I was only 24 hours in Brisbane....
It was a grey day with non-committal rain. Annoying but not dam filling. Probably the kind of rain that Melbourne is famous for, assuming that Melbourne is actually famous for anything, that is. The kind of rain that needs another setting on the windscreen wipers, somewhere more than off, but less than infrequent. I was going to Queensland, well Brisbane really. Wonderful one day and remarkable the next, or some such claim. I queue at the check in, weighted down by booklets I would end up bringing home unopened. Thirty minutes of inching forward, one bag lift at a time. Boredom sets in. I resort to singing, but this only brings looks of disapproval. Maybe it was the wrong song. I count the seconds between each little step forward, but it follows no pattern I can discern. I consider singing again, just for the human contact. The sparrows in the rafters argue noisily, no one else speaks. People struggle with their elephantine designer luggage having packed lock, stock, barrel and 56inch