The 2am Rant: It’s market day…

These donuts are whole with jam injected into them and are delicious. You cannot stop at one, which is why you get five.

There are like the donuts I used to get from the Dandenong market when I was a child. Back then, nearly 60 years ago, I used to go every Tuesday to get fruit and vegetables, and sometimes clothes, because there were other stalls selling useful household items.

Back then we used to get donuts, and for a long time, I had never managed to get back when the market was open to relive those childhood memories.

This trip we do.

The Dandenong Market had changed considerably since the last time I remember it. The building where my eldest son used to play basketball has been turned over to meat, fish, and food stalls.

It has spread to be about ten times the size it used to be, making it seem like a difficult task to find the donut van, but we entered by the right entrance and there it was.

And the donuts?

They were exactly as I remembered.

While we’re in the area we also make a trip to the Springvale market. When I lived in Victoria there was no such market, this had only been around since the immigrant Vietnamese have made their home in Springvale, and in places, it reminds you of similar markets in Singapore, Hong Kong, or China.

It was a fascinating half-hour of wandering around almost feeling like you are somewhere in South East Asia.

With markets like these who would really need a supermarket? And a bonus? The street food.

What I learned about writing – Poetry, again

The Necessary Madness: Why Poetry Demands a Certain Unsoundness of Mind

There are few pronouncements in literature as instantly arresting and delightfully unsettling as the suggestion that to truly engage with poetry—to write it, or even to enjoy it—requires “a certain unsoundness of mind.”

This quote, often attributed to the Romantic critic and essayist William Hazlitt (though sometimes debated), doesn’t just demand our attention; it challenges the very foundation of how we define sanity, rationality, and the purpose of art.

If the quote holds any truth, it suggests that the purest forms of human expression are found not in the centre of logic, but on the fringes of accepted thought.

The Tyranny of the ‘Sound’ Mind

Before we celebrate this poetic madness, we must first define what the “sound mind” represents.

The ‘sound mind’ is the mind built for survival and efficiency. It is pragmatic, literal, and relentlessly focused on the material world. It asks: How does this benefit me? Is this efficient? What is the demonstrable return on investment? A sound mind appreciates a spreadsheet more than a sonnet.

Poetry, by its nature, is profoundly unsound. It is impractical. It sacrifices plain meaning for music, clarity for colour, and the material for the transcendent. In the purely economic or rational sense, poetry is useless.

The poet, therefore, must reject the tyranny of the purely rational. They must be willing to stare at a blade of grass not as an element of photosynthesis, but as a small, green miracle demanding an ode. This ability to divert focus from the practical necessities of life to the consuming fire of feeling—this is the first hint of “unsoundness.”

The Poet as the Maximalist of Feeling

When we talk about the “unsoundness” necessary for poetry, we are generally not talking about pathology, but rather maximal sensitivity.

The poet is often someone who feels the world too intensely. They do not merely observe tragedy; they absorb it. They do not just see beauty; they are momentarily blinded by it. This heightened level of empathy and emotional responsiveness is exhausting, destabilising, and deeply incompatible with the smooth running of mundane life.

To be a poet is to stand permanently outside the insulating wall of detachment that most people build to cope with existence. You must be vulnerable to the overwhelming sensory and emotional data the world constantly provides.

In this context, poetry becomes a necessary defense mechanism. It is the obsessive, painstaking labor of translating this overwhelming internal cacophony into structured sound. The rhyme, the meter, the perfect metaphor—these elements are not arbitrary decorations; they are the cage the poet builds to house their wild, excessive feelings.

Unsoundness is the Engine of Metaphor

Perhaps the greatest sign of poetic “unsoundness” is the absolute reliance on metaphor.

The logical mind deals strictly with A = A. The poetic mind insists that A = B, even when A and B share no literal qualities. It sees a lover’s eyes and calls them stars; it sees a city and calls it a sleeping animal.

This non-linear connection—this immediate leap across the chasm of logic—is the signature mental deviation required for the art form. The poet must briefly abandon empirical reality to create a new reality, one governed by emotional resonance rather than physics.

To create the brilliant, jarring imagery that defines great verse, the poet must be willing to let their mind wander into territory that the logical world deems nonsensical. They must embrace the illogical truth.

The Reader’s Necessary Leap

The quote states that even enjoying poetry demands this mental deviation. This is perhaps the more insidious and intriguing part of the claim.

If the poet is the architect of illogical truth, the reader must be willing to temporarily relocate their own mind to that space.

To truly enjoy a poem, you cannot read it primarily for information. You must allow yourself to be led away from the concrete ground you stand upon. The appreciation of poetry requires the reader to:

Suspend Literal Meaning: To understand why the moon might weep, or the wind might whisper secrets, we must momentarily sideline our rational understanding of astronomy and meteorology.
Embrace Emotional Logic: We must prioritise the feeling the poem evokes over the fact it describes.
Accept the Unexplained: We must allow the poem to exist outside the need for easy answers, recognising that the beauty lies in the ambiguity.

In the brief time we spend with a stanza, we are happily infected by the poet’s particular brand of “madness.” We choose to be unsound, and in that fleeting moment of voluntary irrationality, we find profound emotional clarity.

A Celebration of Necessary Deviance

The history of poetry—from the romantic excess of Lord Byron to the stark, fragmented vision of Sylvia Plath—is littered with geniuses who struggled to align their profound internal lives with the demands of the pragmatic world.

The quote, therefore, is not an insult or a diagnosis. It is a profound observation about the nature of creativity. The “unsoundness of mind” is simply the maximal awareness of the human condition—the courage to feel disproportionately and to articulate those feelings without filtering them through the gauze of acceptable, practical thought.

If sanity is defined by the refusal to look beyond the mundane, then thank heaven for the glorious, necessary unsoundness that gives us the words to describe the sublime.

What Do You Think?

Do you agree that a departure from strict logic is necessary to appreciate poetry? Who is your favourite poet whose work seems to thrive on this “unsoundness” of mind? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 161

Day 161 – Is the American Dream a good model to follow

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The Mirage of Prosperity: Can We Still Believe in the American Dream?

For generations, the “American Dream” has served as the national North Star. It is the seductive promise that with enough grit, talent, and ambition, anyone—regardless of their station—can rise from obscurity to acclaim. It is a narrative of meritocracy, gold-paved streets, and the promise that the past does not dictate the future.

But is this dream a practical model to follow, or is it a gilded trap? To answer this, we must look at the literature that first dared to peek behind the curtain of the American success story.

More than a century ago, Theodore Dreiser’s naturalist masterpiece, Sister Carrie, dismantled the shiny exterior of the American Dream, revealing a hollow, often tragic reality beneath. By examining Carrie Meeber’s journey, we can better understand why the American Dream, as a moral or psychological model, may be fundamentally flawed.

The Illusion of Upward Mobility

In Sister Carrie, the protagonist arrives in Chicago with nothing but a longing for “something better.” She is the quintessential seeker of the American Dream. Through a series of transactional relationships, she climbs the social ladder, transitioning from a struggling factory worker to a celebrated Broadway actress.

On the surface, Carrie is a success story. She achieves the material comfort the Dream promises. Yet, Dreiser leaves us with a haunting image: Carrie, wealthy and famous, sitting in a rocking chair, perpetually unsatisfied.

Dreiser’s point is devastating: The American Dream is a process, not a destination. It functions on the psychology of “more.” It teaches us that contentment is a static state that must be avoided, because if you are content, you stop striving. As a model for living, it creates a treadmill where the finish line constantly recedes.

The Transactional Self

One of the most uncomfortable truths in Sister Carrie is the way the American Dream erodes human connection. In the novel, people are viewed as commodities—assets to be acquired or obstacles to be discarded. Carrie’s rise is facilitated by her abandonment of those who helped her, most notably the tragic figure of George Hurstwood.

When we adopt the American Dream as our primary model for life, we risk turning our relationships into utility-based arrangements. We ask, “What does this person offer me?” rather than “How can we grow together?” In a culture obsessed with the outcome of success, the quality of the human experience often becomes collateral damage.

The Myth of Meritocracy

The American Dream rests on the belief that if you fail, it is a personal moral failing. Conversely, if you succeed, it is purely because you “earned” it.

Dreiser’s work highlights the role of “blind, unmerited chance.” Carrie possesses a certain magnetism, but her success is as much about serendipity and the changing tides of urban life as it is about her own talent. When we buy into the Dream, we become blind to the systemic and accidental nature of success. This leads to a two-fold tragedy: we feel profound shame when we struggle, and we develop an unearned arrogance when we thrive.

Is the Dream Still Useful?

If Sister Carrie shows the dangers of a life driven solely by the pursuit of status and material gain, does the model have any merit today?

The American Dream can be a powerful engine when it’s defined as opportunity rather than acquisition. If we view it as the freedom to pursue our passions and contribute to society, it remains a noble pursuit. However, when it becomes a rigid model for identity—convincing us that we are only as valuable as our bank accounts or our job titles—it becomes a source of psychic misery.

The Lesson from the Rocking Chair

Dreiser’s Sister Carrie is a cautionary tale, not just about the dangers of consumerism, but about the dangers of living for the future at the expense of the present.

If we choose to follow the American Dream, we must do so with our eyes wide open. We must recognise that the “Dream” is often an artificial construct designed to keep the wheels of industry turning, rather than a blueprint for human happiness.

Perhaps the most “American” thing we can do today is to redefine the dream. Instead of chasing a title or a lifestyle that leaves us sitting in a rocking chair with an empty heart, maybe we should focus on a model of success that prioritizes integrity, community, and the quiet satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms—not the terms dictated by the market.

What do you think? Is the American Dream a source of inspiration or a recipe for perpetual dissatisfaction? Let’s discuss in the comments below.

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 161

Day 161 – Is the American Dream a good model to follow

…

The Mirage of Prosperity: Can We Still Believe in the American Dream?

But is this dream a practical model to follow, or is it a gilded trap? To answer this, we must look at the literature that first dared to peek behind the curtain of the American success story.

The Illusion of Upward Mobility

The Transactional Self

The Myth of Meritocracy

The American Dream rests on the belief that if you fail, it is a personal moral failing. Conversely, if you succeed, it is purely because you “earned” it.

Is the Dream Still Useful?

If Sister Carrie shows the dangers of a life driven solely by the pursuit of status and material gain, does the model have any merit today?

The Lesson from the Rocking Chair

Dreiser’s Sister Carrie is a cautionary tale, not just about the dangers of consumerism, but about the dangers of living for the future at the expense of the present.

What do you think? Is the American Dream a source of inspiration or a recipe for perpetual dissatisfaction? Let’s discuss in the comments below.

…

The 2am Rant: How about this for a plotline?

No matter how hard you try, how seamless, on paper, the plan is, the odds are that something will go wrong. That is not to say I am a fatalist, or a glass-half-empty kind of traveller, because most of the trips I have planned and taken have been relatively painless.

Except our good luck had to finally run out.

It was not a matter of bad planning; it was just one of those times when events didn’t quite go according to plan. It happens.

For instance, the simple objective was to get from Brisbane in Australia to Florence in Italy. There is no direct flight. Booking on an airline site is a horrendous experience; fares are ridiculously high, and there are no accommodating stopovers.

This is a trip that only a travel agent can handle.

The objective is to travel to London via Hong Kong or Singapore, or any medium-distance airport, then on to London or Paris, or wherever, then to Florence. No overnight stopover, staying in a hotel, not this time, in either Hong Kong or London.

Simple.

Not.

It was as horrendous for the agent as it was navigating the airline’s website. It was not something that could be done, sitting opposite her as she deftly navigated the highways and byways of the travel system on her computer. This was a longer, more intricate job.

Two days later, she had the solution for the Brisbane, Hong Kong, London, and thence Florence trip. It would require a stay of 10 hours in Hong Kong, the connections didn’t align according to price constraints, and then a 14-hour layover in London, as flights to Florence were not aligned either. All well and good. Cathay Pacific for the trip to London and Vueling Airlines for the Florence leg. At least we would arrive in Florence at a reasonable hour, about 6pm.

On paper, it was the most practical solution in the circumstances.

Reality proved it to be something else entirely.

At Brisbane airport, we were given boarding passes for the flights through to London, but by some quirk of fate, our baggage was checked through to Florence. How this could be done without boarding passes for the London to Florence flight was a surprise. Back in Brisbane, the check-in person told us she could not give us a boarding pass for the London to Florence leg because the system would not issue it. We could, she said, get it easy enough when we arrived in London.

The first leg went smoothly enough, though we did not realise until we got on the plane that it stopped over in Cairns for an hour or so. This was not a problem, just made the time between Brisbane and Hong Kong longer than we anticipated.

In Hong Kong, we had no trouble getting into the lounge I’d booked. The problem came with the interpretation of using the bathroom facilities, and it took several hours before we finally realised that the bathroom facilities were not part of the lounge but operated independently, and you had to book your place. By that time, there were a large number of people ahead of us (who obviously knew the problems associated with these facilities), and it annoyed me that the lounge staff did not mention it when we arrived.

The Hong Kong to London leg was as long as all long-haul flights are. We knew what to expect and arrived in London around 6 am. We arrived at Terminal Three, and the lounge we’d booked was in Terminal Three. All we needed was a boarding pass to get in.

Oops.

That was not the case.

Because we could not get back into terminal three without a forward boarding pass, we had to exit and go through customs and immigration. We were told that the only way to get a boarding pass for the Florence flight was to go to the airline counter.

The problem was that Vueling did not have an airline counter.

This is where tempers started to flare. 7:30 in the morning, no means of getting into the lounge which we had paid a lot on money for, and no one in the terminal was helpful.

The Vueling website was impossible to use.

The telephone number rang out.

At this point, I was beginning to believe the airline didn’t exist and we had been ripped off.

Only by a quirk of fate, reading the departures board, did I see a flight for Vueling leaving at 10 am, with the check-in counter displayed.

By this time, we had spent two very frustrating hours, and I was nothing short of angry.
At the gate, the head of the check-in counter, a representative of Vueling, was surprised we had any problems, particularly in Brisbane, but happily issued the boarding passes.

When we mentioned the baggage, she advised us it was lucky we did, otherwise it would have gone missing. She took the tag numbers and sorted that problem out.

The airline, it seems, is well respected, and based on the service I received, I had to say I agreed

The problem was back in Brisbane with an inexperienced check-in person.

There was only one problem in getting to the lounge, now four hours later than we had advised, the fact we had to go back through customs, and in doing so, the duty-free items that we had brought from Hong Kong were now outside the limits allowed, and the customs staff were adamant that, despite the circumstances, we could not take them with us. $400 worth of goods finished up in the bin.

It would be true to say that on that day, the customs staff at Heathrow were not the best ambassadors for their country, and one, in particular, would be best doing service elsewhere where human contact was not a requirement. As for the others, they were as helpful as they could be, but rules unfortunately, were rules.

At last, rather distressed over the duty-free and the lateness of our arrival at the lounge, there was no possibility of getting a short sleep before going to Florence. At least we did not have the same problems using the bathroom facilities, our room I’d booked had them included in the room.

We rested and figured nothing else could go wrong.

Not. Again!

The plane was advertised to leave London at about 3 pm. We left the lounge expecting to get to the gate on time. We checked on the departure board for the flight to get the gate number, only to see a notice ‘delayed’. When that delay passed 5 pm, two hours later, we decided to go to the counter and find out what was happening.

Only to find there was no airline counter. Again!

We asked at least a dozen people, including the special helpers at the airport, who there is plenty of signage to say to go to if you have a problem, but not one of them knew where the counter was or who was looking after the affairs of the airline. By this time, other irate passengers of the delayed flight were massing, also seeking answers. One discovered who the agent was, and we descended on the counter as a large group.

The first person I saw at the counter was the woman who had checked us in that morning. For her, it had been a long day, and it was getting longer.

The problem, the plane had been delayed on an earlier leg; yes, it would be arriving, having just left the last airport, and we would be embarking about 7:30. For our trouble, we got a meal voucher, and at least we could have a reasonably good dinner.

The plane arrived, we embarked, the service was good, and the people on board as cheerful as they could be, given the delays and the discontented passengers.

We arrived in Florence just before midnight, our driver to take us to the hotel was waiting for us, and the hotel upgraded us to a very nice room.

All in all, a harrowing journey, but at the end, basically a six-hour delay, and two very tired, but happy people. And we were in Florence, in the summer. What more could anyone want?

What I learned about writing – The day the story found me

The Day the Story Found Me: From Struggle to Sudden Spark

Every writer knows it. That dull ache in the chest, the persistent whisper of doubt, the relentless battle with the blank page. For the struggling writer, it’s a daily grind, a Sisyphean task where the boulder of ambition is constantly rolling back down the hill of reality. Rejection letters pile up, the coffee runs cold, and the endless pursuit of the perfect word feels less like a passion and more like a cruel cosmic joke.

You’ve tried everything. Outlines, free writing, prompts, word sprints. You’ve haunted libraries, notebooks clutched tight, hoping for osmosis to spark some brilliance. You’ve watched other writers soar, their words effortless, their stories finding homes, while yours remain orphans, lingering in the digital ether or gathering dust in a forgotten drawer. The financial strain is real, the sacrifices profound, and the question echoes louder each day: Am I even good enough? Is this all just a delusion?

You’re tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

And then, it happens.

It rarely comes when you’re looking for it, certainly not when you’re diligently sitting at your desk, forcing words onto the page. No, it’s often in the liminal spaces: while staring out a rain-streaked window on a bus, stirring sugar into cheap coffee at a diner, or perhaps in the hazy, half-awake moments just before dawn.

A vision.

It might be a place you’ve never seen, yet feel instantly familiar – a cobblestone street under a sky of bruised purple, a forgotten lighthouse crumbling into the sea, a bustling market stall overflowing with exotic spices. Or perhaps it’s a scene: a hushed conversation in the shadows, a desperate chase through a moonlit forest, a quiet moment of profound grief or unexpected joy that punches you in the gut with its raw emotion.

Sometimes, it’s a person. A face in a crowd that catches your eye, not because they’re strikingly beautiful, but because their expression holds a story – a flicker of sadness, a mischievous glint, a world-weary sigh. Or a voice, a fragment of dialogue overheard, that resonates with a truth so deep, it feels like it was meant for you alone.

It’s not just an idea; it’s an insistence. It’s a spark that hits the kindling of your tired soul, and suddenly, everything snaps into focus. It’s vivid, overwhelming, and utterly, undeniably real. It demands attention, a story clamouring to be told through your fingers, your voice. It vibrates with life, a fully formed universe begging to be unleashed.

And, suddenly…

The quiet hum of doubt is drowned out by a roar of possibility. The blank page, once a terrifying void, transforms into an eager canvas. Your fingers, which moments ago felt heavy and useless, now fly across the keyboard, barely keeping pace with the torrent of words pouring from your mind. The characters, the settings, the plot twists – they aren’t being invented; they’re being uncovered, as if they’ve always existed, just waiting for you to find them.

The weariness vanishes, replaced by an electrifying surge of energy. Hours bleed into minutes, the outside world fading into a blurry background. The coffee grows cold again, but this time, you don’t notice. You are a conduit, a vessel, connected to something vast and ancient and utterly magical. The story isn’t a task; it’s a fever, a joyous obsession. You are no longer struggling; you are creating. You are finally the writer you always knew you could be, because the story, in all its raw, vibrant glory, has finally found you.

This is the writer’s miracle. The moment when persistence meets pure, unadulterated inspiration. It’s a testament to showing up, even when it feels pointless. Because sometimes, all it takes is one single, unforgettable vision to remind you why you started, and to finally set your wildest tales free.

Have you ever experienced a moment like this? Share your stories of sudden inspiration in the comments below!

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 160

Day 160 – Writing Exercise – The day righted itself, as a waitress put a folded napkin under a wobbly table

…

We were struggling.

It was not as if it had happened overnight; it was the culmination of a series of events, some unfortunate, but all the result of circumstances beyond our control.

And it wasn’t as if we were living high in the hog, as my father called it, encompassing those he believed were spending more than they earned.

We were just ordinary people with ordinary jobs trying to stay afloat in an ordinary world.

Neither of us had the opportunity to get a tertiary education; our parents were just regular folk who struggled barely. They had fared reasonably well through the financial crisis because they had no investments, shares, or savings.

They had just enough to see us through high school and teach us the two valuable rules that they hoped would see us through. Do not get credit and do not spend money you don’t have.

And despite the temptation to keep up with others, we didn’t. We could have new furniture, we could go on lavish holidays, we could go out for dinners, but we didn’t.

And in the end, it didn’t really matter.

The factory where I worked could no longer compete with the cheap imports, and it didn’t matter that it had lasted 121 years, making the best furniture in the world; the cheap imports copied the designs and sold them for sixty per cent less.

They’d gone through restructures and staff cuts, even a degree of mechanisation, but it didn’t matter. My job, and over a thousand others, just disappeared.

There was no other work, not in a city where forty five percent of the workforce were unemployment.

It took six weeks for the flow-on effect to hit everything else, and then Lucy’s job was cut, along with another ten per cent of those who still had jobs.

I heard it from a friend before Lucy got home.

She was devastated. It was, she said, a good thing our parents were not alive to see what had happened to the city they honestly believed was God’s Green Earth.

Perhaps now it was time for Plan B.

….

When I got laid off, we sat at the table that had seen happier times, and at dinner with a strange sort of satisfaction that I had wanted to believe was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives.

That had been blunted by the discovery that there were no jobs, and if there were, there were over a hundred applicants.

A few weeks later, as the redundancy money was dwindling, Lucy spoke of the nearby silent rumours she and her friends passed around, that retail outlets were beginning to see a considerable drop in sales.

No need to say out loud what that meant.

That’s when I said we may have to bite the bullet and pay a visit to my Uncle Robert.

My father only had one brother, and I had only met him twice in my life, once when my father discovered he had terminal cancer, and the second, at my father’s funeral.

He was bombastic and condescending.

He did not understand why a brilliant and very clever man like my father would settle for mediocre. He had up and left for the big city to make his fortune the day after he graduated.

It went against my grandparents’ request, and for that, they ostracised him. We had met him at the funeral, and Lucy took an instant dislike to him. It was not surprising.

It might have had something to do with calling our city a dump, and had intimated that if I came to my senses, to come and see him, and he would give me a real job. I had no qualifications, but he had said all I needed was the Bannister name.

I declined then, but now, I might not have that luxury. Lucy deserved better than what had happened.

And when she lost her job, with no new job to be found, the point where we said we would talk about it again had arrived.

…

I’d been out doing the rounds of the employment agencies, joining the other job seekers who had not given up hope, and found little encouragement.

It was worse for the men who had children, because their responsibilities were far harder than mine. I came in and saw Lucy sitting at the table, most likely working out the budget.

When I sat down and looked at her, I could see the tears; some had dripped onto the top bill, the rent account. We were at the point where it had become unaffordable, and the landlord was not accepting excuses.

We were only one of many all over who were in financial difficulty, and there were far too many people who were being forced into temporary accommodation or out onto the street.

We would be next.

I took her hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We have to leave. We have some money left, enough to get us to Chicago, and I will go see Uncle Robert. He promised to help us. I called, and he is expecting us.”

She shook her head. I knew she didn’t want to leave. Everyone and everything she knew was here, and for the nothing of us it was going to be very difficult. Going to the big city, where we didn’t know anyone or how people lived.

“We will be all on our own.”

“We will have jobs and a place to live.”

“How can we trust someone that we don’t know?”

I had, but that had been based on my father’s assessment, based on years of hate and misery from his brother as a child. Nor, as I understood it, did he get along with his father, because as children we had not seen our grandparents, except at the funeral of my father.

To be honest, I had no idea what to expect, but one thing I did know. If my uncle failed me, Lucy would never forgive me.

But the alternative was unbearable, that we would become destitute, and I would lose her. I could not begin to imagine what my life would be like without her.

“How could we have trusted those who have let us down so badly. We have been abandoned by the very people who had said that if we got into trouble, they would help us. They have not.”

“Because they are like us.”

“I know. I get it. But we can’t stay here. You know as well as I do, we’ve reached the point of no return.”

“But everything we own, we have…”

“Means nothing. All we really have is each other, Lucy. Our love, our trust, and our hopes and dreams. It’ll just be somewhere else. This city is dying slowly, and people are leaving. What’s done is done.”

She took a minute to consider the situation, perhaps find a way around the problem, but she had been put with her friends. If there had been any ideas
Among them, she would have it to tell me.

“When?”

“Before the next rent is due.”

“Friday?”

“Thursday would be better. We are just going to have to leave? And hope we don’t have to make up lies to get away. We simply don’t have enough without completely depleting our reserve. And why wait another month for the inevitable?”

I hoped she could see the sense in it. The only problem was simply walking away from everything. There was a lot of time and effort put into making a life in that apartment. It wasn’t the best of places, but it was our home and had been from the day we married.

So many memories.

She looked up and smiled wanly. “Thursday.”

“Pack only what we can carry. It won’t be a lot. I’ll get tickets on the 11 o’clock special, a sleeper. We can afford one last treat.”

“Your uncle is expecting us?”

“He is.”

…

Lucy chose to tell her friends that we were going away for a few days, visiting relatives in Chicago. She said she could not bring herself to tell them that it might be forever, though I suspect a small part of her wanted to believe we were coming back.

For me, it was more difficult, and I just chose not to alert anyone to my plan. I convinced myself it was a plan, but it was a move borne of desperation because of this failure. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

Fear of failing Lucy was my only concern. She was doing everything I asked because she trusted me. That trust would only go so far.

It was strange how quickly time flies when you’re about to do something drastic. I thought it would drag, but no. We were standing in the dining area, taking in a last look at the place that had been home for the last ten years.

The times we had laughed and cried, the parties and the agonies. We’d never expected life to be easy, but we never expected it to be this hard. We always believed no matter what, we’d muddle through, like our parents and their parents before them.

“Somehow I can’t feel anything,” Lucy said. “It’s just four walls and, well, nothing.”

“I had expected that memories would be flooding back, but it’s like we were never here.”

“Maybe it was just a stage in a journey.”

Maybe it was. Perhaps it was just both of us trying to think about the future and not let the past drag us down.

We both had a backpack and a suitcase with everything we wanted, enough for a few days. We didn’t own anything expensive, other than our cell phones.

A last look, we walked out the door, closed it for the last time, and left the building. The bus stopped outside the door and took us to the railway station.

The train was due in an hour and a half. After getting the tickets, we would have a snack at the restaurant attached to the depot.

I had hoped Riley, the Station Master, would not be on, but it felt like an omen when I saw his smiling face in the ticket office.

He was unofficially voted the happiest man in town, always bright and cheery, the one smiling face surrounded by a world in turmoil. He was probably one of the few with a permanent job.

My father had been one of his friends, and he had been a frequent visitor at Sunday lunches at my parents’ places. Sometimes I would go visit, but our contact had become less frequent over time and especially after my father’s death.

“Richard, long time, no see. How are you?” He had conveniently ignored the fact that we had baggage.

“Good.”

“Lucy?”

Lucy was not looking particularly happy, but he chose to ignore that too.

“I’m fine, Mr West.”

“How can I help you?”

“We’re going to Chicago for a few days.”

“Yes, I believe you are.”

“How…” Lucy said it before she could stop herself.

Like her, I wondered if the one person I trusted with the secret had talked. Rumours travelled like wildfire, despite

“Funny story that. A couple of days ago, I got a call from a lady by the name of Delilah McEwan. She says she is calling on behalf of her boss, Robert Bannister. Bannister, she says. I know a Bannister, and lo and behold, it is the invisible brother. Met him once at the funeral. Larger than life and loud too. Seems he understands you’re coming to Chicago, and would like me to book a sleeper, first class and all, for Richard and Lucille Bannister. No problem, I say, and it’s done.”

He went over to a large cabinet and pulled out an envelope, and came back with it, putting it on the counter between us.

“Tickets, a letter from Ms McEwan, inclusive of all meals and drinks if you so desire. Perhaps the man is not as bad as we may cast him?”

“Perhaps not,” I said, after a few moments to get over the surprise. I had not expected this.

Then he came closer and spoke in a lower tone. “I’m guessing, given the nature of affairs here, you might not be coming back. Not until things get better. I’m not surprised. There’s a steady stream of folk leaving, some old and dear friends, and it breaks my heart. But you must do what you must to survive.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you when the train arrives. Be here about 15 minutes before. It’s currently running five minutes behind schedule. You can leave your bags with me, and pick them up later. “

…

It was, I thought, a good thing we were wearing our best clothes. They only came out on special occasions, and this train trip was exactly that.

Barely out the door, Lucy said, almost in a breathless whisper, “First Class, what is that about. We’re never going to be able to pay him back.”

“I’m sure we can work something out. After all, he wouldn’t do it unless he had a plan, so we could. Perhaps the jobs he had found for us might pay enough so we can. But for the moment, let’s not worry too much. I’m taking this as a sign.”

We stopped outside the chicken restaurant. While it hadn’t been too expensive, it was just Lucy could fry chicken just as nicely. I had thought, tonight, we could splurge.

“The ticket includes food,” she said, “so let’s just have some coffee and pie instead.”

We had been told about the cafe near the station before, because of its famed apple pie.

Inside it was warm. Outside, the first signs of a long, cold, and bitter winter were in the air, and I was sure it would start raining soon. The weather in Chicago would be freezing, and a little above that, around the time we arrived.

We were used to it and brought out our snow clothes.

She slid the envelope across the table and opened it. Two tickets, First Class, all inclusive, that I knew would end up in her scrapbook history of our family, a letter, and a guidebook.

She opened the envelope and pulled out a single page.

“From Ms McEwan,” she said.

Not from my Uncle. It made sense. He was a busy man and had assigned us to his personal assistant.

Dear Richard and Lucille,” she wrinkled her nose, a sign that she did not like being called Lucille, even if that was her name.

Perhaps it had been the way her mother used it when she was annoyed with her daughter.

“We are delighted that you will be coming to Chicago and joining our group. The Bannisters have long been synonymous with Chicago, and we like to believe we have helped in making our city what it is today.

“You are part of the next generation, and no doubt you will be very happy to join our endeavours to continue that collaboration.

“Mr Bannister is eagerly awaiting your arrival, but first we must get you situated and prepared. I will be at the station tomorrow when you arrive, and will guide you through the next few days.”

“Once again, we welcome you to the Bannister collective, and cannot wait to see what the furniture holds.”

She shook her head.

“Its sound like we’re about to join a cult. The Bannister Collective. It’s like a Steven King novel.”

“Or it’s just an oddish uncle that had trouble expressing himself.”

“It doesn’t strike as strange?”

“It does, but I’m not going to read anything into it until we meet him. And this Ms McEwan.”

She shrugged. “Don’t you think we have jobs waiting for us. It seems so.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Something other than waiting tables.”

“So, if you’re asked…?”

“Organising catering, I could certainly do a lot better than most of the people who had that job in the places I’ve worked. But I had no experience.”

“You’ve been at the coal face for years. You see all the stuff-ups and problems from the perfect perspective. Perhaps this will be your chance.”

“Perhaps. What about you? Factory hand, how can you parley that into a better job? It was not always what I wanted to do, Lucy, it was what I had to do.”

She looked at me with a certain amount of surprise, perhaps remembering that moment when we were finally together after the prom, when we decided there, and then we would get married, and spoke of our hopes and dreams.

I had imagined a very different life for us.

“Just because Mr Jacobs said you had the talent to become a good journalist based on your work for the school paper, he did say you had to hone those skills at college, which you couldn’t afford. Now, it’s probably too late.”

“I kept writing, you know. Seeking out stories. Writing pieces over the years. I chronicled the downturn of the city as it sank into the mire of economic disaster, government abandonment, and the final death blow. It doesn’t make pretty reading.”

“But it doesn’t make Pulitzer prize material, Richard. You, me, were nobodies in a world full of nobodies.”

“Then maybe, just maybe, this is our time to turn that around.”

…

Getting the privileges of first class was not the same as deserving first class. We didn’t fit in, in our own minds, which made it awkward, until we realised that it didn’t matter who we were to the staff; they treated us like we belonged.

And in turn, we treated them the sort of respect they deserved. After all, people responded to kindness.

What was prevalent in those two hours we spent in the dining room, asking questions when we were not sure, accepting recommendations, and savouring the sort of food we could never have afforded, was the stark difference between the haves and have-nots.

The staff may have known each passenger’s status, but it never once showed. In their voices or manner. It did, however, change for a certain couple who made a lot of noise and complained about everything.

How did people who had those advantages so many others didn’t become so ungrateful?

By the time we were ready for bed, Lucy had begun to relax, just a little, in case that thin veneer of goodness that surrounded us shattered. Even that cramped space felt more luxurious than anything we had, so we savoured the pleasure rather than eschewing it.

The next morning, we both woke refreshed and perhaps a little more confident that life could be better. Breakfast was another of those small pleasures, and we took our time.

The coffee was far better than anything we had before, and not knowing its origin or cost or anything for that matter, we simply took it as of it was as if it was something we had all the time.

The complaining couple were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were not morning people.

The rest of the morning passed, watching the wintry landscape, our fellow passengers, and the staff going through their routine. We both knew the experience would end soon, so it was time to reacclimatise to our reality.

Off the train, it was going to be a whole new world.

…

We thanked the train staff for their kindness and assistance, gathered our baggage and joined the queue to disembark. The loudmouth couple were several down from the front of the queue, complaining loudly that they had to get to an important business meeting.

No one was giving up the spot to let them pass.

We waited patiently, like everyone else, and, thanking the carriage attendant again, stepped down onto the platform.

We had arrived in Chicago. There was no Delilah McEwan on the platform, but I suspected she would be outside in the main station waiting for us to exit through the platform gate.

I saw Lucy looking around, too. She was as amazed as I was at the size and how busy it was. This was going to be a lot different to out home town. She took my hand, and I squeezed it gently. This was bigger, noisier and more paced than she had ever seen before.

We filed through the gate and into the passage that led to the station foyer. Coming out into the huge, carious space, larger than anything we had ever seen before, I saw a lady and a tall man in a chauffeur’s uniform, and headed towards her.

She was standing under the ‘To trains’ sign.

“You must be Richard?” She said smiling. She shook my hand, she gave Lucy a hug. Lucy hadn’t expected it, but in a way it made her feel more welcome.

“John will take your cases to the car. Welcome to Chicago. I’m sure right now, you are almost overwhelmed by just the size of this building. You will get used to it.”

“This is just the station?” Lucy said.

“If you go to New York, they don’t call Grand Central Station grand for nothing. But it’s big, I’ll grant you that.”

We followed the chauffeur.

“We have set up an apartment for you, where you will be staying until you decide where you want to live. There’s no hurry; you will want to get settled and explore the city. Mr Bannister will see you both for dinner tomorrow night, and then the next day you will have interviews so we can give you a job best suited.”

“We will be working for Mr Bannister?” Lucy asked.

“We wanted to make sure you had a job while you get settled, and when you feel ready, you can stay, or you can explore the possibilities. There’s no compulsion, we’re just making your first few days, and weeks, less daunting.”

“We can pay for the apartment,” I said. Perhaps pride got the better of me because we didn’t have that much money. All the same…

“That’s alright, Richard. Mr Bannister is treating this as if he asked you to come work for him, so coming from another state, you get free accommodation for one month, or longer, at a reduced rate if necessary. You can also apply for a subsidised loan for a vehicle. These are all matters that will be explained in more detail tomorrow. As for now, let’s get you settled.”

…

I was still waiting for the bubble to burst.

I would be hesitant to say we were ‘settled’ because the moment Delilah walked out the door, both of us just looked at each other and thought exactly the same thought.

It was too good to be true.

The apartment was larger, new, and brighter than anything we had or expected. It was like staying in a five-star hotel, or so Lucy said when she had applied for a housekeeper’s role at a hotel in the county’s main city.

To me, it was something out of a magazine I’d seen at the barber shop.

There was an envelope on the counter welcoming us. It had a debit card with a limit that Delilah didn’t mention, so we could get what we needed. Lucy would need clothes for the next two days. So would I.

Then Lucy asked the question: “How is this possible?”

It was one I asked myself as Delilah rattled off the benefits. All I could say was, it’s the name, Bannister. We were part of the family, and like my father taught me, family looks after family.

It seemed odd that it took this long for Uncle Robert to realise he had extended family, but that I suspect had something to do with my father, and his disdain for his family.

He was an honest, hard-working, ordinary man. The Bannisters, now that I thought about it, his family, were rich, and he wanted to make his own way in the world, not accept a leg up or any favours.

Not like his brother. Just on the edges of my memory was a telephone conversation I was never meant to hear, when my uncle had offered his brother money, but as a loan. He had told his brother where he could put his money.

His brother never called again. He came for the funeral but left soon after. He offered his condolences; that was all.

“Crisis of conscience. He couldn’t help my father because he wouldn’t let him. I’m not so proud, but there is a limit. We will have to pay him back, no matter how long it takes.”

“My thought exactly. Perhaps we could tell your Uncle tomorrow. Dinner sounds exciting and scary at the same time. This time we’ll be in front of a lot more people.”

“It’s just dinner in a fancier setting. We’ll manage.”

“Fancy coffee. I’d make it, but I saw the cafe down in the foyer, and those cakes looked amazing.”

“Coffer it is.”

A few minutes later, we were whisked down to the ground floor, where the building’s residents were beginning to trickle in.

The cafe has a short line waiting to be seated. I’d never had to wait before. There was a lot of stress in that line, and I wondered if big city life was a lot more stressful than back home.

Then it was our turn, and the waitress, in a perfect uniform, with the nametag Wendy, directed us to a table. When she put the menus on it, it rocked.

It was one of those tables that didn’t sit perfectly on the floor, and I could see a flicker of concern in Lucy’s eyes. She had been half expecting an omen like this.

But, in the next second, a busboy came over with a piece of cardboard and fixed the rocking table. I heard Lucy sigh in relief.

That omen could have undone everything. Now, to her, it was like we were meant to be here.

We sat, ordered coffee and two French pastries, and Lucy used her schoolgirl French to describe the cake exactly, and the waitress showed she was fluent in the language. A short conversation on French ensued.

When the waitress left, she said, now smiling, and happiest I had seen her in months, “I am so sorry glad we came, I can’t wait for the interviews.”

“Or the endless conversations you can have with your new friend.”

“It’s practically the first time. Maybe one day we can go to France.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Sitting there, looking at her glow return, I didn’t think it mattered much how things went. If we believed hard enough, everything would work out.