Six months ago, I boarded the Vic-rail train at Traralgon station to travel to Bairnsdale. A forty-one-year-old working man does not catch economy class public transport if he has a vehicle of his own – but I had just put mine out of action in the hilly forest-country north of Traralgon. I had completely torn out the under-carriage of my trusty old Toyota Landcruiser. Hence, on that windy Friday night, I would be slumming it on the train.
The train journey to Bairnsdale always seems to do one of two things to me. Either I end up listening to the life story of some wretched stranger, or my mind is saturated with painful memories. There is something about a train journey that makes me reflect.
On this journey, I really wanted to avoid reflection. I had lived two very different lives and I
