How did he get here?

The soft chant of the greyhound race commentator echoes in the background. The odd beer glass clinks, the sound of a newspaper turns.  Condensation on the outside of the beer glass drips down. One by one, he watches each bead roll down towards the coaster below. In contrast, his toasty whiskey chaser sits ever so still beside. He looks around slowly and notices that nobody notices him. He sips his beer in silence. There is an almost velvet like serenity to the old, run down pub. His bones ache and his eyes are sore. Another beer will make it all better. He thinks.

The Giants Breakfast

The bus is like a human sardine can. Elbow to elbow, face to back and back to face. The air is warm, damp and floating with this seasons most fashionable flus. The driver is brake happy today, making the sardines jolt about in the tin can. It's like there is a giant shaking his sardine can with quick repetitive jerks to ensure the oil is spread evenly all over his juicy, salty sardines. It repeats the entire length of George Street. Obviously this giant really wants to make sure his tiny fish are shiny and moist. Every last one. I'm almost at Circular Quay and the jolts and jerks still continue. Surely the giant must be starving by now?  

Choices?

It's crazy, and very human, to complain about tiny little minute issues that we think bombard, bother, and annoy our otherwise precious lives. I'm sitting here on a train home, paid for the ticket, just ate some amazing food in a beautiful restaurant with special friends, and here I sit, opposite a man, a man born just like you and me, who is getting himself comfortable to sleep on the bench seat opposite me. It's his bed for the night. His spot to sleep, hopefully, and basically cope with life. It makes me feel like that spoilt little brat who everyone hated in the playground at school. Life is unfair like that. But I guess we all have choices. But I guess we all don't either.