I can understand, now, why there are always so many Jetstar flights available to “Melbourne”, not unlike the Arrowroots left over in the Arnotts Family Selection pack at the end of lunch.
The evening before the flight, as always flowing into the morning of, with very little sleep. Luggage. Guernseys – “check”. Scarves – “check”. Then, and only then, flight tickets – “check”. Everything else – “Yeah, I guess so”.
A bleary-eyed morning excursion to Kingsford-Smith, chockers with fellow escapees. Chat to the parking attendant about the upcoming footy weekend, explain for the trillionth time why I’m not a Swans fan. He’s understanding, as anyone listening to a situation involving Warwick Capper should be.
The 7.45am flight to Avalon, where the plane ejects its tired masses onto the tarmac and we’re promptly divided into two distinct subgroups. The surfies, lining up as best they can for the Geelong bus. And us, the Sherrinheads on the bullet to Mecca. Except it’s a slow moving Matrix-like bullet, as “Stuey”, the bus driver and impromptu tour guide with the old country accent, gives the largely receptive (captive) audience a rundown on the places of interest (a very loose application of the term) that fill the 50 minutes between Werribee and Southern Cross Station.
These include:
- The K-Mart national goods distribution warehouse.
- Ford Motor Vehicle testing track.
- Werribee RSL – with foreboding entry arch exclaiming -”Welcome and Good Luck!”
- Werribee zoo – “About 5 minutes down that road”, obviously up to the imagination of the passenger as to the possibilites of said zoo.
- Various Federal and State Government motor vehicle auction yards
- “A statue of a seagull” – That was it…. no further explanation.
Little did we know, upon boarding the bus, we were to receive such a detail rich summary of what I now realise is a sadly underappreciated 50km stretch of bitumen.
Arrive in the promised land, the coliseum rising over the horizon as we make our way from Spencer St toward Fed Square. Spend the rest of the day wandering around, watching trusting citizens gladly hand over folded notes, not coins, to complete strangers. Charity ID-bearing strangers, to be sure, but the joy with which the transaction takes place is completely foreign to this Sydney-sider.
The remainder of the day is spent with Mrs Pica’s Melbourne-based rellos, discussing almost anything but the footy, knowing that on this Good Friday, before Saturday’s Black and White feast , abstinence was the most appropriate manner.
Though, I must admit a brief breach of this unspoken agreement, only to acknowledge the victory over evil that had occurred yesterday evening… and whether Jack Anthony was desperately unlucky to miss selection.
UPDATE:
Saturday morning – A run down the hill to a place where, sadly, there is only now a faint beat of a black and white heart. Almost all Collingwood signage now gone, sold off, lifted, whatever. Replaced, hilariously, by the VFL umpires association.
A dash up Lulie St, like kids of generations before, and feel ripped off that I’m not 8 years old, surrounded by hundreds of others, wearing Peter Moore or Denis Banks dufflecoats. I was, however, wearing Adidas shorts… a small consolation in this apparel sponsorship age.
And a slower stroll back up the hill, via the Collingwood Childrens Farm, where they still don’t grow kids with the lettuce and tomatoes as produce.
Thanks, you’ve been a great audience. This afternoon can’t come quick enough.
Tags: did I mention the footy?, footyfootyfootyfootyfootyfootyfootyfooty, underrated biscuit reference
that jetstar bus ride is a killer. missed the statue of the seagull, will have to look out for that next time..
ahhh melbourne, flat, full of cultural anomalies, and sports freaks.