After six years in the UK, my brain was still commuting on the Northern Line while my body was standing at a station in Sydney.
I walked up to the window, weary from work, and asked for a ticket to North London.
The ticket-master froze. He looked at me, then his screen, then back at me with genuine concern. Finally, the penny dropped.
"You mean North Sydney, don’t you?"
"Ah," I stammered, my face turning a vibrant shade of commuter-red. "Yes. That would help."
He didn't miss a beat. As he printed the ticket, he leaned in with a grin.
"And will that be a window or an aisle seat for the journey?"
0 comments:
Post a Comment