Morning train

Say hello to the people on my morning train. On second thoughts, don't - that kind of behaviour could freak people out. Instead I'll give you a quick tour.

First there's the blonde woman who always gets off at Ashfield. We get on together at Town Hall, and I notice she could catch a slightly earlier train but doesn't. This is probably because our train is the best I have ever seen in Sydney - there's a little screen in the cabin that tells you the next stop, and the seats are comfy and upholstered with clean fabric. The train before ours has scungy, cold, plastic-covered seats. Still, I would like to ask the woman why she doesn't catch the earlier one.

Next there's an older guy with a big lump on his forehead. He gets off at my stop and today I saw him reading and looking around the cabin and I felt a strange kinship with him. I tried, without much conviction, to sneak a peek at his book. Perhaps we're very similar, except for the lump on his head. What the hell is it, anyway? That's what I'd like to ask him.

Then there's an Indian woman who gets on at Redfern and always sits in the single seat at the front of the cabin. I can sense her disappointment when someone else is sitting in her spot. Sometimes she reads what looks like poetry in a foreign alphabet, printed on individual sheets of paper. Maybe they're letters. That's what I'd like to ask her about.

When one of them isn't there, I wonder if they're sick or on holidays. Do they wonder the same when I'm not there? In a way they are like people in my office who I never talk to.

So there it is: the morning train. Say goodbye.