I took the train from Seymour to Melbourne again today, snatching a 20-minute nap on the way in. That was most refreshing after a 5.30am wake-up and 3km run before breakfast.

The train arrived in town about 90 minutes before my meeting, so as I sometimes do, I took time out for prayer and reflection in St Francis’ Church, Lonsdale Street.

St Francis’ is Victoria’s oldest Catholic Church and my great-grandfather, Edward Gorey, was among the earliest baptisms there in 1849.

Anyway, today’s contemplation was distracted by the odd habits of others.

Firstly, an elderly woman prostrated herself before the altar, rose to her knees and sort of wiggled along on her knees with arms outstretched before bowing, retreating and starting the strange process all over again, repeating it several times. I’ve never seen this before and I suspect her sanity is doubtful.

I was in the church for the start of 11am Mass, when the second incident occurred. During the first reading a middle-aged bald man with a distinctly Irish accent waltzed down the aisle singing at full volume It’s A Long Way To Tipperary. I kid you not.

He had a pleasant melodic voice, but the solemnity of the occasion was shattered.

That’s the thing about big cities … you see and hear all kinds of things that are less likely to happen in places like Porepunkah.