, with the luck of robust health and benefit of not smoking anymore, to old age. We paid our dues and mortgage man is now finally sated. The credit card we will keep on sailing with, just in case of the unforseen, the failing of car or broken and worn washer-dryer, a trip to Venice or even Chile’s Santiago.

Having steamed through that post mortgage, and for some, post marriage years, we have now travelled to the beginning of an advanced age with the cheerful Newsletter and Senior’s card in the post. The Senior Newsletter has holidays for the advanced seniors at Noosa and a plethora of advertisements for those handy battery operated electric little carriages with shopping tray at the back. Are we to zoom in and out of shopping  centres soon, using ramps up and down? With the sheer numbers appearing on footpaths now, it won’t be long and there could be outbreaks of motorized wheelchair-rage, could it not?

I suppose there has been a major drop-out of readers now. Who wants to get ahead that far?

Please, don’t get impatient. Just hang in here for another eighty or so of words, when at age eighty, we are almost there, indeed, we have arrived. How did we fare? It is time now to have one more go at something, perhaps golf for the very fit or, dread the thought, bowling with cricket gear all in pristine white and with men wearing neatly pressed pantaloons but suspiciously bulging when bending to bowl!

Once more, we listen hear and hum the forlorn ‘Le piano du Pauvre’.

                                                                   I am nothing

                                                                      I exist 

                                                         Only in the generous eyes of others

Somehow, with The Train to Rookwood now at station, we have so far stumbled, bumbled but stoutly plotted on. Time has finally arrived, with casket to carriage, no time for regret.

                                                                      Death

                                                                   Inaccessible

                                                                  Even to memory

                                                               Appears and goes away

                                                                   With a scull

                                                                    For a nod

The Train to Rookwood.

Poems by friend Bernard Durrant.

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