Gym Junkie

I go to a gym regularly (2-3 times a week, most weeks). I am no gym junkie, I have no svelte toned body, I don’t look like I go to the gym. I am just not that interested in dying soon, and as I like to drink a lot and enjoy good food, I thought the only option I have really is to go to a gym to get a bit of exercise.

At the moment I am working in the inner suburbs for the first time in my life and not the CBD I crave. I am also driving to work for the first time too, previously I journeyed on the tram, the train or the bus. This traveling time was my time to do nothing at all except stare out the window and make up stories, to observe and critique my fellow travellers and to join in the camaraderie of that small group of people – nose to armpit, bottom to face – that brave bunch of men and women – brakes, what brakes - who climb abroad the Sydney public transport juggernaut everyday.

There was the sound track too, my intimate sound track, a new record I’m getting to know or an old favourite reminding me of why I liked it so much, and when I was feeling optimistic, the risk taking of the shuffle on that mp3 I love too much to part with, the one that I have so many albums on, that even now I have to stop sometimes and say – who the hells is this.

My stories are usually adventures, I am the star, and they vary in location and theme - drama, action, comedy, suspense, tragedy, romance - sometimes when I’m so engrossed in the adventure of these stories, I might not get off and continue to ride the buses all day just so I can continue my tales. Sometimes the sad ones are so sad tears may fall from my face for these imaginary characters in these imaginary stories – I miss this.

I am not fond of my morning / evening commute though its 25 minutes in the AM and 15-20 minutes in the PM. There is a bus I can easily walk to that travels straight to my work but in a wiggly fashion, it was taking up to 50 minutes each time when it actually bothered to get around to turning up, bus timetables are indeed the stuff of myth and legend in this town, creative yet optimistic, hopeful but mostly tinged with disappoint and despair. So logic outweighed my need for that staring out the window daydream time that I need, I liked and I so looked forward to and the sensible side said drive.

Yes, my sensible side, please meet my sensible side, bain of my existence, SS is a fitting acronym for my sensible side. I don’t like my sensible side (SS), it dominates me and my actions more than I would like. It wont even let me have a good cry, my eyes water, I start to sniffle, I start to build up a good head of boo hoo steam, ready for the long haul red puffy eyed cry, when the SS jumps up smacks me on the nose and says sternly, “oh get over yourself ya feckin eejit (with accent), stop being so stupid and pull yourself together.”

I virtually pass my gym on the back street drive to work each day, and as now I am in an environment that allows (doesn’t notice) freedoms that I don’t often find anywhere else expect in Consultancy companies, I’ve been disappearing out at lunch for the 105 minutes it takes to drive to the gym, exercise, shower and drive back.

This has given me a different view on the people that go during the day on a normal working day, as I am usually an evening gym-er. There is one lady I see regularly now, and she fascinates me, I find myself staring at her for the entire time she is on the treadmill, I’ve only ever seen her on the treadmill.

She is not young, nor attractive, she has no outstanding features of height, weight, presence or personality, she is of a non-descript ethnic origin, I’ve never heard her speak. I know nothing about her nor is there anything that would make her stand out in a crowd if we where on the street rather than sweating in the cardio room. What catches my eye and intrigues me is the attire, she exercises regularly, on the treadmill, in jeans and flat shoes.

My mind shouts – fool stupid woman, what are you doing, I stiffled a giggle of you cant be serious the first time I saw her. Then I thought, maybe she doesn’t sweat – so I got angry with jealously, I come from hearty pale skin celtic stock; we sweat like pigs. It took me a few visits before I started to think, maybe she’s poor and cant afford sneakers and gym cloths, though my natty new outfit was from Best & Less and cost all of $18.75. I started to feel some empathy for her, then ye olde SS piped up, “she is at a gym, stupid, that’s $40+ a fortnight, she is not poor”, good point SS, that mustn’t be it then.

She arrives on foot, maybe she is working at one of the nearby factories and pops out during lunch like I do and cant bring a change of clothes, but then I think that would start to get pretty yucky in the girlie bits in the afternoon wouldn’t it, as denim doesn’t exactly breathe?

Maybe it’s a cultural thing; maybe they don’t exercise in gym clothes in the place where she comes from, I wonder were that place is. Maybe there is a religious reason for it, but I can’t think of what sort of religion would be that silly, no scrap that, I can think of lots.

She doesn’t really need to exercise as she is very slim, her treadmill seems to never go beyond a smart saunter, so maybe she works near by and has nothing else to do at lunchtime except go to the gym hoping someone would start talking to her and she could make some friends.

Maybe maybe maybe

Maybe I should just say hello next time.

Listening: King Hokum
Reading: What I Loved – Siri Hustvedt

Ned slips into reality for a squiz

My brother asked me tonight if I want to see Howard Jones in concert.

I said, ok, if he plays before the 17th when I leave……

Cate Blanchett as Richard II scared me into submission today, that and the 42-degree heat.

I never liked Howard Jones when I was little, I preferred Depeche Mode, they saw Tony Hadley a few months ago on the RSL circuit, I saw The Drones that night.

Cate on stage, in the flesh, the heat, my Dad needs a prostrate biopsy– I was vulnerable.

I will climb back on my hill and tell you what I see soon - life jumped in there for a teensy bit.

There are 24 more sleeps till Ned goes to Cairo – I will compose more stories in the Adventures of Young Indy as I sleep.

(btw – Ned is going to Petra soon, Ned is beside herself with expectation & excitement – Ned rides as good as Marcus)


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Ned adores Ned's brother, he hugged her tighter than he normally does tonight when he left. It scares her a little when he hugs her like that cause he has had weak moments in the past. Neds lot are Irish Catholic, they dont speak, just shout alot, final goodbyes sometimes are just a touch, that hard hug speaks more than words ever could.

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I saw sadness in the shape of an old lady today, she couldnt stay the 90 minutes in her chair between acts, but her heels, as she snuck out to go to the bathroom during the play where clickity clackity clumping, so shes tumbled to the rail on the 5th step and took them off so she could sneak to pee as quietly as her 70+ year bladder could.

Some people make you smile.

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More Roots

The final episode of Roots is on tonight. I’ve not really enjoyed visiting this blockbuster story/land mark event in television to be honest; you will learn that I am nothing but honest when I write about whats happening from my hill. I promise to be honest on every occasion, except the occasions I lie.

My boss, Ginger Pom tells me they all watched it glued to their tellies back in the day, but it wasn’t the quality of the production, or the glamour of the star studded yankee cast, sorry Mr McShane. Ginge swears it was the story, she says that in England in 1977, they just hadn’t heard a story like that before, and that’s what was fascinating for them. So I’m spoilt, I’ve heard it all before, I’ve heard it told by better story tellers, I’ve heard it told by more interesting characters. Oh dear, yawn is me, the too harsh critic – you’re too hard Ned, you are too hard on people. That song has rung around my ears with the familiarity of five bells.

I watched three David Lean movies last weekend........ I know I am spoilt.

It feels like a burden or a chore to have to sit through the last episode of Roots, its much the same feeling I get when I have to drag Ned’s Cavalier body to work each morning - I do like my current job, I just dont like working.

I remember the story of Roots being interesting, I think the thought of the story is interesting, the actuality is not. At the end, its still dated badly, the acting style is either wooden or cartoonish and the story is bland and has not held a lot of interest for me after all. The characters are not that entertaining or that compelling, I feel there is only one that has really engaged me and that was Chicken George (he is Kizzy’s son). The other black characters have fallen into two camps, the sour sullen moody ones or the hard done by beaten and down- trodden ones, Chicken George has an enthusiasm and energy the other characters are missing. Now London Hospital on UKTV whiched I watched after Roots last night has engaged me - fascinating, people die, children die, I like it when people die, its just like they do outside the box (outside the flat screen??) I dont have a flat screen tellie, so for mine its still outside the box.

I am forcing myself to continue with Roots, guilt wins out – 'black slavery stories, you should watch it just to show respect and empathy for what they went through' guilt, and I'm not even a damn yankee - I have leftie tendencies, and can singalong to the Internationale with vigour if nicely lubricated but who cant then, its oh so popular to be ‘pc’.

Guilt is my crime, suffering through boredom is my punishment, though as another slave gets whipped by some white sci fi character actor that you can never remember the name of, my mind wanders to thinking about what sort of a Doctor will Matt Smith make, or whether 4 hours of War of the Roses tomorrow will give me a numb bum - all the important issues of the day.

I am reading Dante, just the Inferno - I am experiencing a hiccup of intellectualism.

C W Stonekings Jungle Blues is this weeks sound track.

I Dont Know Where I'm Going

I came back to the town where I was young just over a year ago after a long long time away – 10 years.

I'm glad I came back now as the desire to come back was hanging over me as an unfinishedness drawing on me.

Coming back and being here for the last year has made me realise that here is not really the place I want to be. The reasons that drew me back are still here, but I dont know now if I will stay.

This time I know that when I do go I dont have to come back.

I’m always leaving things behind, places, people and futures.

I’ve been doing it for so long I don’t have relationships or histories that go back more than an a handful of year.

Maybe there is gypsy in my soul, maybe I just run away.

(I exclude my family from this as they come with me wherever I go, even though they never leave here).

Sam, I’ve been reading Miles McClagan this morning, he has made me melancholy.

Recent Events - that man

The swearing in of the new US President is all over the news this morning, so many of the people of that country have put so many hopes into this US migrant, I am feeling a little apprehensive hoping that they wont be disappointed too quickly or he doesn’t turn out to be just another silly selfish politician who just happens to have skin a little darker than the usual presidents, I do hope I’m wrong though as that country certainly needs a lot of help.

I don’t think the problems in that country will start to change unless the ENTIRE nation embraces these three ideals

a) free health care
b) free education (primary, secondary and tertiary)
c) get rid of the guns.

Given a & b. their children can do anything, achieve anything, people can pull themselves out of poverty if they are educated and are taken care of when they are sick, and the last one, how can you learn to value a life when the norm seems to be – they annoy me, bang, their gone.

They have been re-running Roots on Fox Classics this week, episode three was last night. Its an interesting story, I read it when I was 12, but have never seen the mini-series as I’m a little young to of seen it when they first made it, and I have no memory of it being repeated.

So far it seems very dated, the acting is exaggerated and romantic, there seems very little realism in any of the performance, black nor white, the white actors seem like they are playing panto, and the black actors treat their characters like gentle idiots, it almost seems at times it’s a collection of caricatures from that part of their history.

Here are some thoughts on the first few episodes

Episodes 1 & 2 (shown together) – O J Simpson got second billing, he was only in it for 3 minutes, and spent half of that time running ??? He must have been famous once for something other than killing his ex-wife and her friend. Ed Asner appears with a shocking wig and terrible stick on beard, the acting from Ed is less than convincing, he is the ships Captain who transports the slaves to the US, the Dad from the Waltons is the ships mate, he gets killed on the return journey, we cheered when he got killed – that’s how bad the acting was. Geordi La Forge was alright but he played Kunta Kinte with a romantic /idealistic view of what life was like then – seems odd to my mind. The native women were mainly topless, if this tv series was made today, I’d doubt there would be topless women running about. Adama turns up towards the end and buys Kunta Kinte and renames him Toby. The acting must be really bad when I thought Adama (without his Battlestar) was the best in this episode.

Episode 3 – Toby is an man now, I don’t know the actor that played him but he is absolutely huge, large man with muscles bulging, even when he has his foot chopped off, theres a little bit of romance, a little bit of violence, a little bit of death and a little bit of Mr Brady – I don’t know but it still seems terribly dated, the acting is wooden, the costumes are like panto costumes, I’m not feeling an empathy yet for these characters but I should. It ends with Toby realizing he will never be free and accepting it, and celebrating the birth of his child, Kizzy.

Episode 4 tonight.

I wouldn’t mind seeing this remade, I think the subtly of modern acting styles and the realism in production design would bring a lot to a remake of this story.

What Ned Heard When Ned was "happy"

Its all serious till a hobbit looses an eye.

Discrimination Will Not Be Tolerated, Even If you Mask It As A Religion.

I’ve been keeping an eye on the hoo haa and carry on over the reaction to a Brisbane Shock Jock, Michael Smiths comments on banning Burkas or Hijabs in shops.

http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/news/queensland/dj-denies-racism-behind-hijab-jibe/2009/01/15/1231608867111.html

I'm not going to talk about the comment, rather about the piece of clothing.

It saddens me to think that in this day and age, that a group of people willing force a subset of their population to cover themselves from head to toe with the determining factor being their sex, and masquerade this subversion as religion. I dont call it religion, I call it out and out discrimination and it should not be tolerated, not in Australia, never. This type of obvious sexism is what we as a population and the people who came before us fought so hard to overcome, I dont understand why so many of us tolerate it now.

If any other group forced a percentage to their population to submit to such torture, and imho wearing a hijab or a full-faced burqa is a form of torture, then the perpetrators of this crime would be imprisoned – the religious label is irrelevant. A large percentage of Muslim women don’t feel the need to do this, and it doesn’t make them any less of a devout follower of this religion, so why do some arms of this religion think that you have to do this is beyond me.

If the fanatical arms of this religion chose to force both men and women to wear these outfits I'd be much more comfortable, as then they'd just be a pretty silly cult, but of course this wont happen as these men know that this outfit is foolish, uncomfortable and extremely constricting and would never tolerate it, but they are happy to force their women folk to do it .

I see women wearing these on the street on stinking hot days in Sydney, walking beside their husbands who are dressed in t-shirts, thongs and shorts, and I just want to slap them and yell at them, "look at him, look at what he is wearing and look at what you have got on", I’d tell them, they are in Australia, where you dont have to wear such foolish and inappropriate clothing. Especially when this “law” was only decreed by Mohammad when he noticed a few people making goo goo eyes at some of his wives and he didn’t want to deal with it.

In one of the articles I read, the president of the Islamic Friendship Association of Australia, Keysar Trad, is quoted as slamming the move suggested by Michael Smith, Keysar Trad said it was sexual harassment to ask a Muslim woman to remove her hijab, sorry Keysar, but as a woman, I find it a form of sexual harassment to HAVE to wear that damn thing.

Now I am going to be lazy and copy one of the many comments that I’ve read about this, because this guy summed it up rather nicely (thanks Matt of Mortdale).

“Forcing women to wear Burkas or Hijabs, no matter the culture, is a slur on women in general. It symbolises that women are not equal to men, which we all know is false - women are equal to men. Muslims should cease to demean and discriminate against women. In Islamic countries Australians have to abide by the cultural laws when visiting or living in that country. Why is it that Muslims see themselves as not having to conform to Australian cultural laws which effectively prohibit discrimination against women. I feel sorry for all Muslim women who are forced to wear something which demeans them, even if they have no problem themselves.”

I travel a fair bit, and will happily abide by the cultural rules of the country I visit, even if some of them disgust me, I have covered up in a Muslim country and will continue to do so when I visit one, just as I expect the Muslim women who visit here to uncover. I could never move to a Muslim country on a permanent basis because I couldnt accept the cultural norms of those countries, in the same way when Muslim men and women move here I expect them to adopt the cultural norms of this country, that is only fair.

If these people dont want to give up the hijab/burka, then there are plenty of other countries in the world where this form of discrimination is acceptable, and if someone feels that they dont want to give it up, then maybe Australia is not the right country for them. There are alot of Muslims from many countries of the world happily living here, its such a shame a small percentage of them give them majority of Australian Muslims such a bad rep.

And back to the comment that sparked the whole debate, people have to take their motorcycle helmets off when entering banks, I dont see this as being any different.

If someone has a problem with obeying the law of a shop they wish to enter – dont enter.

If someone has a problem with obeying the cultural law of a country they wish to enter - dont enter.

Its not that hard.

At the Movies - on the small screen

In my futile attempts to educate myself in a little less of the boring business and more of the arty things, I decided to do a film course. I have a masters in business marketing which I use in a dull as dish water job that I’m bored out of my brain at but as it pays me nicely (not a lot but enough for my needs), and I dont have to work too hard during the day, its stress free and I get to enjoy the life I like with the freedom the money I earn gives me but that’s all beside the point, This film course is one of my many attempts to do something for the creative cultural arty side of me - something thats fundamental to ensuring adequate brain functioning.

In the search for this course, I looked high and low in old Melbourne town and could not find anything that really interested me so when you cant find a course you buy a book don’t you, well I do. So off I went to A&R and purchased the book 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die from 2004. For the last two years I have been using this book to educate myself more in my cinema viewing and its helping me to know and understand films that I may not of been aware of or would of noticed previously.

I initially reviewed this book to see how many of the 1001 films in it I had seen, I was pretty strict about it, not only must I of seen it but I must also be able to remember things from it, so if is says West Side Story, which I know I’ve seen but I cant remember who wins in the end and who gets the girl etc, its not marked off as seen. So far I have ‘seen’ 436, so there is still a long way to go.

I have Foxtel and World Movies so seeing new movies from the book is relatively easy – I usually get to see 4 or 5 new ones a month that I havent seen before and it doesn’t cost me anything extra.

I know in a year or two I will run out of movies on Foxtel that I havent seen and will have to start looking for other ways of seeing movies but at the moment its ok.

This method has exposed me to some truly beautiful and amazing movies I wouldn’t of normally seen (The Man with the Movie Camera, The Bicycle Thief, The Battle of Algiers, Das Boot, Once Upon a Time in America), some duds (Ninotchka, Zabriskie Point, A Christmas Story, Barry Lyndon), some weird ones (Haxan, An Andulusian Dog, Freaks, Koyaanisqatsi, Old Boy), and a few that were just plain delightful (Beat the Devil, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg and Project A Part II).

All in all its been a pleasant experience and keeps me occupied rather than being miserable and mopey when I am home alone for extended periods, which is often the case.

I did see the 1925 version Phantom of the Opera a couple of years ago at the Regent Theatre in Collins St as part of MIFF, with a live Wurlitzer organ, which was a truly remarkable experience. I only went as this Phantom was in my book but this adventure gave me one of the most amazing cinema experiences I have ever had. Everybody should try it, though I think it worked really well as a thriller, if it was a romance, I’d doubt the organ would of made too much of a difference. I’m not much of romance fan, when a new friend asked me the other day what I wanted from a movie, I replied I wanted the movie to hurt me in some way, that raw emotional reaction you have to something – laughter, anger, happiness, sadness, joy, that’s what I want, the ‘oh that’s nice’ or ‘its alright’ doesn’t really do it for me anymore.

Why did I bring this up, well on Monday night I was watching Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and was bored stiff, the music was dull, the story was ordinary and not much happened and it offered nothing of interest in it that would make me want to watch it again – yes there was a little bit of younger days celeb spotting but I’m still scratching my head to work out how it was included in this list, mind there are a couple of movies that fall into this category too but its all an experience though isnt it.

Hunting at The Metro

I have a little selfish indulgence, Gomez, they are just one of the many bands that I like. I usually don’t share this little passion with anybody as there is something about this band that doesnt fit well with my indie music loving cool gig going music snob persona. So as a result I tend to go to their live shows on my own, mainly because I'm a snob so I dont tell many people I like this band and nobody else I know likes them.

Last time I saw them play was on their last trip here in 2007 at the Palace, the real one, not to long before it burnt down. Now this band have two fantastic albums, Get in On and Liquid Skin, I love them both, thinking that Liquid Skin is one of my top 10 albums of the 1990s (it came out at the right time and got me out of a nasty funk). The later albums are well below par, samey same, dull and middle of the road mainstream (watch it Augie March – you are on this path, please get off it), the set list was starting to get heavy with the newer stuff and less of the older but better quality songs, so I said to myself after the last show that next time they come I wasn’t going to be buying a ticket.

I spent the next 12 months or so doing the normal living things, moving cities, changing jobs, getting your heart broken etc, then saw an announcement that Gomez would be coming out here again for Falls or one of the millions of festivals that are flooding the east coast festival going bogannivilla market, I saw the ad and thought, remember last time, lets not, lets end it whilst still on a relative high and so I decided not to get a ticket.

Life continued to potter on, then this little advert came up - Gomez will perform their mind blowing debut effort BRING IT ON in it’s entirety. To celebrate 10 years since their first effort won the UK’s prestigious Mercury Music Prize, the 5 lads from ports all over the globe will hit the stage at The Metro - okie dokie, so I thought – first album, hmmmm, got to have myself a bit of this so went and got a little ticket. Life pottered on some more, Christmas came and went, Santa gave me the obligatory cheque (Santa gives cheques in my house). Two weeks before the gig I had a moment of panic urgh, seems that the date of the show co-incides with the start of the Sydney Festival, so not only will I be dealing with getting a cab on a Saturday night in George St but also dealing with the extra 250k people that will be in town for the free shit – I hate crowds. I had to put that little prejudice aside and force myself to still go. I ran into my cousin and his wife whilst I was loitering around the front – it was my cousins Christmas present – go see Gomez. I know Gomez do attract a lot of the bogan yob crowd, that’s one of the reasons I keep my little indulgence to myself but if my lovely cousin, and he is a really nice bloke, just a real big surfer bogan boy (I doubt he has ever read a book in his life), then the sold out Metro crowd would be pretty much full of bogans – a Gomez experience in Sydney is also new to me as I’m still new to this town, even though its second time round.

Gig – great singalong, rowdy fun crowd, nice to hear those old songs, then they squeezed in a little Rhythm and Blues Albi and I was a happy gig goer. They also played a couple of new songs and they really pale in comparison – give it up boys, the new stuff is really not great. But I have and will always adore Ben Ottewells vocals.

I wanted to talk about the people in front of me at this gig, but I spent so long setting the scene I’m bored now with typing. I spend a lot of time at gigs on my own these days – new town, not a lot of gig going new friends, I have no choice unless I want to stay home so I go. I saw Fleet Foxes and The Dodos the week before at the same venue, both shows have something in common, and that is there seemed to be a lot of people at the gig who do not go to gigs much, gig virgins, or retired gig goers. Fleet Foxes had a lot more of the almost blue rinse brigade with a few virgin gig goers muddled in – how can you tell, by the clothes/shoes they wear, the way they carry themselves, trust me us regulars know, you stand out a mile. I spend a lot of time at gigs watching people, listening in on their conversations and watching people as they get drunk – hey what else am I supposed to do, its too dark to read & people are just so entertaining.

At Gomez, I was up the back, just down from the top bar – I’ve seen them so many times I didn’t need to be up the front, just in a handy spot for the bar and the bathrooms with little hassle of squeezing through people to get to either – one for in-take, one for out-take. I suffered through Old Man Rivers yawn-fest, just before he finished a boganvillia midget slapper (BMS) in her finest faux silk grecian knee length gown with beading around the chest (whops, young lassie must of got muddled, the RSL is on the next block down), arrived with her two friends and parked herself near me.

Anyways wait wait between sets, staring at the ceiling drinking VB cans.

A group of young blokes turn up near me, a group of 4 friendly chaps in their mid to late 20s, nice looking friendly enough, I’m standing beside them, they make sure I can see and save my spot when I go to the bar. Just before the lights came back on, the BMS eyes one, lets call him the red shirt, she looks him up and down, nods her head, smiles coyly, target locked on, then it began. I then preceded to watch an all out offensive of BMS on red shirt to get his attention, get him talking, basically secure him for her or one of her companions for the night, thought it was a little odd as she looked a good 10 years older than him and to use the term class, they certainly belonged to different classes (classes here are suburb based but that’s for another time). The pretext was other girl was learning how to whistle, I must admire the maneuvers, the speed in which the prey was targetted, set upon and secured and the way she went about it but it was just at the wrong place – nightclub a gig is not. Red shirt was a little worse for the drink, his friends picked up on BMS and her plans straight away so stayed back well out of it, even though BMS tried to bring them into the conversation a number of times. BMS’s voracious attack, and hell fire it was voracious seemed to of worked, I thought so, so did red shirt - that BMS was after him. It turns out it wasn’t, because during Bubblegum Years, red shirt tried to put his arms around BMS for a swaying singalong, BMS stopped him, shook her finger at him and turned around to watch the stage again, I was a little confused, so was red shirt, but I gather BMS was on the look out for her friend, got an innocent unsuspecting guy in her little web then handed him over to her mate. BMS, annoying and loud though she was, I truly felt like David Attenborough watching the mating rituals of humans in all its unfettered and ugly glory. Though I really could of done without BMS’s fish wife screeches, but as I told Jeffrey the next day, it was like a soap opera, the noise was annoying me and distracting me away from the music but I couldn’t move somewhere else, I had to stay and see how it all panned out.

Gig ended, lights came on, red shirts friends, who had watched but stayed out of the machinations of the hunt during the gig because I get the feeling red shirt had been going through a dry spell, saw BMS and the other girl with the lights on and dragged red shirt out of there as fast as they politely could.

I laughed.

I left the Metro and wandered up to Townhall to catch the nightrider as the buses had ended and as I suspected, there was not a cab in sight. Nightriders are a social experiment of their own, but lucky for me I only have to go to Newtown station, wasnt in the mood for bed so stopped off at the Sando for a cider on the way home. Nice night.