The race is on the end.

The finish line is another beginning.

The aches, the next meal, carrying on.

I don’t write a diary any more.

I don’t take notes, things happen to me –

Is it ok, to let them float on by.

Finding myself , having forgotten my shirt at the hostel, returning swiftly, painfully and then running to the train station.

Worrying: how long will it take to clear security? Is it worth missing a flight, for a shirt? Usually, no. But this is a special shirt.

The flash of an orange high-vis shirt. My worry spikes, I didn’t buy a ticket for the train. I panicked. Jumped the barrier, I couldn’t be MORE late. I might make it after all.

Here we go. Sydney domestic airport.

Wish me,

Luck.