Where to…

The ticket window says Closed. There’s a queue for the ticket machine, but confusion, as it doesn’t issue concession tickets. Pensioners, unsure of what to do, stand in hope that someone might appear in the darkened room behind the security glass.

A middle aged man, tall, ruddy, carrying the bearing (and paunch) of someone who has settled into complacency and is used to fortune tilting in his favour, stabs his fingers onto the ticket machine’s buttons. The $50 note in his hand is fed in, and then rejected "Insufficient change". His ruddy complexion darkens, and he snatches the note out of the machine, glares up at the "Closed" sign, and slams his hands down on the aluminium ledge.

"COME ON!!" THERE MUST BE SOMEONE IN THERE!" he yelled. Those of us still in the queue for the ticket machine shrank back from him, until a man appeared in the office.

One of the pensioners that had been hovering, uncertain, darted up to the window, in front of the ruddy man.

"Pensionnoonretin."

"What?" said the man behind the security glass.

"Pension-noon-turn."

"I don’t understand what you are saying."

"Pension noon return" piped up the man’s friend.

A train pulled into the station, and the ruddy-faced man shifted agitatedly from one foot to another as the station manager and other travellers tried to interpret the destination of the two small elderly men.