I awoke in the white linen acres of our king-sized bed to find that the rain and destructive winds of the night before had blown away and Perth sparkled in the morning sun. Rousing Mr PW with references to the exciting day awaiting us in Fremantle, we dressed and took the elevator down to breakfast. The Sheraton Breakfast Buffet is a small-room sized counter of every kind of breakfast food imaginable; a chef works behind a griddle in the centre of the breakfast counter, cooking waffles or pancakes or eggs just how you like them. I thought he seemed a big haughty, so never bothered him with my food heating preferences.
After about an hour, and swollen with more carbs and proteins than a small pie-stand, we set off at a brisk walk (well, a relaxed amble, anyway) and arrived at Wellington Street Station just in time to get our train, giving us that self-satisfied, “I”m-glad-I-don”t-have-to-sit-on-a-railway-station-platform-for-20-minutes”
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