I had a somewhat restless night on my bunk bed, being bothered by the persistent dream that I was a shoe salesman on Brunswick Street and could only get to sleep once I’d sold a certain number of shoes. Bizarre. But then I woke up and was at Hastings Station awaiting my train. The said station is on the Stony Point Line, a somewhat desolate diesel-powered service generously included in the metropolitan network. So it was a train to Frankston (where, true to form, several policemen confronted some drugged-up bogan), changing at the city and then home– almost two and a half hours all up, including the bit where I had to wait at Heidelberg for no reason).
The purpose for this aberrant behaviour was the fact that I had to pick Sarah up from the airport at about noon and would have to leave earlier from Hastings than my family if I were to get there in time. However, they got bored of holidaying on the Peninsula and arrived home about half an hour after me (all that for nothing…). The plane was naturally delayed, but not by too much. It was a bit strange waiting for the plane, though, since Tiger is a budget airline and doesn’t have an arrivals building to speak of (it looks a bit like something from Schindler’s List). But then the plane arrived, and we were on our way.
After going home for some lunch, we went off to the Fairfield Boathouse for coffee and then back home to barbecue sausages. I’ve said it before: all my holidays revolve around food.