time. The other day I caught a taxi to the airport. The driver was belligerent and suspicious of me, and he smelled of horses, but not in a good way. It was that particular scent that could either be stale horse sweat or Tuesday’s underpants on a hot Friday afternoon. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and decided that he was a horse man. After a while I was silly enough to take my jacket off, revealing a T-shirt with Aboriginal designs printed across the front. The driver glanced angrily at me a few times in the rear-view mirror, then asked me if I was Indigenous. When I said yes, he pulled
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