Anywhere is walking distance, if you’ve got the time.
I walked from work again today, choosing from among the many goat tracks on a vacant lot, all thistle and gravel-encrusted, leading to employee-only, boom-gated car parks. Then crossed a major thoroughfare to the respectable, tree-lined enclave of Forrest, along National Circuit, catching glimpses, now and then, of Parliament House.
Past the Italian Club and the Serbian Orthodox Church. Looking upwards to see the bare skeletal branches framed against the darkening sky. No-one else was walking. It was the commuter hour in this car-centric city. No buses I can recall. Just the glow of red tail lights receding. The pulse of traffic. Me in my stout ankle boots, satchel over my shoulder, camera in hand, homeward bound.