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  • He's not mad, I decided.

    He had leathery skin. Gnarled hands - I'm a carpenter, he said. I usually drive, he intimated almost apologetically, but oweing to some mishap with the ute I've to catch the train in this morning.

    I smiled at him and nodded politely. I took in his unruly grey hair flecked with bits of black, the faded blue jeans dotted with brown stains, but mostly his wide ear-to-ear grin.

    He regaled me with his tales. I once bought a pin of a joey and clipped it to my nail pouch, he laughed, but no one found it funny. That's the problem with Australians. Too stressed out. He sighed.

    I pictured him lumbering about with a cute little kangaroo sticking out from his nail pouch. Rather alarming spectacle, but I kept the thought to myself. I continued smiling and nodding politely.

    He gazed around the packed carriage. Slightly bewildered like a deer in the city. How do people do this everyday? he wondered.

    I considered him. He looked like he had just stepped out of the swinging 60s.

    No, he's definitely not mad. He's just someone with a sense of humour, stuck in a quagmire of mirthless robots on the train.
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