The stationmaster loves his job. He sorted out a squabble between two nasty bastards. It was over a copy of yesterday’s free afternoon newspaper. Talk about idiotic. I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone as the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and sit two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of nomadic sad souls. The Australia government won’t accept their fair share to this free and peaceful country. Talk about pathetic. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms in honey while my girlfriend knocked her chillum against a bluestone breakwater and stuffed black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that John Cassaveties might wear in a detective film, or possibly where he plays an expert on women or a whacked philosopher. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, outsourcing counselor in red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids or elderly away. My iPhone went mad; someone needed me. A customer was having an existential emergency. I answered the call; my customer was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, customer said, no problem as a wrinkly had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. He explained that the area where Zones One and Two meets are like a Devil’s Triangle for the elderly, they disappear in mysterious circumstances. Extraterrestrials or fare evaders are suspected to be responsible. Another explanation pins the blame on suspected leftover equipment from the lost city of Atlantis. Rail authorities will not confirm or deny this.