First Day at Work

I joined the ranks of real Sydneysiders today. I went to work.

I mean, what's the worst thing that could happen? I make a mistake and they realise I'm not as good as they thought I might be and I get on a plane to the other side of the world.

The place is great, the people are friendly. I have four patients. Four. It was great to have some adult company but it made me homesick. I've realised it's real life now, not a holiday. I miss my house, pictures on the walls, proper furniture, nice rugs, enough cutlery. I just want to go out for dinner with my friends and have people over and go visit the nannas. I want somebody to understand my sense of humour.

I miss having a dishwasher without cockroaches in it. One that I'll actually use.

"You're English aren't you?" said Jane, my new colleague. "I'll bet you have an issue with Cadbury's chocolate. You see Julie over there - she's English as well; has a huge problem with Cadbury's". It's good to know you're not completely alone.

World Cup Cricket

Sunday Morning:

"Australia have won the world cup. It was a bit farcical at the end, they played in virtual darkness".

"Oh well, at least we won"

"Sorry?????"

What's happening to me?

Letters From Home

We have a two letters today. The first is on House of Commons paper. Mr Blair has stumbled upon my blog and thinks it's brilliant. He wants me to do some after-dinner speaking next time the Australian ambassador comes over to number 10, which will be just the occasion I've been waiting for to tackle this problem about the Cadbury's chocolate.

Then I realise it's just those shameless namedroppers, who, since they were last seen bellowing "Dancing Queen" into a hairbrush at our party have been enjoying dinner at Chequers, admiring Pat Pheonix's platinum ring and meeting her majesty the Queen at Buck House. I've always wanted to meet the Queen, I think she's marvellous. The letter is lovely, all hand-written and full of news. "Glad someone else is experiencing the terrible twos, our Thomas was a little bastard". I hope you told the Queen exactly the same thing.

The other letter is from the owners of the place we stayed in the Hunter Valley. They don't like the comments I wrote in the guestbook (about the number of instructions all over the house) and they've written back to tell us. They responded to the previous guests' comments by writing their own response in the margin (as though that guest is going to come back and read them), so they've upped the stakes especially for us.

What do we do now? What's the etiquette? Do we respond?

Featherdale

What do you say when your 21 month old daughter asks you "where's Mexico?"? "It's in South America", I replied, though technically I'm wrong because it's central America isn't it? Anyway, she had no business asking me this sort of question, though she does seem to have a head for geography because yeaterday she pointed to an (upside down) outline of Australia and declared it was "Manchester". She's incredible.

We went off to Featherdale Wildlife Park at Blacktown today, as recommended by my "Sydney for Under Fives" book. Ella's picked up a bit of a virus so she's been more clingy than usual. Featherdale was just the ticket to cheer her up. It's much smaller than Taronga Zoo but you can get closer to the animals so we got better photos as well. We had a great time.

It's not possible to hold Koalas in New South Wales, but you can stroke them here at Featherdale. Each state has a different law about it; so we're looking forward to a trip to Queensland in a couple of weeks time for a proper cuddle.

Narelle

It's always a risk getting your hair cut abroad. I once had mine cut in a casino in Las Vegas. The hairdresser was smoking a cigarette and wearing a blue gingham tabbard. It was the worst cut of my life.

Jessica couldn't do my hair last night so I booked in with her apprentice, Narelle. Jessica owns the salon, but Narelle is much older and much rougher around the edges. She came over to me and took hold of my hair, looking in the mirror.

"Your temples, I mean, is this a fringe or what? It's neither here nor there. Who cut it?"

"Jessica did"

The sight of her boss, whose ears had pricked up, barely registered with her.

"Nah, it's too heavy, too much bulk. You don't need all this hair". She began cutting at an angle, assuring me it was a new technique. I was too terrified to move.

"I worked in Europe once" she said. "As a holiday rep in Marmaris. They said I was the worst rep they'd ever had".

"What did you do wrong?" I asked, hoping she wasn't going to say she'd given out free haircuts.

"Well I'm Australian, we tell it like it is. The poms would come up whingeing about stuff, you know, broken showers, dodgy light fittings in their apartment, I'd tell them to get over themselves, for God's sake, what did they want me to do about it?".

She kept telling me off for moving my head, yanking it back into place "look, it keeps dropping".

"What does?"

"Your head. Keep it still. Anyway, I got into trouble with a Turkish bloke because I wouldn't recommend his restaurant to the punters. The food was awful. He kept hassling me so I went past on my bike and gave him the bird".

"Gave him the bird?"

"You know, like this". She gestured with her middle finger and made a face. "He came looking for me in a nightclub saying I'd disrespected him so I went to live in Canterbury with an English bloke, but it didn't work out".

"What did you think of the UK?"

"Yeah, it was good, but they didn't understand me. I mean, the language. It was Christmas and I was trying to buy some bon-bons and the bloke in the shop didn't know what I wanted".

"Oh, we just call them sweets".

"No, Christmas crackers. Bon-bons are Christmas crackers and your sweets, we call them lollies in Australia".

"I know what you mean. The bloke in the pharmacy in Randwick didn't know what plasters are"

"Plasters?"

"Band-aids. And why don't you use the word linen?"

"Linen? What's that?"

"Manchester, but I don't know why you call it that. Manchester is a city in England"

"Oh, manchester, tablecloths, dooner covers that sort of stuff?".

"Dooners, yes, but I'd call that a duvet".

She finished my hair by flicking the sides until they were halfway up my head.

"Will this look okay if I straighten it?" I asked. She made another face.

"Sure, whatever. Straighten it if you like. That's $60 thanks". She yanked the velcro gown from around my neck in one, forceful swoop, like a magician removing a table cloth from underneath a china tea set. No brushing the hair away from my neck, no showing me the rear view in a hand-held mirror. No graces whatsoever.

"I'm going woop-woop this weekend, er, what's your name?" she said as we stood at the till. She's right about the language. I didn't dare ask.

Like Father, Like Daughter

Our gorgeous, fabulous little girl is developing a real sense of humour. She gives us funny looks and sidewards glances now. You can already sense the sarcasm and the great British sense of irony. It must be inate.

I moan about her behaviour, but I just love being her mummy.

My Trip to the Hunter, by Ella

I told you they'd lost it. The olds drove 200 clicks to taste Ribena then covered me in paint. I asked for a wombat and got a tiger because that's what was on the box. My mum can hold a brush, but Rolf Harris, she ain't.

And what's in it for her, anyway? I know she likes Ribena, but the view she got from the car was rubbish. My dad takes ages in Ribena shops. I offered her mine but she wasn't interested. Like I said, she's lost it.

Wiseman's Ferry

We came to a standstill at Wiseman's ferry, quite literally, as the road stopped dead in its tracks at the Hawksbury River. This wasn't obvious from the map so we were surprised to find ourselves waiting for the chain ferry to carry us across to the other side.

The ferry is just an enormous piece of floating road, complete with road markings and a hard shoulder. It takes about three minutes to wind its way across, but it's a very odd three minutes as you sit in your car gliding across the water. There are worse ways to travel, I suppose. It beats the Runcorn bridge.

St Alban's

We broke the journey for lunch at St Alban's, which lies on the McDonald River. This is the Settlers' Inn; an 1836 establishment full of dark nooks and crannies, an old gilt cash register and a series of home-made cakes under glass domes. They keep rainbow lorikeets in an aviary out the back, which seems odd given that nature has provided them with exactly the same.

Lunch was courgette and spinach frittata with a side order of pesky, annoying flies, and a toddler climbing on me performing elbowlarynxus. Not exactly leisurely, but pleasant all the same.

Wild Ones

This is the best yellow sign I've seen yet. They're all there; the koala, kangaroo and wombat. Rock wallabies as well, but I don't think they have their own signage. Imagine my joy. Imagine the pain after I'd been craning my neck up the gum trees for half an hour.

Still, we spotted these wild kangaroos. Crowd-pleasers to the last, they even went hopping off into the distance for us, through the grass. No wombats and only one (dead) koala. However you look at it, Taronga zoo still delivers the goods.

Settler's Road

Turning off the main road towards Wiseman's Ferry, there's no warning about the 59km of unsealed road that awaits. It's not like taking a short-cut through some country lane in Somerset, it's 39km to St Alban's, which is the first opportunity to take an alternative route or buy a drink and even then, there's no petrol station.

The road, however bumpy and uncomfortable at times, is stunning. Hand-built by convicts, half-starving and hauled up through the Hawkesbury region in the 40 degree heat of the summer, it hugs the rock side, twisting and turning through the forests, your car kicking up red dust clouds as you drive. Each turn of the road reveals something new; wild flowers, rickety wooden bridges over dried-up creeks, gnarled, blackened gum trees. This place would be a terrifying prospect on a dry and windy summer's day, a tinderbox.

I checked my mobile - definitely no reception. "This is bush, isn't it?" I said to Darren as I tried to tune the radio. Not a single station to be had across the entire frequency range. "This is proper bush now. What if we break down? We still haven't joined the NRMA".

"Will you pack it in?"

"But I'm a mother, I have responsibilities". I looked at Ella in the back and imagined us surrounded by dingoes, the car found abandoned except for the distant Scottish tones of Edie McCready, who drives the Balamory bus.

100 clicks from civilisation and suddenly not such a tough outback cookie.

Laguna

After the effigies at Wollombi, we stopped to refuel at the wine bar-come-petrol station at Laguna, just in case. The owner hands out the key for the (one) petrol pump on a dirty Winnie-the Pooh keyring. Ella lives her life in a bubble, watching Balamory on dvd in air conditioned luxury while her parents teeter on the edge of the Australian bush. Will PC Plum solve the mystery of the Balamory litter bug before nightfall? She's on the edge of her (car)seat.

They're hard the folks out here. They have to start the drinking early to get through all that Hunter booze.

Going for Broke

If you have the time, the best way back from the Hunter Valley is through the great north road, the so-called "convict trail" or "Settlers' Road". It beats the freeway hands down for scenery, atmosphere and history. The problem is, we don't have the time. I have a haircut booked this afternoon, we need to get back to the city.

The trip begins on the 15km route out to Broke and continues on to Wollombi. The road between them is dotted with homesteads and farms, weatherboard houses, burnt-out 1950's cars, houses made from corrugated iron, old men in braces feeding chooks outside their caravans. Most places have the owner's name hung out the front of the property, Kate's Farm, Jim's Creek, Thompson's Bridge. It has an air of being half-settled, like you could snap up a plot of land and stick an oil drum or milk churn out front as a postbox.

The village of Wollombi is the sort of place where men in hats walk their dogs on a rope; a million miles from the diamond-studded collars of the pooches back in Sydney. We stopped for breakfast at the local tavern; the waitress sporting a two-tone hair do, the coffee served in an empty cup with directions to "help yourself" at the machine. I think they are having a scarecrow competition because there are creepy guy-fawkes type fellas tied to lamp posts all over the place, some without heads.

Either that or they're doing it to scare outsiders, which doesn't work, because at Wollombi, there's still a signal on my mobile phone. I know, because when I saw the scarecrows, I checked.

Wyndham's

On to Wyndham's this morning after a walk in the woods at Woolshed Hill, which, despite looking exactly like a scene from "Skippy" (complete with local larrikin in an Akubra hat, burning stuff in oil drums), failed to turn up any kangaroos.

Wyndham's is set right on the river Hunter, which has been reduced to the width of a brook through poor land and irrigation management. The continuity of water supply is a real problem in Australia; the price of fruit and vegetables set to rise because of difficulites with the Murray-Darling river system. "Sydney cops all the rain" said the estate manager at Wyndham's. "Nothing falls on the catchment areas". Makes you wonder why they call them catchment areas then.

The mild winter of 2006 meant the grapes were ready for harvesting in January. Rows and rows of vines lie seemingly dead and abandoned, waiting for winter. The production machinery is still, the vats empty save for a couple of enormous upturned cockroaches. "That's normal" explained the guide. "Believe me, it's a pretty earthy process harvesting grapes. You get all sorts of organic matter brought in with the vines. The yeasties soon kill them off, it all floats to the top and we slough it away".

I'll remember that next time I'm sipping on a drop of Merlot.

This afternoon we spotted a kookaburra. They are gorgeous, smug-looking birds who fly with their necks at the same angle as a pelican's. Ella whined for four hours despite a visit to the (now dry) playground at Pokolbin and an ice-cream almost as big as her head. She cries for me to play with her, climb to the top of the slide, catch her, but when I do, she protests. It's like playing foot-servant to Quuenie from "Blackadder"; her wants and needs changing on a whim. By 4.30pm we'd poured the first gin and by 6.15pm she was asleep in bed.

We soldier on. Hic.

Smelly Cheese

Wednesday April 25th

We continued the wine tasting at McGuigan's, which has a smelly cheese factory and tasting shop on site. The cheese shop promised local produce and country hospitality, though the woman on the counter was from Knutsford, which wasn't quite the country we had in mind.

The wine tasting hall at McGuigan's is like a Munich bierkeller. Ella ran between cases of wine, threatening to knock the display bottles over with her purple balloon and pleading with me to "throw it" while Darren did more sniffing, chewing and quaffing, the Jilly Goulden of his generation. Afterwards we had a rainy stop at Tempus Two (see the photo), a high-tech looking place which seems to typify the new-world, profit-driven approach to wine making. We spent some time tasting wine in the Loire Valley a few years ago, where they lovingly hand-turn bottles in underground caves for months on end. Tempus Two is a world away from this.

Anzac Biscuits

Wednesday April 25th

I didn't enjoy history at school. I didn't appreciate it at all and spent the last two years winding the teacher's pocket watch forward so he would let the class out early. He used to take it out of his pocket and leave it on the desk. It worked a treat and he never suspected a thing because I looked so goody-goody.

The problem is, my knowledge of history is a now a bit shaky. Today is Anzac Day, a public holiday across Australia marking the landing of Australian troops at Gallipoli. Anzac stands for Australia and New Zealand Air Corps. They were sent into battle by the British. The situation was hopeless, they suffered heavy losses and never really forgave the Brits for sending them in there.

The Anzac biscuit is a chewy, oaty, golden-syrup biscuit. Proceeds from selling them used to go to widows of the Gallipoli troops, I think. Anyway, we bought some from Coles in Cessnock this afternnon and had them after dinner while the rest of Australia wept openly at their cenotaphs. Even the younger generations turn out for the last post. It's all very moving. We don't honour our war dead in Britain. We should.

Whine Tasting

Wednesday April 25th

The first glass of red wine I ever enjoyed was a Hunter Valley Shiraz. I'd never seen the point before then, and though we've tried, we've never found another Hunter Valley that matches up to that first bottle.

The Hunter Valley produces only 4% of Australia's wine but it's close to Sydney (200kms north west - a hop skip and jump in Aussie terms) so punches above its weight in the tourist stakes. The best of the wines here are the whites and the famous names are Wyndham's, Tyrrel's, Lindemans, Rosemount Estate and McWilliams.

We started the day at McWilliams Mount Pleasant estate, where we were able to bribe Ella with a couple of Cadbury's Freddo bars because she doesn't know what chocolate really tastes like. This bought us the half hour we needed to take the tour of the winery, though as it was just the three of us, the guide let us try a glass straight from the tap on the side of the cooling tanks. What priviledge.

Afterwards we had lunch at the Vinyards' own restaurant. The Hunter is a foodies dream; fine wining and dining experiences at virtually every crossroads. Ella, of course, needed to sleep, which meant our tour was more Keith Chegwin than Keith Floyd. She pushed her lunch around her plate while we tried to enjoy ours. With the benefit of hindsight, a wine tasting tour of the Hunter Valley might have been a little ambitious with a toddler on board.

In the afternoon we planned to visit Tyrrell's. We did visit, but I had to swiftly un-visit when it became apparent that Ella wasn't going to play ball. It began to rain, so she and I took a whine tour of the (very bumpy) Broke Road while Darren stayed behind at Tyrrell's. He gets all the best gigs.

Pokolbin

Pokolbin is impossible to find on our map of New South Wales. The map that the tourist information people sent us isn't much help either. We eventually locate Woolshed Hill Estate, our stay for the next three nights, but we have no idea where to find the nearest shop/dentist/hospital, because the owner hasn't left us one of those nice folders with essential information; they've just left lots of notes about not forgetting to close the fridge door, not plugging the heater in and warning us that breaking so much as a wine glass will cost us $5 a throw.

The property is beautiful, we have the downstairs of the farmstead, set at the foothills of the Brokenback Mountain range. Think iron bedsteads, cosy lamps and a decanter of sherry on arrival. We are the Hinge and Bracket of the Hunter Valley.

"It's a lovely place" I commented to Darren.

"Too nice for us, in the circumstances", he replies.

We spent the next three days watching Ella like a hawk, a task made even more difficult by the fact I'd packed the "art and craft" activities rather than nice, clean bricks, dollies and teasets.

Wine Hunting

It's about time we had a break away, we've been back in Sydney for a whole week. Tomorrow we head to The Hunter Valley for three nights and plenty of red wine. There may be no internet, which will be a pity because we've linked into the BBC and we're listening to Radio 4 live. The shipping forecast beckons. That'll make us homesick.

New Pyjamas

Given some of Ella's recent behaviours, the outfit is entirely appropriate. All that's missing is the ball and chain.

Marks and Spencer.

It's raining. When it rains in Sydney, it's like someone is pouring water from a bucket. It's preferable to the incessant drizzle we get at home, but you don't half get wet. The Honda has two wiper settings; "slow" and "a bit faster". The "bit faster" one is no defence against the rain so it's almost impossible to see the road markings. I am a four-wheeled hazard, though at least I've worked out which side the indicators are on now.

The weather is a bit of a problem, not just because our wipers are crap but because this week's leg of the tour includes three nights in the wine-producing Hunter Valley, where there's lots of wine tasting for the adults and not much for kids. We were relying on the great outdoors and the playground at Polkolbin but since I saw the weather forecast we are relying on a newly-purchased set of face paints and a play doh fun factory.

Today I went shopping at Bondi Junction with the following remit:

(1) Buy an electric steamer. I miss mine more than I can say.

(2) Buy Ella some plain pink or white or blue socks, preferably all three.

(3) Buy Ella some wellington boots for "nature walk" in the Hunter Valley. Hopefully a cute pair that look like ladybirds or frogs or similar.

(4) Buy myself some clothes for work.

(5) Buy myself some knickers.

I realise now how much I need the British high street. Or even The Trafford Centre. What I really need is Next, John Lewis, Jigsaw, Marks and Spencer, Dolcis, Office, Gap and Mothercare. What I don't need is a succession of cheap shops selling tarty clothes followed by a succession of shops selling Versace, I don't care how good the coffee is. I need knickers.

First stop, Myer. Myer is a five-level department store. It's a bit like John Lewis only not so middle class. The knicker department is impossible to navigate. The brands are unfamiliar and I can't find the price tags so I just have to feel the quality and check for scratchy labels, which makes me look a bit odd. The descriptions are unfamiliar as well. What's a "boy leg" pair of knickers? Is it low rise, hipster, high leg, bikini, string or what? I held four or five pairs up against my trousers. I don't know why I thought this would help because knickers held against trousers bear no relation to knickers on the bum. Actually, they look a lot better just held against trousers. Spiderman might have had something there.

A pair of Paris Hilton wanabees breeze through picking up green and pink knickers with rainbow coloured elastic around the top. I picture myself in the same pants, which makes me feel a bit ill. Eventually I give it up as a bad job and leave the shop thinking about the rows and rows of knickers I could have navigated in Marks and Spencers. I'm not desperate enough to go to Target or K-Mart. Thank God I don't need a bra.

Second, the kitchen department at Myer, where I spot a three-tier steamer for $65. There's only the display model, so I enlist an assistant, who goes off to get me a steamer and returns with the news that they are only available by order.

Third, the kitchen department at DJ's (David Jones), via the book department, where the assistant, who looks like Norris from Coronation Street, spies me flicking through Bill Bryson's "Down Under" and insists I go and sit down on a sofa to browse. He doesn't really like people browsing next to the books, he wants them to sit on the chairs to add to the ambience of his corner of the empire. The kitchen department sells exactly the same steamer for $99 because, well, the plastic carrier bag is a bit posher. I leave without it as a matter of principle.

Next up, the children's department at DJ's. They don't sell wellies and have only two pairs of socks for children aged 18 months to 3 years, both of which have enormous ruffles of lace around the top.

Pumpkin Patch, Esprit, Shoos and Sox, Bonza Brats (yes, honestly) and still no wellies. Pumpkin patch sells socks, but only specific socks to match specific outfits. If you haven't got the outfit, you don't need the socks.

I bought two shirts for work, some salsa for dinner and drove home, still thinking about Marks and Spencers. There's no place like it.

Bedtime for Chimps

Taronga Zoo runs a series of so-called "animal encounters" for its members. They send us a quarterly zoo magazine inviting us to apply for tickets. I bought Darren a chimpanzee experience as one of his birthday presents, though with hindsight I could have left him alone in the flat with Ella for a few hours to pretty much the same effect.

"Bedtime for Chimps" happens at 4.45pm. The zoo closes at 5pm. They won't allow children under 12 into the chimp enclosure so Ella and I got turfed out by the management right on cue (through the shop; today's haul, a giraffe). The sky was threatening, Ella was whingeing. We had no petrol.

"I'll see you in twenty minutes".

My mobile phone rang. The skies opened, loud claps of thunder and the sort of rain that leads you to understand why the kerbstones in Australia are three times the size of the ones at home.

"This is going to go on longer than we thought. I don't think I'll be out before 6pm".

So Ella and I spent 1 hour 15 minutes sitting in the car, watching the windows steam up, unable to put the air conditioning on because I was worried about the petrol tank running totally flat.

"Sing it" commands Ella over and over again. She says it in the tone of voice that suggests her next line is going to be "or the puppy gets it". I can assure you that the cure for a hangover is not being forced to sing "Incy Wincy Spider" for a whole hour.

Is one person's pleasure worth the other one's pain?

My Ex-Step-Brother

Steve is my ex-step-brother. His father's second wife (of three) was my mother. They were married for twelve years and though we're not related, we have a little sister in common. How's that for dysfunctionality?

Steve emigrated to Sydney with his partner, Scott at the end of January. They're renting a flat at McMahon's Point with stunning views across the harbour to the bridge and opera house. Scott works at Circular Quay. He takes the ferry to work. Steve works from home, which entails a long lie-in. These guys have it made.

I hadn't seen him for nine years. He looks exactly like my little sister, minus the blue eyeshadow.

"Well, you look more and more like your Dad. And before you say it, I look more and more like my mother, I know".

We stood on their balcony taking in the view and promising to return the favour with our balcony's "ocean cameo", which doesn't have quite the same ring. This is the sort of flat you get for $700 per week. For a minute we considered terminating our lease and moving to Kirribilli but then we remembered that although the views are great, there's nothing much there for families.

And it's $700 a week.

We had dinner (and lots of Hunter Valley Shiraz) at Thai-riffic on Blues Point Road (hence the squiffy photo taken with the crappy camera) before taking the ferry back across the harbour to Circular Quay. We sat out on deck as the boat steamed under the twinkling lights of the harbour bridge, gazing up at the stars and the underside of the bridge as we passed. It was one of those "oh dear, we are going to emigrate, aren't we?" moments that scares the life out of me. It was great to meet up with them, great to share dinner and conversation with common ground.

This morning I woke with a hangover. In fact, I was sick. I haven't been sick through drink for probably seven or eight years. Darren gave me some special tablets and removed Ella to the ball pool at Marrickville so I could sit around in my U2 teeshirt looking rough. Never again.

The Rocks Market

"Are you admiring my tagine?"

"It's lovely but I don't know what you are going to do with it"

"I'm going to cook cous-cous in it"

"No, I mean I don't know how you'll get it back to England"

"I'll have to put it in my hand luggage"

I thought about this. There are different restrictions on cabin baggage for long-haul flights these days. He has a point. Perhaps we'll have to stay here.

We were out bright and early again this morning. Parked the car at Argyle Cut, which is a tunnel cut in the rock between Sydney Cove and Darling Harbour. When I was at school, my woodwork teacher made me saw through a plank of wood as a punishment for talking too much. It took me a whole hour, after which he threw both ends out for the dustman. The Argyle cut is a bit like that. It formed a useful road but it was really just about giving the convicts something to do if they had too much free time on their hands. At least they saw something productive for their labours. The plank of wood was one of life's bitter lessons.

We were down at the Rocks because Darren had booked a didgeridoo lesson. We have one at home which sits forlornly in the guest bedroom as, although we can play it, neither of us can master the circular breathing required to play it for any length of time. An hour and a half later, there's still no sign of any circular breathing, though Darren has announced he may have to buy a second didgeridoo to practice on. We'll have a matching pair at this rate.

While Darren fiddled with his didge, I took Ella for a stroll through the weekend markets at the Rocks. The markets sit almost at the base of the approach span to the harbour bridge. If you look to the end of the road you catch the enormous grey hulk of ironwork and the end of the granite pylon at Dawes Point. I'm still not bored of this sight and want to jump up and down shouting "coathanger" whenever it comes into view. I'll never be cool.

Ella whined like a rabid dingo until I bought her a windmill to divert her attention. The windmill bought me ten minutes browsing, then she spotted a chocolate stall selling rocky road, which led to more dingo noises. I bought her some turkish delight, which allowed me a further twenty minutes in the market. By the time Darren emerged from the didgeridoo shop, I was sitting outside a cafe nursing a long black coffee and rocking back and forth like a crazy lady while she ran round and round her pushchair. We had three aborted attempts at finding somewhere to lunch because:

(1) The first place, an irish cafe, had shamrocks painted on the windows but only three things on the menu, one of which was a rhubarb crumble. Ella wanted "cake" and I had already spied the cake stand, entirely empty except for some old crumbs. The waitresses were all exactly like Mrs Doyle from Craggy Island, without actually encouraging us to "go on, go on" because we couldn't catch their eye to get served. We moved on.

(2) Having installed ourselves in a second, more promising cafe, we remembered that the car was on a parking meter which would run out in ten minutes time and

(3) Having finally decided to drive to Centennial Park for lunch in the cafe, and having already told Ella she could play in the fountain, we arrived to find the whole place cordoned off as though it's the scene of a crime. Perhaps they've poisoned someone with a muffin.

We went home, where Ella vomitted at the dining table while we ate our lunch. And then I felt like a bad, bad mummy for my lack of patience this morning. She has a virus and she's really making us pay.

Tagine

I went out with a mothers' group tonight. The very name "mothers' group" might have you worried that I've joined some sort of Australian Womens' Institute, but fear not, I haven't started wearing a headscarf. The mothers' groups are the equivalent of our antenatal groups in the UK. They all had children at the same time and that's how they met.

I met Andrea in the swimming pool when we first arrived. She's from Durban in South Africa and she's married to a British nurse. She has a son, Nathan, who's two and a half and she's expecting another. And she does all of this without a car.

Andrea's a sociable sort. She's one of those people who does the organising and makes things happen. Her mother's group was meeting in the new Moroccan restaurant in Randwick last night and she generously invited me along. Now I can't say too much about this because after two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon I blew my cover and wrote the blog address down for Yvette, who was sitting next to me. I know she'll read this, so Hello Yvette.

We had a great night, the restaurant is new and the owner is still keen, so the service was also good. He's kitted the place out by importing everything from Moroccco (right down to the tables, which are very nice but I'm sure I've seen them in The Trafford Centre). I've been walking and driving past this restaurant ever since it opened, admiring the display of Tagines in the window (a tagine is a north African cooking pot. You can buy Le Creuset ones in Selfridges but they cost a fortune). I needed one of those pots.

"Can you ask the owner where he got those tagines?"

"Morocco" came the answer. "I import all of this stuff from Marrakesh. I suppose I could get you one".

"Exactly like this one?" I said, admiring the blue and white number he'd brought from the shop window. I was staring at it in the manner of a woman with a mission.

"Well this one is unusual, it has different colours and markings". I don't really remember the explanation. All I could think was that the orange markings looked like cockroaches.

He chewed his lip and glanced at his fiancee, who has the job of setting out the displays. She was busy serving up double-brewed mint tea.

"I could sell you this one. I could let you have it for, oh, I don't know, $110".

"Done".

I went up to the counter to pay him and managed to get him to part with this lamp as well. His fiancee was having kittens. "Don't sell any more of this stuff!" she cried. "I have to replace it with something". The owner wrapped the tagine in newspaper and put it on the empty table behind us.

"Well" said Andrea. "It just goes to show, if you don't ask you don't get".

Slayer

I knew there was a good reason not to sit around the house in your knickers but it took until this evening to work it out.

He was in the kitchen before I knew it. I saw him through the corner of my eye. They scuttle with real urgency, as though they know they've been exposed. I detest them.

The thing is, my first instinct was to run. I glanced at the front door but then remembered that (a) Ella was asleep in bed and (b) I wasn't wearing any kecks (another lovely British word). It would take too long to put some on. I would lose sight of him and he would hide, which would mean I wouldn't be able to go into the kitchen for the rest of the evening. I was hungry. It was war.

"Okay" I said aloud. "Okay sunshine, right, okay. You just stay where you are".

The can of mortein spray was in the kitchen, which posed a problem. I climbed to stand on the sofa so I could assess my weapons, which amounted to a coffee cup, the camera and one of Ella's books. With hindsight, the Ikea catalogue would have been a better choice.

I threw the book. He ran under the dishwasher, I got the spray and pointed it. He must be dead, I went back to the computer. Two minutes later he re-emerged, only this time he was flying.

FLYING.

I sprayed him directly, adopting the roach approach. The more I sprayed, the closer he flew. He was a kamikaze cockroach. A brand new species I am yet to claim, brand new fauna. Eventually he fell onto the floor alongside the Esky, writhing about as though he might get back up. I sprayed until half the can of Mortein was gone. He stopped wriggling. I started coughing. He's dead. I won.

I phoned Darren at work to debrief. "I killed a flying cockroach but only because I wasn't wearing my kecks".

The roach itch will be back, it's just a matter of time.

Dreamings

Melina owns a shop selling original pieces of aboriginal art, decorative didgeridoos, that sort of thing. It's not the usual sort of rubbish, it's proper artwork by proper aborigines, who, in my mind, are sitting around camp fires in the Northern Territory with a boomerang in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. I don't want to consider that they might have made millions selling splodgy artwork to tourists and spent it all on swanky flats at Woollomooloo wharf so I'm making no further enquiries.

The painting on the far wall caught my eye. It's the sort of work they refer to as a "dreaming". "Of all the paintings in my shop, that's one of two I would take home and hang on my wall" said Melina. Being married to a quack, I was trying to ignore her christian name, which has other meanings (and spellings) in the world of medicine. "It's reduced from $6,600 to $4,000 because we are closing the shop".

"Why are you closing the shop?" I asked.

She smiled and came over a bit dreamy. "I'm having my epithany" she replied.

I love the word "epithany" almost as much as I love "dichotomy". I've been hoping to have an epithany for years, just so I could use the word when somebody asked. Melina beat me to it.

"My whole life is aborigine art and culture, music, you know. My family own pretty much every aboriginal shop in this area. I need something else in my life, a new direction".

She took out a ring-binder and started telling us about the different types of indigenous art in the different tribal areas of Australia, which was generous given that we didn't seem any closer to parting with $4,000.

"The background is always black, that represents their skin. The white represents bone, the red is blood and the yellow is sun. All the things you need to sustain life. The paintings seem very simple but in fact they are complex. They represent tribal maps, the white dots are areas of cultural significance, the arcs between them are men sitting in their the tribal communities. Some communities are more secretive, they think that revealing their tribal maps is disempowering so they only paint vague maps with lines rather than dots. They kind of join all the dots up". She explained some more. It really is all very complicated.

"$4,000" we repeated over and over as we ate lunch. "That's like six shifts in the private hospital. Enough to pay for a holiday. It's not like that £100 glass bowl we bought in Greece". We can't justify buying the painting but I can't stop thinking about Melina and wondering whether we should go back and help finance her epithany.

Miller's Point

At the top end of The Rocks you reach Miller's Point. I had always assumed that Miller's point was named after an eminent Mr Miller, which I suppose it was if you consider "Jack the Miller" to be a proper name. Did Jack the Ripper go by "Mr Ripper" in formal circles? We'll never know.

Anyway, Jack milled the flour for the convict residents of Sydney (and their minders). There's no windmill any more, but Miller's point is home to the oldest garrison church in the whole of Australia. The cricketer Glen McGrath got married here. The windows contain cobalt and gold to give them their colour and, given it's military history, the baptism font is actually a WWII soldier's helmet. There are not many places in modern-day Australia where the Aussie flag is raised alongside the Union Jack.

At the other end of Argyle street is the Lord Nelson pub (where we had lunch) and the Palisades, where we didn't, on account of it being a bit lifeless and unloved - I could only imagine the "bar meals" as we surveyed the slot machines against the wall. The tower in the photogragh is the control station for the Port of Sydney - it controls the shipping. If you click to enlarge, you'll see the Palisades isn't in the best state of repair. There's a restaurant upstairs and original Edwardian tiles and front door ("easier to wipe down" commented the barmaid).

"You come back here in ten years, all this will be prime real estate", said Darren. "They'll tart it all up. If you could buy, now's the time to buy". He's right. It's frustrating to see the opportunity and have no way of taking advantage.

Australiana

I told you they can't help themselves. It's everywhere you look, koalas quite literally spilling out of the windows of even the most historic of Sydney's buildings, kangaroo keyrings, boomerangs, flags. All the sweat blood and tears it took to settle the great southern land has come to this.

Today I spotted koala shaped pasta in a shop at The Rocks. It was almost worth hanging around to answer my question "who buys this rubbish?".

The Rocks Walking Tour

Our tour guide, Maggie, also had a story. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and carried a water bottle in a red leatherette pouch on her hip. I must be getting old because I found myself wondering where she'd got the (very practical) pouch from. I have reached the stage of life where practicality wins over aesthetics every time.

"My father was born in 1880" she told me. "He was much older than my mother, his second wife. He came as ship's engineer on a trade vessel built in Leith, but he was from Liverpool originally, from, what's it called? Totstext? Tostex?"

"Toxteth. You're a scouser" I replied.

"Am I? Is that what you call them?"

It's odd when people don't understand common British words or the cultural things you take for granted about life in Britain. How can you not know what a scouser is? A barm cake? An aubergine (which they call eggplant)?

"You know, I went to Liverpool to search out my heritage. We thought, well, it's on the river, so we'd better stay on the river. We booked a hotel on the river Mersey. My God, there was barbed wire. When we said we were going to, you know, Tox-teth, the owner of the hotel pulled a funny face and my husband decided we'd better not go there. Then we met a couple and they said "it's not that bad" and they took pity on us, gave us a ride there in their car. The woman even got my Dad's birth certificate for me and sent it here".

The walking tour of the rocks is worth every penny. It's full of tourists, of course, including the obligatory American man in shorts and long socks, the sort who interrupts the tour guide to ask for a recommendation for lunch (which he did, stating "I've got unlimited money"). He had a dull, lifeless face. He looked as though he never got excited about anything in his life, I pitied Maggie having to think up ideas to tickle his culinary fancy.

It might be touristy, but you discover the subtleties of a city that would otherwise pass you by. Maggie obviously loves her job. She has the air of a school teacher but doesn't seem tired of imparting the same stories over again. She told how the Cadigal aborigines (the tribe that inhabited Sydney Cove) were confused by he arrival of these white men on eleven ships. They'd never seen white men and they'd never seen anyone wearing clothes. They thought perhaps they were ghosts or huge floating islands. It must have been incredibly scary.

The cobbles in the photograph came from England. They were used as ballast in the bottom of the first fleet of ships to arrive at Sydney Cove. Without Maggie, we'd never have noticed them. The building is an old warehouse inspired by similar buildings in Amsterdam. We heard about the development and naming of roads, about the bubonic plage at the beginning of the 20th century and about the "larrikins" who hung about the narrow lanes "causing a ruck" and carrying socks full of wet sand to use as weapons. Life was unimaginably tough in Sydney 200 years ago.

Wigan, Atherton, Leigh.

Everyone's got a story in Sydney. I think they say the same about New York, though the people there are in such a hurry they haven't got time to tell you what it is.

"My family were from Wigan" said the lady manning the desk at "The Rocks Walking Tour". "We have heaps of old photographs; Wigan, Atherton, Leigh". She shuddered and made a funny face. "We call them the "reasons why we emigrated" photographs - have you been there?".

Without wishing to be rude about Wigan, Atherton and Leigh (I have a significant readership there), I know exactly what she's getting at. And that's all I'm saying on the subject.

City Extra

Ah, child-free days. Breakfast at City Extra, Circular Quay, a view of the harbour bridge.

Darren is shattered. He also doesn't do mornings, which is rather at odds with the Aussie lifestyle (they are coming out of the gym at 6.45am). As tour guide, I'm working him harder than any NHS Trust has ever dared. The prospect of my new job has intensified the need to get on with the child-free sightseeing while we still have chance. By 9am I'd poured three coffees down his neck and he was starting to come round.

City Extra is open 24 hours and the menu is presented in the style of a newspaper. They'll serve you any food at any time of the night or day, which is good news if you are suffering from jet-leg. Despite the time (9.15am), the couple at the next table were sharing a dubious feast of roast pumpkin soup, crusty bread, potato wedges and raisin toast. They had a backpack and dark circles under their eyes. That's the sort of disorientation that comes after 36 hours in transit.

For the record, the coffee at City Extra is wonderful. Odd though it might sound, their "muesli with dried fruit, soaked overnight in orange juice, with yoghurt and honey" is the only way to start the day.

Woolloomooloo

Woolloomooloo is a great name for a suburb. I'd like to tell you exactly how it's pronounced, but I can't because I haven't actually heard anyone say it. The Sydneysiders refer to it simply as "The Loo", which is typical, because the Aussies cannot help themselves when it comes to shortening words. Afternoon is Arvo, Paddington is Paddo and Clovelly - well, it would be Clo-o, but that sounds wrong, so they call it Cloey instead.

Apparently, Woolloomollo used to be a dodgy sort of place but it's been tarted up in recent years and now even Russell Crowe lives there (and wears a hooded top with Woolloo on one side of the zip and Mooloo on the other - I saw him in the local paper).

This is Andrew "Boy" Charlton pool, an eight-lane, fifty metre pool suspended high above the docks at Woolloomooloo. We stumbled upon it while we were mooching around the edges of the Botanical Gardens. It's a novel setting to say the least, and not content with just building a swimming pool, they've built a toddler pool and a swanky cafe as well. So you can fill up on all that home-made banana bread when you've finished swimming.

There are pools all over the place in Sydney; set into rocks at the side of the beach and built behind walls at the harbour edge. The one at Bondi beach is called "the icebergs" because it freezes over during the winter (and I'll believe that when I see it). This is the most unusual one we've spotted yet, though.

Peace Treaty

As part of the peace deal, we parked at the botanical gardens so that Ella could meet the cockatoos. She loved them, hopping about shouting "squark!".

Check out the picture of maternal bliss. Five seconds later she yanked my hair and wouldn't let go. Darren had to peel her off. Apparently it's normal behaviour at this age. Toddlers are hard work, much harder than small babies. You spend your entire life running about after them, thinking up fun activities, making sure they are happy/warm/cool/clean/fed. They repay you with slaps in the face, bites, punches and kicks. And filthy nappies at least twice a day.

We walked up to Randwick this evening. The newsagent smiled and asked her name. "Gabriella" she said, cocking her head and smiling. "But today she's answering to "Monster from the Deep" I added.

So much for the ceasefire. Load the cannons.

Forty Winks

It's amazing what forty winks under the Sydney Harbour Bridge can do for a girl. She woke up in the same foul mood she'd fallen asleep in, but cheered up when she remembered she was wearing her favorite doggy sweatshirt. I'm sure if they made them in adult sizes, there'd be no more trouble in the world.

For a brief period thereafter, we declared a ceasefire.

Luna Park

It still doesn't feel like autumn. I take a hooded top out with me but it usually ends up tied around my waist. Still, it's getting harder to find mangoes in the greengrocers' shops and when you do, they are too soft for slicing and have to be scooped out instead. I feel better knowing that other housewives are not slicing perfect cubes any more.

This is Luna Park. It's on the other side of the harbour, just beside the bridge. It's a real Sydney landmark. Every few years it gets closed down because the locals at Lavender Bay complain about the noise from the rides. It falls into disrepair, then it gets done up and re-opened. It's a spooky place - the sinister-looking clown face (which is actually the entrance gate - you walk through the mouth) doesn't help. It's like a 1970's horror film.

Ella was on great form today. She's back in training for the 2012 London Olympics, where she will be competing in the whingeing pentathalon. It all started because I tried to put a sticking plaster on her toe and it was downhill for the rest of the day; pouting, grumbling, crying and saying "no" to everything. She was dying to go on the rides but you can see what happened when she did.

On days like these, Darren squeezes my hand. "It's war. You and me against her", he says. I wonder aloud about asking for an extra day of childcare at the nursery. Tomorrow is another day.