Newtown

After all the excitement with James Hewitt, I headed to Newtown and had a mooch around the backstreets getting a feel for the place. It's close to the University of Sydney so it's a student area. There are some beautiful family houses alongside houses in total disrepair. The top picture is a great example of a street undergoing the process of gentrification; the houses are attached to one another but one of them is a wreck. It's worth clicking on this one just to see the extent of the repairs required (and the money you could make if you did).

The steps in the middle picture are typical of this style of house but the majority have been painted or concreted over.

The bottom picture shows a federation-style cottage. Note the grand design underneath the corrugated tin roof, unlikely bedpartners elsewhere in the world.

Leichhardt

After the problems I've been having finding a comfy pair of winter boots, I headed off to Leichhardt this afternoon. According to the Lonely Planet guidebook, it's also referred to as "Dykehhardt" owing to the profusion of gay women living in the area, so I figured it would be as good a place as any to look for comfy shoes. These lesbians aren't stupid, you won't catch them risking bunions through cramming their feet into pointy heels.

Anyway, I was disappointed to not to find any boots and didn't spot any obvious lesbians so perhaps the Lonely Planet have the wrong information.

Apart from the reputation as a mecca for gay women, Leichhardt is also the epicentre of Sydney's Italian community. The photo shows the Italian Forum at the top of Norton Street with it's main square and gallery shopping. Above that it's apartments, the whole lot an attempt to recreate a little Italian piazza. Only this is Australia, and as with so many other things, it's just a bit of an attempt. Australia is good at putting up building facades and doing a bit of a half-arsed job. I'm sure it was a novelty when first opened, but now it's looking tired and many of the retail units are empty, though one of the restaurants in the piazza does a cracking home-made gelato mixed up with Fry's turkish delight and it's worth going just for that.

I stopped for lunch at a pavement cafe attached to a bookshop and ordered some penne pesto then sat down at a table next to a guy in his fifties. He was reading the Sydney Morning Herald and looked exactly like James Hewitt only with grey hair. He smiled deliberately as I sat down, then pulled his paper back up. After my coffee arrived he started up the conversation.

"Why don't they put milk in it?" he asked

"Oh I don't know. In the UK the milk comes already in the coffee so here I have to remember to ask for some on the side"

"Ah, the UK. I was there three years ago, I loved it"

"I suppose you were in London, everyone was in London"

"Yes, out near St Catherine's Dock. But I went to Ludlow as well. My daughter was working there"

My penne arrived and I began to tuck in

"So what did you think of it? Of us Brits?" I said "I mean, if you had to sum us up, what would you say?"

"Oh God I don't know. Well, the barmy army is what immediately comes to mind. I used to feel irritated by them but now I like their humour and understand it a bit better I actually quite admire them for sticking with their team no matter what"

"Yeah" I said, "They're a funny bunch. We were here for the ashes tour in 2002 and we spent a bit of time with them. I loved it but I wasn't sure the aussies really got the humour in some of the songs. I was singing them and wondering whether we were actually really offending you"

"Which songs?" he asked

"Oh you know, 'You all Live in a Convict Colony' to the tune of Yellow Submarine, 'Ball and Chain'".

He smiled and nodded. "I like those"

"'Get Your Stars off our Flag'" I continued. No, that was the wrong thing to say, his face changed. I winced.

"Anyway" he continued "The thing I'd say about Britain, the thing I really noticed, was how everyone was really pleased with having tables and chairs outside and being able to sit outside eating and drinking. It was like they'd only just discovered pavement cafes. And the Brits themselves....well I'd say I like the ones I've met here, but they're difficult to get to know, more formal I suppose"

"Did you stay long?"

"Six months. I met a girl from Birmingham, I think you'd say a Brummie and we were seeing each other then she came over here to live with me. But it didn't work out because Tony turned up". He leaned sideways towards me and repeated "Tony".

I gasped. "Oh! Her husband"

"No, her ex-boyfriend. He moved in with us and stayed ages. The last straw was when she phoned me at work and asked me to pick up some tomotoes on my way home and I realised they weren't for her, they were for Tony. I knew then there was still something between them"

We chatted for a while longer and he asked for my number. I was so busy chatting with him and finding out what he thought of the British I hadn't realised he was chatting me up, touching my arm. Only 24 hours since I acquired that swimming cap and I'm beating them away with a stick.

I didn't give him my number, I just asked him where I could find a good parmesan and after he'd told me, I left.

Women's Problems

Another gem from this morning's Kyle and Jackie-O radio show:

Kyle: Ah Jackie's not here today, she's off sick

Caller: What's up with her? Is she getting a pethidine shot for her problem?

Kyle: Well yes and no. She is having a problem with her vagina but it's a new problem, not the persistent vagina problem

Caller: Oh look, I really feel for her because I've got a problem with one of my ovaries. I have a cyst and they won't chop it out.


It's enough to make you choke on your decaf skinny flat white.

Swimming Cap

There'll be no more bad hair days for me now that I've got my new swimming cap. I suppose the ends could get a bit ratty but my scalp is sorted.

It's quite a look isn't it?

The Park

John the repair man came to fix the sliding doors to the balcony this morning. They don't slide anymore, you have to stand in the gap and heave them open with your bosom. It's something to do with living near the sea, which is also (apparently) the reason Darren's key became bent in the front door.

They blame a lot on the salty sea air but it doesn't account for the crap top- loading washers and vacuum cleaners that don't clean. How I long for European appliances, and so do the Aussies because the wealthy ones are willing to pay a premium to get them.

John was over an hour late by the time he showed up. He blamed it on an accident on the Parramata road. I raised an eyebrow to indicate I didn't believe him but had to lower it again after he showed me the pictures of the crash scene on his mobile phone; an old red VW Beetle squashed under a truck. He was so pleased with having captured it that he hadn't a clue whether there were any casualties.

Afterwards we went out to meet Jan and Saul at Centennial Park intending to stay an hour but enjoying the company so much that we stayed until the light started to fade at half four. The cafe with the fountains is closed for repairs but there's a temporary kiosk with tables full of chattering mothers munching on pear and walnut bread under the palm trees and blue skies. Combine it with Malcolm's travelling kindy farm right nextdoor (goats, sheep, a pig and a performing guinea pig called Madonna) and you've got a mummy and toddler dream. Malcolm even stamps your hand so you can come and go into the kindy farm as many times as you like.

Jan's going back to Cheshire to visit the rellies in October. She's flying economy and hasn't bought a seat for Saul because he'll be 22 months - the same age Ella is now.

"Is it too late to buy him the seat?" I asked, wincing.

"We're trying to save some money" she replied, "and it's only twenty-four hours"

"Does he fall asleep easily?"

"No, he's a bit of a nightmare actually, and he has real trouble falling asleep in someone's arms"

I thought about the seat pitch in economy and the person in front reclining their seat when you're halfway through your dinner. I don't envy her, it would have been worth whatever it costs, and I can say that because I've been there.

We talked a lot about the UK today, about whether she'd go back after seven years in Sydney, about Sydney and about the Aussies and the Brits. About her planned trip home.

"I don't think I could go back now, practically with Martin's job. He's a lawyer and he's taken all the Australian law exams in his field. But also from a lifestyle point of view. I'm still puzzled about what you do with children on a wet winter afternoon"

I thought about it. "We go shopping. To the Trafford Centre if we need something or to John Lewis if we want to browse. We stay home and do stuff or go to a play cafe or round to a friend for coffee. The problem with the north west is the damp. I don't mind the cold but the damp gets me down, that and the lack of sunshine"

I watched as a flock of black cockatoos swept across the blue sky and it hit me I hadn't seen a cloud in a week and I can't remember the last time it rained.

"It's not just the weather though" she said. "It's the whole bloody class system. I like the fact I don't get judged for having an accent. Nobody recognises my accent here so nobody makes assumptions about me. When I was practising in law, nobody was impressed by that, they didn't treat me any differently. The aussies don't defer to people in authority or people like lawyers and doctors. In the UK, the senior partners in a law firm are unaproachable. The clerical staff wouldn't dare speak to them, the juniors are scared of them. Here in Australia the juniors stand up for themselves, it's much more laid-back, more on first-name terms"

"But they have that word "Larrikin" as well" I said. "It means someone who sticks two fingers up to authority. I've read about australian history and I think it comes from the early days when the first settlers arrived. It was all convict prisoners and guards, the convicts outnumbered the guards and they looked up to people who gave the finger to people in power. I'm sure that's where it comes from, if you think about it. And the whole Kate Middleton thing - I understand why she was never going to be queen but the aussies don't get it"

"Well there's Queen Mary of Denmark, she was as estate agent, met the heir apparent in a pub during the 2000 Olympics"

"Exactly" I said.

"I just hate it". said Jan. "But don't get me wrong, I can't wait to go back for a holiday and you watch, I'll come back all nostalgic for England, all upset about it"

"In November? No you won't, it'll confirm why you came here. My ex-step brother sent me a text message on Monday telling me he was unexpectedly heading back to the UK for three weeks with his job. He had spent all morning standing on his balcony getting a fix of the view across the harbour. I know exactly what he means - I try to get my fixes all the time because I'm aware we might spend the rest of our lives without this place. I have to get my fill of it and do it justice I suppose. I feel so sad and heavy hearted when I think about leaving. I'll have the worst depression in the north west next January"

"It must be odd to think you're almost halfway through"

"No, halfway through is July. That's the half-time analysis"

Ella tore past kicking her wiggles ball. Saul followed. They both have colds and snotty noses because winter is coming but you'd never guess it watching them in the sunshine.

"When I listen to your impressions of Australia it takes me back to when I first arrived. I've just got used to it all now but speaking to you brings back how I felt when I first got here. I expected it to be much more like the UK and it was hard at times getting used to it, to the subtleties and the humour"

"Oh god, the humour. Will someone please give me a sidewards glance or use some bloody sarcasm. They're so straight - take everything much more literally than we do. They don't do much tongue in cheek, they don't know how to take me at all"

"Though not as bad as the Germans" we agreed.

"So, anyway, what are your plans for your trip back to Cheshire?"

"Well it'll be October half-term when we get there. We suggested Centre Parks but it's ridiculously expensive at half term and the in-laws are paying so even though we'd like to go there we're going to a cheaper version somewhere in Nottinghamshire"

"That's a pity" I said. "I've thought several times recently that we'll have to go to Centre Parks to warm ourselves up almost immediately after we get back. Either that or book a sunbed out for a week. Can you imagine the come down after this?"

"And then perhaps we'll book something in the lake district. And then, well, I'm looking to you to come up with some ideas for what I can do in Cheshire in November"

I paused. "Well, there's a cracking tea room at Tatton Park and the walk round the lake is nice". The first thing that comes to mind almost always involves a decent flapjack.

"Okay"

"And there's Chester zoo, but the animals are a bit boring after Taronga, there aren't any, you know, marsupials. Erm, Chester is nice, down by the river. More tea rooms but no banana bread and there's a little sit-and-ride train in the park there, and some pretty aggressive squirrels"

I was struggling now.

"I've heard there's an aquarium out that way?" said Jan

"Yes, Blue Planet"

"Is it any good?"

"Well, it's not Sydney Aquarium. It's full of scousers but there's an underwater viewing tunnel so you can join them pointing up at the sharks and shouting "hey our kid, look at dat"

"Where is it?"

I thought of Ellesmere Port, the chimneys and the view across towards the petrochemical works.

"Yeah, it's out Chester way" I said. "You just follow the brown signs. Look, you could always go into Manchester. It's nice now, there's Urbis and there are good places to eat. The Christmas markets will be on in Albert Square and there's baby changing facilities downstairs in Daisy and Tom on Deansgate. They do kiddie's food for about £5 a head"

"Jesus, that's about $12.50. I earn in dollars, I'll be stony-broke in the UK".

"Looks like it'll be the Trafford Centre after all then".

Late

I was late for work this morning. Four weeks into the job and I'm sloping in with my trousers over my arm. The trousers, the only work trousers I brought from the UK, had been left overnight at the drive-in dry-cleaners on Bourke Street. Yes, you heard that right - drive-in dry-cleaners. They have drive in bottle shops (off licences) as well, which suggests a nation too pissed on hastily-acquired grog to do it's own laundry.

The reason they'd been left, quite literally stranded at the drive-in, was that it's only a drive-in if you're travelling towards the city. So you can drop your stuff off in the morning but it's almost impossible to pick it up again that night if you're coming back in the opposite direction, which seems to defeat the object of a drive-through anything. I picked them up this morning instead and got changed in my office, which rather startled our accountant as he went sauntering past. Perhaps he'll take pity at my plight and increase my benefits cheque.

The reason I was late was because I'd had another one of those mornings that make me wonder whether motherhood really is compatible with having any sort of a career, even a part-time one. Darren did that man thing, that single-childless person thing of getting yourself out of bed, showering, dressing and leaving the house. And in his case, sauntering up the road on foot to get to work. He says he starts at 7am but I wonder whether he's secretly holed-up in the hospital canteen to get away from the chaos (back home he leaves at 6.45am to avoid the traffic then enjoys a leisurely breakfast at work over the morning papers and I'm equally suspicious about that).

Meanwhile, Ella had Weet-bix for breakfast (not Weetabix, Weet-bix, loved by the aussies and universally whinged about by the poms). She wore most of it but what bits she didn't wear she spot-welded to the dining table and the laminate floor which meant I had to get a green scrubber and some washing up liquid and get on my hands and knees. Then I had to make the beds and do the washing up and throw more Napisan stain remover into the bucket of soaking nursery clothes before I could think about getting a shower and dressing Ella and brushing both our teeth.

After that, just as we were ready, she dirtied her nappy and hid in the tent in her bedroom refusing to come out so I had to drag her out kicking and screaming and remove her shoes and her dungarees and then pin her to the changing mat to get cleaned up. Then she refused to walk down the stairs to the car park so I had to carry her and my briefcase and her nursery bag and struggle with all the keys for the doors. And after that we hit the rush hour traffic and got caught up with the serious commuters (the ones who won't even let you out of the junction at the top of the road).

When we finally got to nursery (after rescuing the trousers from the the drive-in), I had to go looking for her Josie Jump doll, which she'd left behind last night. To top it all, she fell asleep in the car and started running a bit of a temperature and when I asked the nursery teacher to keep an extra eye on her, ring me if there was a problem, they said she couldn't stay if she might be running a temperature. Then they changed their minds and said she could stay afterall, it was just a bit of a cold, she'd be okay.

And we did it all again in reverse this evening, only this time it was pasta and not weet-bix. It's compatible with having a career, I suppose, but not one you're bothered about.

Winter Woollies

"How do you turn on the heating?" I asked Kath this morning. She looked up over the top of the reception desk at me standing in the doorway to my office. The forecast was 24 degrees but it hadn't reached that yet.

"I thought you said it was warm?" she replied.

"Well, yes, and this morning it's not, it's cold but don't tell anyone I said that or they'll give me stick for laughing at Jackie's scarf last week"

"The switch is right there" she said, pointing to the wall behind her.

It's not all glamour this jetting about you know. I don't want you thinking it's all larking about and cocktails on the harbour. Some nights we stay home and dry Ella's woolly tights on the only radiator we have. It beats the homesickness, it's like a British summer.

Healthdrive

Disgusted with myself for starting the week with a hangover, I joined up at the university fitness centre this morning with the intention of becoming a better, more regular swimmer. Then I went to buy my lunch; a sushi roll (without fish) and fruit salad. And no coffee.

By half three I'd picked all the strawberries and melon and apple out of the fruit salad and thrown the rest into the wastepaper bin with a heavy thud. Kath, our secretary, had baked some biscuits and as they were homemade it was rude to refuse and rude to refuse the coffee she was brewing up as well.

So now I'm looking for a swimming cap, perhaps a nice red and yellow one like the lifeguards wear. Looks like I'm turning into my nan after all.

Babycino

Tiny plastic teacups on tiny plastic saucers. A little teddy bear biscuit or a marshmallow on the side for your precious little possum. They're all over the eastern suburbs, "making sure your babies can look cool in the hip cafe culture".

It's a Sydney thing.

Buses

Sunday 27th May

Visitors from home have become like buses; you wait for ages and two come along and all that. I reckon the bottom photo is one of the best I've ever taken.

Jayne and James have arrived in Sydney en route to Auckland so we arranged to meet them for dinner at City Extra, which turned out to be a poor choice because since we last ate there, they've had a kitchen fire. These days they're making the food in Parramatta (25kms away) and driving it over here to be microwaved. The famous broadsheet newspaper menu has been reduced to the proportions of a brownies' newsletter.

We went to the Lord Nelson instead then headed over to the opera bar for more booze. Unlike us, they have neither a job nor a toddler awaiting them at half six tomorrow morning. Eventually we called time before I fell asleep in my cocktail.

Great Rail Journeys of the World

You can forget the Ghan and the Orient Express, the Trans-Siberian, the Iron Rooster and the Indian Pacific.

Coleman's narrow gauge engine behind Bronte beach (operating since 1947) is the only way to travel.

Yummy, Mummy

There's a lovely park behind the beach at Bronte. It's called Bronte Park, which is unusual because the parks are usually named after some famous bloke like "Fred Hollows Reserve" (celebrated opthalmologist) or "Geoff Lawson Park" (famous cricketer). This trend for naming parks after famous blokes makes us laugh and we wonder what names we could come up with back home; Alan Titchmarsh Marsh, Frank Bough Rough, Kenneth Clarke Park .

Unfortunately though, Bronte brings out all the worst in yummy mummies; huge Dior sunglasses, Dolce and Gabbana caps, mental approximations at the carat of other mothers' engagement rings. The average yummy Sydney mummy drives a custom-built Bugaboo. I drive a grubby Mamas and Papas number that I bought on Ebay for £58 because it weighs less than 5kg, and to make matters worse, the front wheels are locked onto a "swivel" mode that makes it almost impossible to steer in a straight line.

The kids at Bronte are called Sky and Pheonix and Zanzibar, they're wearing coats by Oscar de la Renta and jeans by someone-or-other of Paris. Ella's modelling Next at Westbrook (last season), who have an irritating habit of stitching their own advertising onto kids' clothing. We feel a bit low-rent, especially as the yummy mummies can also climb inside the Gaudi-esque starfish without getting their arses stuck in the doorway. (Still, when I comment to one of them that it's Gaudi-esque she hasn't a clue what I mean. You can suck all the fat off your arse that money can pay for but you can't buy European savvy).

We make our excuses and leave in the direction of one of the cafes lining the road alongside the beach. I haul Ella's pushchair backwards up the steps and navigate the other diners, most of whom make no effort whatsoever to move their chairs and let me past, some of whom give me openly dirty looks for having the cheek to disrupt their weekend brunch by daring to bring a potentially disruptive toddler inside the cafe, though the pavement tables are already taken. Even the waitress appears to disapprove until I collapse Ella's buggy and store it tightly behind her chair.

Ella behaves well by the skin of her teeth, at least, if you ignore the standing on the chair rather than sitting and if you gloss over the bit where she tipped a sachet of sugar all over the table. She demolished bacon butties on soft Turkish bread and a dip of my yolk, I had eggs benedict (7/10, eggs whites a bit too runny and impossible to enjoy while single-handedly keeping a toddler under reasonable control).

Stricken

I've never looked a squid in the eye before today, and what a big sad eye it was, still moving while the rest of the body was pierced by a spear and it's sticky back was being poked and prodded with a mixture of interest and disgust.

(Click on the top photograph to enlarge it and you'll see exactly what I mean about that eye).

The local teenagers were out spearfishing, you know, in the same way that British kids are out shoplifting, though I suppose I ought to defend the kids back home because at least they'd come back with something more desirable than a whiting or an enormous squid, depending on your attitude to fruits de mer.

"It's bloody huge" I commented to the lad who'd caught it. All the local kids were gathered around. "Yeah", he replied "I've never seen a squid this big before, I speared him over by those rocks".

I've never eaten squid and now I never will.

Bronte

It's late autumn and still the temperature in Sydney matches that in London, except at night, when we drop down to about eleven degrees. It's a bit chilly at night but we have socks and vodka and a single electric radiator so we're okay.

Late May is the equivalent of late November in the UK though I can't imagine many sane people paddling in the waters around Britain at that time of year. Even so, it seems the aussies are confused by the range in temperature because this morning my neighbour went out in Ugg boots and hotpants. I mean, it's either Ugg boots weather or hotpants weather but surely not both. Either that or I'm getting old and missing the point.

I like Bronte enormously. Jo brought us here on our first morning, back in January. I remember feeling jet-lagged and sick with the intensity of the sun and the heat and she made us drive around the headland until the sweep of sand and rolling surf came into view, commenting "this is the reason people come to Australia". She was right, it's stunning. Unfortunately everyone else feels the same, so the council have limited the parking to an hour. Still, the walk is downhill most of the way and it only takes about half an hour. It reminds me of walking down into Stockton Heath, though the view of the Pacific knocks the Bridgewater canal into a cocked hat. And just look at those crushed sapphires in the sky.

A Morning Walk

Today is "Sorry Day" in Australia. It's when they say sorry to the aborigines for all the bad things the white man has done to them, especially the bit where, for many years, white Australia operated a policy of forcibly taking aboriginal children away from their parents because they thought they'd be better off with white families. It's shocking, but when you consider that the white Australians formally voted to give the aborigines full voting rights only as late as 1967 (until then they were essentially considered part of the flora and fauna rather than, well, humans), you begin to understand the context of the time, even if you're horrifed by it.

Anyway, I've not seen much about "Sorry day" in the press or on the television, so I'm not sure how sorry they really are. Certainly there's an undercurrent of racism that you don't feel so much in the UK, particularly towards the aborigines. Barry Humphries gets away with it through his alter-ego, Les Patterson. The audience laugh heartily but I can't work out what percentage of them is laughing at Les and what percentage is laughing with him. Is it post-ironic or not? I don't know.

Darren worked a nightshift and came home needing some sleep so Ella and I took off on foot with a map, football and her bucket and spade. We ended up at Bronte by way of Bieler reserve (bottom) and Queen's park (top). There's a great view of the city from Queen's park and the sight of all those blokes training for some sport or other explains why they keep beating us at just about everything.

I took the smaller digital camera because we were on foot. The pictures look so grainy in comparison. I won't leave home without the other one in future.

Hello, Possums

Friday 25th May

Hello Daaaahlings, Dame Ella here. My mum and dad went to see some cross-dresser and came back with these specs. Apparently it was really funny and they howled laughing all the way through. I was tucked up in bed with my emu so I missed the whole thing.

We've been to see Kate and Bradley this morning. Kate fed me dairylea lunchables for morning tea and told my mum all the best places to buy chicken nuggets and fishfingers. Ha! You should have seen her face! Still, the dairylea thing was so delicious I asked for more and got some fizzy snakes instead. At lunchtime I refused the ham and roast potatoes my mum cooked for me. Who needs proper food when I can find my own way back to Bradley's anytime I like?

Fruit and Flowers

Thursday May 24th

Four months away from home and only three hundred posts on my blog. This is the worst case of writer's block I've ever had.

Today is our fourth wedding anniversary. Darren reckons four years is represented by "fruit and flowers" but I think he's making it up to avoid spending too much money. It was "leather" last year and he bought me a beautiful handbag, which set a standard I'm not sure he can afford. (The first year we were married it was "paper" so he treated me to a pack of playing cards depicting scenes of Kefalonia, which was more the kind of thing I'd been expecting).

So, fruit and flowers it is. This morning I dropped Ella at nursery and drove over to Westfield Bondi Junction to buy myself a pair of boots for winter. Of course, when I say winter I mean sunny days and moderately cool evenings, but the aussies love playing at dressing-up and already I've spotted Ugg boots, gloves and opaque tights being actually worn, not least by my colleague Jackie, who pitched up in a scarf on Monday morning under the impression it was cold. "I knew you'd have something to say about it" she said, looking a bit sheepish. Actually, I had nothing to say, I just fell about laughing and put the fan on.

At Westfield I tried five or six shoes shops without success. In every shop, I was approached by an assistant asking me "Hi, how you going?" to which the expected response is simply "Good, thanks". Any more than this and they back away because they can't actually answer your question or don't understand humour. "Good Thanks" allows them to tick the box that says they must approach the customer offering to help.

After four months of alternating between flip-flops and Merrell sandals, my feet have flattened out and now refuse to be squashed into fashionable shoes and I can't say I blame them. The problem is, Merrell sandals are fine with shorts or three quarter length combat pants but they look ridiculous worn with full length boot-cut trousers and if this carries on much longer I'll be the laughing stock of the eastern suburbs. Anyway, I came away with a pair of pyjamas for Ella, a pussy-cat tin for her to store her sea animals and a placemat with the numbers 1-10, not because I'm a yummy mummy hothousing my daughter but because she's got herself into number recognition and keeps insisting that number five is number six.

As for an anniversary present, he's getting chocolate-dipped strawberries and a bunch of gladioli, which is apt because we're off to see Dame Edna this evening. I told the girls in the florist and they suggested I take one to wave around. "The problem is, she'll come up to you and make a big deal of it" one of them said. "It's a bit of a risk". I paid the $12.95 for the flowers, hit both florists on the head with them and said "I'll think about it, possums" in my best Dame Edna voice. They laughed, but I could see they actually thought I might be really, properly mad.

Zoo Friends

I'm beginning to think that the novelty of the harbour bridge might have worn off because, given the choice, I'm now more inclined to use tunnel as it's faster and more convenient. And now we have an "E tag" on the windscreen so I don't have to stop and faff about paying the man in the booth or throwing exact change into the coin basket at the toll point. I just drive through the toll without stopping and the E-tag beeps and they charge it to our credit card. By the time we come home, we'll finally have this city lifestyle licked.

So it was the harbour tunnel across to the north shore this morning, where we met the Hammond family for the great pommie welcome; that age-old Sydney tradition of taking visitors from home to Taronga Zoo to marvel at the platypus and the wombat and the spiny little echidna. Only the Hammonds came by water taxi and cable car because they're tourists and I came in the Honda with our sandwiches in a tupperware box because I can. This zoo tradition is a rite of passage and it's the main reason that the poms join up a zoo friends because it saves them a fortune in repeated entrance fees.

Adam and Ella remain inseperable, like Stan and Hilda. When Adam disappears from view, Ella asks "where's my Adam?" and for his part, Adam feeds her and kisses her hand and helps her climb over fences where neither of them ought to be heading. This has certain advantages for me (someone else has to entertain her) and for the Hammond family too (as the zoo map is rubbish and I know the fastest way to the restaurant) so everyone is happy. At the end of the day I snook off and bought them matching giraffe tee-shirts, though as you can see, Adam's is a better fit. She'll grow into it by next year, which is handy, as that's the next time love's young dream will be reunited.

The Pest Control Man

Gareth is from pest control, or "Buzz Off" or "Zap It" or some other company, all of which are doing a roaring trade in the eastern suburbs. He was dead on time at 8.30am and I was also very nearly on schedule, having emptied every single cupboard and drawer in the kitchen, had a shower, made a picnic lunch and shoved one of the sofa throws into the washer after Ella unscrewed the top of her cup and poured milk all over herself and it shortly beforehand.

I say nearly on schedule because the only thing left was to put a bra on, you know, just to look a bit more presentable. And then the door buzzer rang and it was Gareth so I had to put on a hooded top and zip it right up and hope he didn't notice.

"Ah British!" I said as he came in through the front door clutching his cans and nozzles and spray containers.

"Welsh, actually" he replied.

"So yes, British then"

"For now" he grumbled.

And then I remember I have to be nice to Gareth because he's going to stop the roaches coming in so I let it drop.

"This is a clean flat", he begins.

"The kitchen floor could do with a wash" I say.

"No, believe me, I've seen some cockroach infested places. This is a clean flat, you can't have much of a problem".

"What sort of work do you do?" I asked. He showed me his job sheet for the rest of the day. It was on a clipboard with a pen and lots of rings around words like "vendor" and "rat".

"My next job's at Bondi Junction. There's a house on Ebley Street has a dead possum in the skillion above the front door, you know, the space between the door and the porch. It stinks, you can smell it as soon as you walk into the house. Anyway, they sent Jason in and he couldn't find the problem but Jason's new and he went looking under the floorboards. Possums don't live under floorboards, they live in roof spaces. When I went back I found it straight away, it's got caught up in the light fitting, electrocuted probably, and now it's decomposing and rotting and dripping through the ceiling. I'm taking Jason back to show him".

I thought about Jason, probably tucking into a bowl of Nutrigrain and a round of toast as we spoke, unaware that he might see the same breakfast all over again in a couple of hours time.

"The worst job I ever had was a cheese factory. There was a dead space, like a cave but through a doorway. I went in there with my torch and straight away heard this hissing sound". He started hissing a high-pitched noise. I knew exactly what he was going to say. "The wall was black with cockroaches. And another time I went to a unit (flat) where a couple were expecting a baby. They had a wok on the cooker top and it had decomposing food in it, a layer of mould across the top. I'm not joking, there were so many German roaches on the ceiling, you couldn't have stuck a pin between them. When I took their clock off the wall there was just this black circle of them; the same when I took the mirror down. They colonise, you see".

I wondered what Gareth gets paid for this work. Is it his own business? Is he going to take a back seat and let someone else do the dirty stuff?

"Oh I work for someone else. I've bought and sold two pest control companies in the last twenty years. Came here in 1983 for three months, never went home. And then years later I tried to go back to Swansea and realised I couldn't live away from Australia, it's in my blood now. I bought a plot of land out Cronulla way in 1986 for eighty thousand bucks. My mates thought I had rocks in my head but I built a house on it and these days it's worth a million bucks so who's laughing now?"

"You'll never go home then?" I said.

"Only to sell my house in Swansea. I bought it because I went back to Wales when my father got crook, then after he died I nearly sold it but the whole thing fell through. I rented it out as a temporary thing but it's had the same tenant ever since and I'm happy with that. It's my pension, you see. What about you? Are you emigrating here?"

"Probably not. Oh I don't know, I'm 50/50, it's a big step"

"I guarantee you'll be back" he said, packing his tubes and nozzles into sandwich bags.

"How long does this treatment last?" I asked

"About three months, about the natural life-cycle of a cockroach"

"And in that case, I guarantee you'll be back as well" I said. "See you in the spring".

Evacuees

The man from the pest control came this morning. It was right in the nick of time because last night we came face to face with this fella in the dark. If only my blog had a click counter which would tell me how many times this photo got a hit for "click to enlarge". You're all too scared, too much of a "bloody girl" as the Aussies would say.

Go on, you like reading this blog, but if you really want to know what a year in Australia is like, dim the lights and click it. And welcome to Sydney.

Now apparently this is an Australian cockroach and I shouldn't be worried about him, I should be more worried about his little German cousin, who's significantly smaller and hence much easier to squash with a bit of kitchen towel. The German roach lays egg pouches in warm places like the bottom of dishwashers, which later hatch into about forty offspring, all wearing running shoes and shiny jackets. This big fella is, apparently "harmless".

So last night we're lying in bed around half eleven, and I'm wondering aloud whether I'd make any money if I invented the "gin straw" (a straw which enables the user to sip on their nightcap without having to keep sitting up in bed) and Darren says it has about as much chance of success as any of my previous inventions (like the birth burka). Anyway, gin duly sunk, I go off to the bathroom to clean my teeth and there's this thing on the floor outside the bedroom door.

"Right, you've got to deal with that, there's a HUGE cockroach on the floor" I say as I retreat back into the bedroom.

"What? Where?" says Darren, with the tone of voice which says he thinks I'm over reacting. And then he sees it.

"Bloody Hell".

But they're fast these roaches (and they have wings, as you know) and before he gets chance to whack it (and believe me, he's standing there in his knickers doing the most apprehensive roach approach you've ever seen in your life), it disappears under Ella's bedroom door.

"Oh well, that's that then" he says.

"Oh no. No, no, no. You've got to go in there and get her out, right now. Just get her out and then find it and kill it and if you don't find it, she's sleeping with us"

"But she's asleep"

"I don't care, you'll have to wake her up. There's no way that thing is going near my baby, it'll crawl on her face while she's asleep".

So he goes in and he brings her out and I stand clutching her behind our bedroom door like a scene from "The Towering Inferno" while he looks for it, occasionally shouting that he can't find it and how it must have gone into a crack in the wall or something. For a potential outback rescue doctor he's doing a good impression of someone who's too scared to look. More Action Man Deserter than Action Man himself.

Eventually there's a thud. "I've got it". He comes back into the bedroom, a slight perspiration about his forehead and look of victory written all over his face. It had been a close call, he says. It had hidden from him behind Ella's sit and ride car holding it's breath.

"It didn't reckon on me" he said this morning as he was brushing his teeth. "It met it's match - it hadn't bargained on that".

Darren is now officially the man of the house. I'm finally going to let him be the boss. For a while, anyway.

Reunited

This evening we met up with the Hammond family from Stockton Heath, who are on holiday in Sydney. Adam, their youngest, was a friend of Ella's back home, they went to the same childminders' for twelve months and Ella talked about him incessantly at home. Even now she talks about him and likes looking through the book of photos that Becky and Jon sent her away with.

She's been excited about seeing Adam in Sydney, though she also kept asking if she was going to see Becky and Jon so I had to deal her the same blow over and over.

Anyway, I collected her from nursery and we headed into the city for the big meet. It was like a scene from a film where two star-crossed lovers meet on a railway platform, only in their case it was outside the toilets in Sydney Aquarium which doesn't have quite the same ring. Adam had grown a bit but once she realised who it was there was no stopping them; they skippped and ran their way around Darling Harbour chasing each other, holding hands and hugging like their lives depended on it.

After a birthday tea for Adam (complete with a cake which his mum supplied and I hastily iced and candled) they chased each other around the fountains at the Lindt cafe while we caught up on developments back home; the shopping centre that's still not quite finished, the local hospital trust and it's lack of resources, the crappy weather. As I said before, nothing changes.

Boomtown Rat

Because like Sir Bob, I don't like Mondays anymore.

It was back down to earth with a bump worthy of a Fraser Island sand blow this morning. Not even a skinny flat white from the university coffee shop could cheer me up. The woman who works in the university refectory takes ages to make coffee because she has to grind the beans and fluff the milk and tot up the price. In the three or four minutes I have to stand at the counter I can mentally devour a slice of raspberry bread, a poppy-seed friand, millionaire shortbread and miniature cheesecake with a swirl of caramel on top. If only she'd hurry up with the coffee this torture could be prevented.

Today was my first day flying solo with the caseload and my first patient was at 9.30am on the other side of town. I took the company car and immediately wished I hadn't when I got inside and realised it was an automatic, which meant a quick refresher course in drive, park and neutral and a real effort not to go for the clutch or the shift stick.

And then I got there and there was a physiotherapist and an OT wanting to watch me at work so I had to look extra professional and stroke my chin in an extra-academic kind of way and all of this on five hours sleep, since it took me until 12.50am to finish uploading those 10 megapixel babies to the blog. I know you enjoy reading this blog but I don't half suffer for it.

This afternoon I went out on another visit to Canterbury. I didn't even know Canterbury existed outside Kent until I read the address and got into such a panic trying to get myself sorted out that I left the building without the casenotes (and hence without the address) and had to turn back and get them. And then I sat looking at the UBD (A-Z) and realised I had twenty minutes to get to the address and I'd have to navigate across four different pages of the book to find it. Sometimes it all seems like such a mental and physical challenge that I just want to go home and I mean home to the UK. At other times I think, no, this is good, it's character-building. Most of the time I just feel like my whole world has been put into a bag and shaken up.

Anyway, they weren't in when I got there so I phoned them on my mobile phone. And then I thought "Shit, I've just given one of my patients my mobile number". I'd never do that in the UK, but then here in Australia it doesn't matter because it's like a pretend life. I commented on it to Darren this evening and he agreed. It's like living two parallel lives or like living in a very vivid dream, the sort where you wake up and say "I just dreamt we were in Australia and we were driving through a rainforest and then I was at work and I didn't know what I was doing and then you rang me and said you'd just been offered a job working as a helicopter rescue doctor".

And he has, and what's more, I think he might accept it. The four-wheel driving has gone to his head, which I shall now be checking for the little button on the back that make his eyes move from left to right. One weekend on Fraser Island and he thinks he's Action Man.

Sydney from the Air - The Harbour

I've saved the best until last. What a eyeful I got of Sydney harbour this morning. Apart from the obvious landmarks, you can see the sweep of Farm Cove and the botanical gardens to the left of the opera house and then the ferries docked at Circular Quay between the opera house and the bridge.

Behind the bridge, to the bottom right, you can see the huge block of flats at McMahon's Point (where my ex-step-brother lives) and behind the city centre you can see the Anzac bridge which leads away from the city, towards Balmain .

Darling Harbour is tucked away behind the sky scrapers (you can just make it out) and the Rocks is the area at the bottom of the bridge pylon, over the water on the city side.

Some orientation for you, at last. It's impossible to describe the place without it. Thank you Nikon. Thank you Jetstar.

Sydney From the Air - Coogee/Randwick

And here's Coogee beach to the left (with Wedding Cake Island at sea), Gordon's Bay (which has no sand) and Clovelly beach on the right hand side.

At the back you can see Randwick racecourse, the Prince of Wales Hospital to the mid-left and the lakes of Centennial Park to the back right.

This really is our stomping ground (and that of the roaches).

Sydney from the Air - The Eastern Suburbs

Anyway, never mind Brisbane, here's where I live, the eastern suburbs of Sydney, as seen from the Jetstar flight this morning.

From top to bottom, that's Coogee, Gordon's bay (without sand), Clovelly, Bronte, Tamarama and the southern tip of Bondi Beach.

And somewhere in the midst of that is the welcoming committee; two enormous, grotesque roaches, upturned on the kitchen floor. Enjoy the view.

Brisbane from the Air

We left Fraser Island on the 07.40 catamaran to Hervey Bay and the 09.50 Jetstar flight to Sydney.

Jetstar is a no-frills airline. It's owned by Qantas but they don't fly the kangaroo on the tailfin, they fly a cheap orange star. Like scousejet, they adorn their trolley-dollies in black and orange, which screams inexperience and nail files and cheap foundation. Then they bring a trolley round and sell you a drink and offer to sell you other stuff from a catalogue, including a whole fridge. I don't know where they put these fridges or how they get around the weight allowance but it's an interesting concept.

And here's Brisbane as we flew to the east. You can see the Gabba cricket ground in the bottom left corner, once again tantalisingly close.

Goodnight, Fraser

Here's the sunset over the jetty at Kingfisher Bay after we'd got back from our 4WD adventure. It's a pity it was cloudy but it was atmospheric all the same.

After the sun went down and the clouds had cleared we walked right along the jetty to look at the stars. Just as at Murramarang, the milky way stretched as far as we could see. I found the southern cross and asked him what I'm going to do about this great southern land and the way it draws me in. I didn't get an answer.

And then Ella started crying so we had to leave the long-limbed German twenty-somethings to their night sky and their cigarettes.

"You know what, Ella?" I said "One day, you'll come to this island on your gap year, and we'll be paying for it. And when you do, I'm going to call you on your mobile phone and make whingeing noises across the miles when you're looking up wistfully at the night sky".

Critters

I knew there was another reason I wasn't doing the great outdoors thing. It's not all about having to dig your own toilet.

I'm assuming this is a goannna. He looks just like the one John Cann pulled out of a bag when we were down at La Perouse. We spotted him today mooching about the campground at Cathedral beach.

As for the insect, I've no idea what he is, but the other side of our windowledge was close enough for anyone. I have pet cockroaches in Sydney, I don't need his sort when I'm away on holiday.

The Maheno

Or rather, the wreck of the Maheno, blown ashore by a typhoon in 1935. The spookiest part, somehow, is the ship's propellor which lies a couple of metres away.

The Pinnacles

Continuing up Seventy-five mile beach we reached the pinnacles, a rocky-looking outcrop of coloured sands.

I have no idea why the sand changes colour at this point, or how it came to be laid down in layers like this because, travelling with a toddler, there's no time to study the plaques explaining what it's all about. Still, it makes for an interesting stop-off.

And yes, we've picked up a bit of a tan after four months down under, and no, Ella hasn't. We might bring her to dingo-infested islands but we slap on the factor 30, the sunsuit and the hat.

As the aussies say, slip, slop, slap.

Truckin'

Here's something else I see the point of; four-wheel driving on a beach.

After stopping for a picnic lunch at Eurong, we drove right onto seventy-five mile beach, which makes up almost the entire east coast of Fraser Island. And from there it was one long hurtle down the sand towards the Maheno shipwreck, a much smoother ride than those inland tracks.

And we spotted our first dingo, taking a paddle. The dingo is native to Fraser Island and being an island it's the purest-strain of the dog in Australia. He looks friendly enough, but he isn't. The dingo is becoming more and more of a problem on Fraser, largely because of human behaviour towards them (feeding them, approaching them). A nine year-old boy was mauled to death in one of the camp sites a few years ago and the government culled over sixty of them afterwards. The animal rights people weren't happy and I see their point.

Some of the resorts are fenced off and there seem to be electric fences now as well, including some at Kingfisher Bay. At Eurong and Cathedral Bay campsites I couldn't see anything barring his entrance though. I wouldn't fancy my chances if he was hunting in his pack.

Vegetation

I love David Attenborough programmes. I even have an 'A' level in geography. I read maps and atlases for fun, I spend most of my time on planes with my nose pressed up against the window. I even took a ship's compass on board a flight to America once, which was handy because they didn't assign me a window seat, which I was livid about, especially when the people in the window seats sat reading their newspapers.

I love looking at the earth and wondering about how it was formed and continues to be shaped by man or by nature. However, just because I like it, doesn't mean I'm actually any good at it. The 'A' level was a grade 'C' and would have been a 'D' if the glaciation question hadn't cropped up.

(And if I'd jumped over that sodding ravine in Delamere Forest, it might have been a 'B'. The teacher was a hard marker).

Anyway, I can spot a corrie at twenty paces but I can't tell you much about the vegetation we saw driving across Fraser Island, so bugger it, I'll just say exactly what I said on the trip and reveal my ignorance. If Mr Attenborough is reading, perhaps he'll put it more eloquently.

"ooh look at that funny tree growing up out of the sand....how does it get it's water? Oh it's very photogenic, the contrast between the green and the white. Where's the camera?"

"oh it's like a proper rainforest. It's really dense, all the undergrowth, the ferns and palms and all that. Stop the car and I'll take a picture of the sunlight flooding through over there".

I know. I'm a philistine. You're still reading though.

Lake Mackenzie

Saturday 19th May

Our friend Simon drives a Land Rover. He calls it "the beast" but we rib him about this because for years, the closest it got to off-roading was when he left it all summer on his mum's drive in Worsley. Sometimes he comes to visit and stays overnight, then he parks it on the grass verge outside our house, leaving great tyre marks in the mud and all the neighbours twitch their curtains. We once climbed Fairfield Horseshoe in the lake district with him. He gazed lovingly at all the Land Rovers in the same way I gaze at Caramel Apple Betties. Each to their own, I suppose.

Anyway, I've never really seen the point of having a big four wheel drive, especially not in Warrrington. And then we came to Fraser Island, which is 4WD only, and now I see the point. I know all about letting the tyre pressure down and engaging the four wheel bit. I also know about getting thrown about, especially once you leave the tarmac road in Kingfisher Bay and you hit the initial slopes, which look and feel like the mad mouse ride at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Perhaps it would have been better if I'd been driving, but I didn't much fancy the stick I'd get if I got us stuck and we had to phone them to get us out.

Darren laughed at my obvious discomfort as I tried to jolly Ella along by shouting "whee! Wow! Bumpitty-bump!". "What did you expect it to be like?" he asked.

"Well, like driving on a beach, only with little hills" I replied.

By the time we got to Lake Mackenzie I was looking at my watch and wondering whether Darren ought to take us girls back to the resort. I was beginning to see him driving alone across the sand dunes (or sand blows as they call them) while Ella and I ate cheesy nik-naks by the jacuzzi. It looked attractive. Then I remembered we are tough outback cookies and decided we'd stick it out. You honestly can't see what a bumpy, difficult drive it is from this picture.

Lake Mackenzie alone was worth the ride. It's a freshwater lake and the sand is the finest and whitest I've ever seen; if you pick up a handful from the bottom of the water it slips like fine clay through your fingers. The bottom shelves off steeply, an arresting sight if you put your head under and have a look.

Bush Tucker

Friday 18th May

Wishing to get into the spirit of things, we booked ourselves onto the resort's "bush-tucker" talk at 5.30pm. It was held in the gourmet "Seabelle" restaurant, where they have a fish-bowl kitchen, whatever that means. So there they all are, all these resort guests, who've had an hour or so to get changed into something more fragrant than a Marks and Spencer cotton tee-shirt, all sitting in a semi-circle with their long gin and tonics, awaiting their education.

And then we rock up with Ella in her pushchair, which we have to bunny-hop down all the polished wooden stairs in the restaurant. And it's tea-time, so we've figured the only way to keep her quiet while we get educated in the ways of native Australian cooking is to pack her a picnic, preferably something that'll keep her quiet for a whole hour. Preferably something like a treat.

So Ella sits in her pushchair with a tupperware plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches, carefully removing the tomatoes and passing them to me "there you go, Mummy". We start on the bush tucker; macadamia pesto, bunya nuts, bush tomatoes, aniseed myrtle. Ella starts loudly on a bag of cheesy nik-naks, offering me one every so often and getting upset if I refuse. She lines them up on her tray, counting them out before stuffing them into her mouth, her face now covered in orange stuff.

It's a treat for the palate alright. Illawarra plum, cheesy nik-nak, lemon aspen, cheesy nik-nak, Red Quandong, cheesy nik-nak.

And then she demolishes a Cadbury Freddo Frog and announces "finished" just as we wind up. It was a close call. The Aussies are hoping that bush tucker will become their signature dish, their speciality. For my part, I'll never be able to think "bush tucker" without thinking "cheesy nik-nak". I'm not sure it'll catch on.

Kingfisher Bay

Friday 18th May

The catamaran to Fraser Island takes forty-five minutes from the marina at Hervey Bay. Typically, they don't call it Hervey Bay, they call it Harvey Bay. I know this because I was corrected by the woman on the Qantas check-in desk back in Brisbane.

"You know it's Harvey Bay" she said

"In that case, you know it's spelt wrong" I replied.

The boat comes in to Kingfisher Bay, which is handy because that's where we're staying. We arrived last night, just as it was going dark. I'm sure it's fine in the summer, but we're approaching the shortest day and arriving at dusk is a bit of a problem when the only shop is about to close.

The thing about Fraser Island is it's unlike anywhere else in Australia. It's a sand island, there's no rock underneath, just a great load of sand brought along the east cost by longshore drift. They reckon it took a million years to form, but I'm always suspicious of round numbers. We once went to Lake Tahoe and heard how it was the deepest, highest, coldest, windiest, blue-est, nicest lake in the whole of the Americas. Or something like that. Hence the suspicion.

Anyway, it doesn't matter how long it took to form, the fact that it manages to support such a diverse range of plant and animal life is incredible. The centre of the island is rainforest. How does it take root? How do so many types of plants and trees manage to live? It's really a matter for David Attenborough, which is why botanists love it and tourists flock here in droves.

According to Lonely Planet, Fraser Island is all about the great outdoors. It's about camping and four-wheel driving, billy-cans and swag-rolls for a bed. And on that note we're staying in a two-bedroomed villa at the Kingfisher Bay Resort with its jacuzzi, heated swimming pool (to 26 degrees, seeing as you asked), gourmet restaurant and tasteful, ecologically-minded ranger talks and ranger walks. Oh come off it, faced with a choice between your hairdryer and digging your own toilet, what would you do?.

There are two types of people staying on the resort; old couples in matching khaki shorts and cream shirts (too old for swag rolls) and middle-aged, middle-class parents with young children (too knackered for swag rolls). Once the kids reach, say, five, you could probably do the camping thing. In the meantime, when they need putting to bed at 7pm, it's the two-bed villa all the way.

The View From My Window

Despite the wheels dropping down, the rest of the view along the coast was spectacular.

(1) Noosa

(2) The marina at Hervey Bay, looking out to Fraser

(3) Great Sandy Strait, approaching Fraser