The smell of Donna's home-made hot cross buns made my heart sing this weekend. So did the taste of mum's gravy. Not to mention the four days off work to indulge in chocolate at every opportunity. Weekends pass at double-speed though, even when they're twice as long, so I've got that dreaded Sunday night feeling a day late. It's the realisation that the list of things to do on the weekend, whether written down or in your head, has no chance of being checked off. Tomorrow looms large. Another day, another chance to hunt for a ray of sunshine. Or that's what I'm telling myself.
A quick review of recent photos has revealed that I am more optimistic on the way home from work, not the way there. In the afternoons, I see things that I want to photograph. I'm not sure what I see in the mornings. Most likely a blur of stony faces on the train heading in the wrong direction.
One afternoon last week, a train pulled up at Flinders Street Station and the carriages framed a lady on another platform. Presumably she was trying to get home. Like all of us.