Madam's photographic interest drew her away from the crowd. As I watched and waited, I found my imagination moving into Hercule Poirot Murder on the Indian Pacific territory.
Over the next week and a bit, I managed to put together a workable plotline, but that'll have to wait its turn in Hughesy's queue of fiction projects.
We were back on the train soon after the blast on the fire siren signalled an impending departure.
Once we set off and signs of human occupation were gone, I found myself pondering matters metaphysical.
A line in a Fred Dagg monologue about becoming a novelist refers to the stark hostility of the very land itself.
It evokes an outback landscape far removed from anything close to the urban existence.
Alternatively, you might wax poetic along the Dorothea Mackellar I love a sunburnt country lines, but out here that doesn't really wash either.
Concepts like beauty go out the window if you equate beauty with being attractive to look at,