3am: It’s for going to sleep, not waking up.
5am: Airports aren’t your backyard. You’re not going for a drive. T-shirt, shorts, thongs and a fat gut aren’t travel attire. Have some respect, if not for yourself, but everyone else. There’s either well-dressed or slovenly in this place. No middle ground. But I’m trying.
6am: The overhead locker wars commence. I love watching this. “Fuck you, lady, get out of my way, I’m putting my five pieces of luggage in that one, find your own.” Some lose the ability to read numerals. 21A and 22C aren’t that similar, are they? Yeah, you’re over there. Result, my own private Idaho. I think of Don Logan and suddenly feel like a cigarette.
9am: The Sydney traffic is just as I remembered it. Glad I’m not driving. Adam does a sterling job of avoiding the chaos and delivering us to the old train workshop? Wait a minute… oh, I see.
10am: Short black, long black, long black, flat white, long black. Zing. Let’s check out some bikes…
