It’s our last day in Sydney, and a sort of ‘see-the-sights’ fatigue has set in. It’s a bit like compassion fatigue but even more of a middle-class syndrome afflicting those lucky enough to experience it.
So it is that at the reflection pool at the Anzac monument in Sydney I spent less time thinking about the fallen of Gallipoli or the Somme and more about my aching feet.
The place should have had added poignancy after meeting a Geelong relative of my brother-in-law whose father had survived both of those bloody engagements. How many Aussies managed that, I wonder? A small band, I wager.
‘We that are young, shall never see so much’ says Edgar at the end of King Lear. Indeed, we live in a gilded cage of our own making, happy to grumble about sore soles - or should that be souls - as we head for the hotel lobby.
Sydney itself has been the most wonderful of cages. Welcoming, friendly and beautiful. The pain of it is that the cage door is open and we cannot rest on our perches.
A farewell to alms, perhaps.