25
At something to 5 a.m., the incoming passengers at Sydney’s International Terminal were being expelled through grey nondescript doors, as if from a giant letter-sorting machine. While those waiting for them drank coffee out of styrene cups, and spluttered through the first cigarettes of the day, I watched as my friend emerged, having flown across the vastness of America and the Pacific, knowing that he would feel like the walking dead.
“Morning Prof, sorry to drag you halfway around the planet,” it was not the hour to be effusive. “God, I hate planes. I have been looking forward to a swim and some warm Sydney sunshine. Coming from where I have, I find it hard to associate the pleasure of seeing you and Queenie with someone as bad as this guy.” Having filled in the gaps on the drive ho
