When I was in my 20s, an alarmingly long time ago, I was a regular traveller on the Sydney to Melbourne train. I had a boyfriend who lived in Melbourne, and every few weeks, I’d make the 12-hour journey to visit him.

Every trip was the same. I would begin fresh-faced and excited, my carry-on loaded with books, magazines and snacks. We didn’t have phones then, of course, but I had inner resources. I would read! I would relax! I would be fine!

I was reminded of those train rides at 2am last week, when I was tucked up in my own bed at home.Credit: iStock

I’d pass the first couple of hours flipping through magazines and eating all of my snacks. By hour three, tedium would set in. By hour four, the existential dread. By hour eight, I’d be grinding my fists into my eyes, my back screaming, the clickety-clack boring into my brain. By hour 10, I’d be a sweaty, sticky mess, my teeth and tongue coated with fuzz.

By the final hour, I would be climbing out of my skin, a half-mad husk of a human being. Needless to say, the relationship didn’t last long. The boyfriend was lovely, but plane travel was expensive, and no one was worth that torment.

I was reminded of........

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