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1. Matthew Davidson (mjd@microblog.mjd.id.au)'s status on Monday, 21-May-2018 03:51:13 EDT Matthew Davidson
   When I was young enough to be drunk 24/7, all of my dreams involved trains. I also had the subterranean rabbit warren of seedy bars, betting shops, tobacconists, watch repairers, clothing alterers etc. at Wynyard station as top-shelf nightmare fuel. The main concourse to the (IIRC) three levels of rail is on a slope, so you never really know how deep you are, and it branches off into a network of other dismal underground shopping arcades. You can surface hundreds of metres (and half a dozen beers) away from where you went in. For some of those cold, tiled nightmares I was (IIRC) awake, thinking "F**k. How am I going to get home in this state?"
   1. Matthew Davidson (mjd@microblog.mjd.id.au)'s status on Monday, 21-May-2018 03:53:26 EDT Matthew Davidson

      in reply to
      Ah, it was two levels, situated below a disused level. I probably never wondered what happened to platforms one and two. You just accept things as they are when you're young and perpetually pissed. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wynyard_railway_station,_Sydney
      1. Matthew Davidson (mjd@microblog.mjd.id.au)'s status on Monday, 21-May-2018 04:08:51 EDT Matthew Davidson

         in reply to
         And to add to the surrealism, the primary function of railway lavatories in those days was social/sexual. You went elsewhere for more fundamental ablutions. I recall a high court judge was once found in an immodestly visible state of excitement on the steps down from platform three. The attraction of the city used to be that it was a place for people closeted in a multitude of ways to be dangerously transgressive. Now it's a place for cafés and Apple Stores. Where's the romance? Somebody shoot me; I sound like #Morrissey.