Daytime TV

Channel 9, 10.45am

"I used to have really stained teeth from smoking but then I read about White-Glo and since I used it, wow!"

"They sure sound happy with White-Glo Jackie"

"Yes Shane. It's important to have a nice smile, and White-Glo is giving Australia something to smile about!"

"So, Jackie, where can we find White-Glo?"

"Shane, you can find White-Glo in leading chemists"


Hang on. What was I saying about losing the will to live?

Bank Holiday Blues

It's stopped raining but Darren had to work today, which left me entertaining Ella alone. We did some crayoning, we did some playdoh. We even did some glueing and sang songs. Then I lost the will to live so we went to Coles to buy a replacement leg of lamb for dinner.

Eventually we went out to Centennial Park, which was very busy with large groups of families and friends barbequeing sausages and playing frisbee. I had a job preventing Ella from wandering over to them, as she ran about shouting "I want sausage", (or more precisely, "I want soggidge"). The sight of all these large groups made me feel so alone. Stupid really, it's not as though we spend every bank holiday barbequing sausages in Tatton Park, it's just having people to do it with if we wanted to.

We stopped off by one of the lakes to feed the ducks but were met with a flock of parrots instead. A couple of gay blokes with a yappy-type dog offered me another half a loaf when they saw Ella.

"Oh have this, our dog will scare the birds away and your little one will miss out".

"Thanks".

"Oh, you're a northener. I'm from Wilmslow"

"Ah, you're a posh northener, I should have known from your sunglasses".

He was wearing the most shameless posing Dior shades you can imagine and was dressed like George Michael in the video to Careless Whisper. A parrot landed on my head, not a little lorikeet but a big white parrot the size of a sulphur-crested cockatoo. "That's a corella" he said.

It didn't bother me but I shooed it off in case it was carrying fleas or in need of the toilet. Mr Wilmslow started hopping about.

"Gerry, it's divine, if only I had the camera...".

They left shortly after that and we gave the rest of the bread to the black swans, enormous catfish, eels and turtles resident in and on the lake.

One lonely bank holiday and I'm suddenly unsure about staying forever.

Cockroach Update

As it's getting a bit cooler, the cockroaches are either dying off or packing their bags for warmer climes. We've had a reduction in numbers recently, especially since I noticed they were coming down the kitchen backsplash from a hole under the top units.

After I saw one the size of my car keys (at close quarters) we've sealed the hole with parcel tape.

It's been an interesting experience living with the roaches. One which has coined new terms and behaviours:-

Roach Patrol ns. The avid scanning of floors and pavements for roach action.

Roach Watch ns. A bit like roach patrol, but the man's version. The one where they don't quite spot the roach coming in enough time to warn you. Also known as having one eye on the telly.

Roach Approach ns. The stance and facial expression assumed when advancing on a roach with a can of Mortein spray. May be accompanied by swear words and/or the phrase "get a lungful of that".

Roach Sweep ns. The routine checking of floors for dead roaches every morning. This task is usually assigned to a man but can be (reluctantly) performed by a woman if said man has been working nights.

Roach Itch ns. Physical itching symptoms manifested upon discussion of roaches. Can lead to signs of eczema on arms, which qualified doctors will not take seriously.

We get one every other day at the moment. The roach itch is subsiding, though the eczema persists.

The Lindt Cafe

As tour guide and chocolate affectionado, I'd scheduled an Easter trip to the new Lindt Cafe at Darling Harbour. This was in lieu of a Cadbury's Egg, though with hindsight, it's a far better option.

We had iced chocolate and cake, Ella skilfully scooping the filling from a white chocolate eclair with her fingers. Afterwards we headed under the monorail to Tumbalong Park, where there was a free outdoor circus, large adventure playground, water feature and an ornamental lake with pedaloes.

Is there no end to the delights in store for children in this city?

Easter Sunday

11am

"Daz, can you come and have a sniff of this leg of lamb? I've just unwrapped it and can't wash the smell off my hands"

"It's fine"

11.20am

"Seriously Daz, stick your nose in the oven, there's something wrong with the lamb"

"It smells like raw meat cooking. You're funny about smell you are"

11.40am

"Please, open the oven door, it smells terrible. We'll all die"

(opens oven door)

(sigh) "well, it doesn't smell....normal"


We wrapped the lamb up and transported it to the communal bins on the roof rack. What my eyes lack, my nose makes up for.

As everywhere's closed, we had vegemite sandwiches for dinner. Happy Easter.

An Odd Pub Crawl - the RSL

We ended the evening at the RSL - where else? The unexpected closure of the Pallisades had left us dangerously close to returning home at 10.30pm, which is a terrible waste of a babysitter.

"I wonder whether they'll let us in?" I wondered, as Darren navigated me through the backstreets of the city back to South Dowling Street. "It's Easter Saturday, they're bound to have a turn on". I remember the days when you couldn't get into the Penketh Labour Club unless you were a member, especially not on "Star Night" and especially not if Roy Allen was singing, who fancied himself as Barry Manilow.

They did have a turn on. It was a bloke with a synthesizer and an electric guitar. His mate joined him ten minutes later, the latter bearing a close resemblence to Eddie Large, though with ginger hair and roots that needed touching up even more than mine do.

Now the RSL is being refurbished and there wasn't enough of an audience to merit using "the big room" so the management had positioned the act in the bar, right in front of a sign reading "Danger, demolition in progress". When I say there wasn't enough of an audience, I mean there were six of us in total. This included an elderly lady in a headscarf and long silk dressing gown and a lady in a nylon dress who had brought her own sandwiches. Their husbands had one eye on the telly (which was showing just about any sport it's possible to bet on, including chariot racing) while the ladies bopped their shoulders to songs they recognised and songs they clearly didn't. The act made "witty repartee" between songs, which added to the pain of the situation.

The lady in the dressing gown continued to bop along to the music as her husband got up and left. "How much worse can it get?" said Darren. "16% of the audience just left at once".

A few minutes later they launched into "Always look on the bright side of life". We couldn't stand it any longer. Another 32% left as soon as they'd downed their drinks.

An Odd Pub Crawl - The Lord Nelson

We continued our crawl at The Rocks, down by the harbour bridge. Now we thought we'd been to The Rocks because we'd previously gone wandering up the paths behind the Museum of Contemporary Art. This part of town would be a bit more of a hike for the average tourist. On a hot day, you'd probably stick closer to Circular Quay. As a consequence, it feels more authentic, and more than a bit spooky. The streets were wet and deserted, save for the enormous flying foxes swooping low. They were also badly lit, which left me conviced I was treading on cockroaches. You can almost hear the sounds of the people living and working here 150 years ago. Much of the area was cleared to make way for the approach road and supports for the harbour bridge. Lots of people were displaced, whole streets lost forever.

There are still some un-gentrified workers' cottages and flats and as it's on a hill, you get a great view across the working port of Sydney rather than the fancier parts of town lke Darling Harbour. A whole row of ramshackle workers' cottages stands in front of shiny skyscrapers. I need to go back with the camera.

A huge container ship was in dock, so big that we stood on the hill just staring at it. It was a bit like being in Southampton again, only with palm trees.

The Lord Nelson is a lovely building on the corner of Kent and Argyll Streets, built in the early nineteenth century as a house and later purchased by an enterprising convict who had just received his pardon. Still, once a con, always a con. He evidently couldn't stay out of trouble because he started selling liquor without a licence. I don't know how he escaped transportation to Tasmania, but eventually the place became a brewery. The main building is constructed of large rough sandstone blocks with oak beams and an oak floor. It looks like an old customs house with an extension. They brew their own beer on the premises and hold the award for the best hot chips in Sydney (hot chips means chips. Chips means crisps. You follow?).

Afterwards we walked around to the Pallisades Hotel, which promises legendary pork pies and a mustard machine. It was half past nine on a Saturday night yet the place was closed; the landlord had piled the tables onto the chairs and was brushing the floor.

The Rocks it may be, but it doesn't exactly, well, rock.

An Odd Pub Crawl - The Lord Dudley

We went out drink driving last night. That's where Darren does the drinking and I do the driving. I usually regret this, but by then it's always too late. Five pints in, Darren starts his drunken passenger act, which involves helpful hints on reverse parking, vague directions and pissed musings on life the universe and everything. You know the type of thing, you're sober and everyone else is drunk.

We've not yet got to the stage in our marriage where I lay clothes out on the bed for Darren to wear. However, left to his own devices, he will somehow always manage to dress Ella in the hand-me-downs I reserve for sending her to nursery (where everything gets ruined anyway). Thus far he's managed to co-ordinate his own attire without my help but we might just have reached a downhill point. Tonight he came out of the bedroom in turned-up jeans suggesting he wear his "good shoes" rather than his walking boots. By "good shoes" he means the ones he wore for our wedding. They are in Sydney because they match the suit he wore on his first day at work. They most certainly don't match turned-up jeans. I managed to convince him not to wear them but can see I'm going to regret confiscating the heavy Campers for the next ten months.

We are fortunate to live in the age of the internet as this means we can research the places we want to go. First off we headed to the Lord Dudley in Paddington/Woollahra. Actually this had been recommended to us by a man in a park, though he had also recommended we eat Basa fish, which, as you know, treads water in the sewage pipe that is the Mekong delta. Anyway, his recommendation turned out to be a good one.

The Lord Dudley is an "English pub" on Jersey Road. The current owner has been restoring it for almost thirty years. It's full of English pub paraphernalia like Bass mirrors and Boddington's beer mats, and they serve pints in the sort of dimpled pint jugs that Len Fairclough used to hold in the Rovers Return. The beer includes Kilkenny, Guinness and bottles of Newcastle Brown. We felt nostalgic for England. Okay, we felt homesick. It was cold outside, it felt like home.

"I miss my friends" I said. "I was thinking yesterday that if we emigrated to Australia then I'd miss some of them getting married and having kids".

"Aww..you want the chance to play Auntie to their offspring?" asked Darren. "Oh God no, I just want to see them go through the hell we've been through. As soon as the last of them hits three, we can book the flights".

Woollahra is the sort of neighbourhood we couldn't really afford to rent, let alone buy. It's all stucco-fronted houses, florist shops, wide black front doors and ornamental bay trees. I wouldn't be surprised if they employ people specifically to polish their (ornamentally tiled) paths. It reminds me of Belsize Park with narrower streets.

The Easter meet had just finished at Randwick Racecourse, so there were a few hats and feather hairpieces on display. We felt a bit under-dressed, which is nothing new. I'm married to a man who holds the dubious honour of having been heckled by a singer on board the P & O "Pride of Cherbourg" for being a "scruffy bastard". He was wearing a long Arran cardigan with two buttons missing and eating ham sandwiches from a used bread bag, so the guy had a point. Still, it's usually the punters doing the heckling, so this was something of a novelty.

Anyway, I think he took it as a compliment because he's been perfecting the look ever since, though these days, since a long stint down south, he does at least wrap his butties in foil.

More rain, more water

Oh God, will it ever stop raining? I'm British, it's my duty to moan about the weather.

As there's no sunshine, our tour of Sydney's aquatics centres continues unabated. Olympic Park was the only one open yesterday but today we had our pick. We chose the Sutherland leisure centre, 25km south of the city centre (and requiring a trip under the runway). Ella was a bit wary of the mushrooms at first but within ten minutes was climbing underneath them and hurling herself into the water. She refuses to wear her armbands so gets quite a dunking, but doesn't seem to mind.

Oddly, a large gnome stands on the edge of the water, supposedly holding a hosepipe. "Looks like Grandad" said Ella. He'll love being compared to a gnome, though admittedly I could see the resemblance.

Afterwards we drove to Cronulla. There's a long sandy beach here, a few cafes and a cameo role for the Botany Bay oil refinery. According to our 2004 "Best of Sydney", Cronulla is a dingy littly place with a "ragged sense of impending something". They were only two years out - Cronulla saw some of the worst race riots ever witnessed in Australia last year, largely anti-muslim protests. It's not a pretty place. The rain didn't help.

The New Chinese

Thai food is "the new chinese" here in Australia, which is great news if you are partial to the kaffir lime leaf. Restaurants and take-aways are springing up all over the place. There was a new one springing up in Stockton Heath when we were leaving the UK. They were fitting it out the week we left. We drove past every day trying to assess whether it would be open before the Tuesday, which it wasn't.

I've stopped thinking about it now. At least we have one thing to look forward to on a cold Janaury evening.

The thing is, there are so many Thai places here in Sydney that the owners are having to think up increasingly innovative names. Some of the worst ones I've noticed include:

Thai tanic
Thai me up
Thai riffic
En-thai-sing
Thai foon

and most desperately of all, Thairanosaurus.

Incredibly, however, nobody has come up with "Thai me Kangaroo Down". I should stake my claim now. It's only a matter of time.

Wet Weekend

The book is earning the $26 I paid for it. It's Easter weekend and it's raining. Sydney is deserted; everyone has headed out of town up the coast or into the Blue Mountains.

We visited the Sydney Olympic Aquatic centre at Homebush today. It's seven years since the Sydney olympics, but this place still looks spanking new.

It cost $6.40 each to get in (free for Ella). That's a total of about a £5 for the whole family. The water park is fab; toddler splash pools, spas, fountains, showers, a slide and a river rapids ride. There are even family changing rooms - you lock yourselves in and have the exclusive use of three showers, two sinks, a toilet and a huge changing room. We were impressed.

Afterwards we went to Taronga. We've joined up as members so we just pay a reduced parking fee and after that it's all free. In all, the total day out cost the equivalent of about £7.50.

At the zoo we searched in vain (again) for the red panda. The map is really vague so it's not easy to find anything, but the red pandas have eluded us twice before. To make matters worse, they've had cubs (I saw it in the local paper), so not only are they eluding us, they are harbouring a pair of cute, fluffy-eared, pink-nosed babies. Last week I rang the zoo. "Look, I'm ringing about these red pandas. I know they've had babies and I want to know what's the best time of day to see them". The zoo told me to visit at the end of the day. "That's pretty much the time the mother comes out with the cubs".

The zoo closes at 5pm. It was half past four. We were within sniffing distance, then Darren found a lost child. He was called Tyson and was standing outside the giraffes, snivelling. We walked him back to the entrance and reunited him with his mother, one of those ladies who plucks their eyebrows out then draws them back on again. She had wonky red lipstick and seven earrings in each ear. Hey lady, watch your boy. I nearly saw those Pandas.

Sydney for Kids

Autumn is well and truly here. It goes dark at 5.30pm, there's dew on the grass in the morning and Ugg boots in the shops. Still, the temperature has been hovering around 25 degrees most days and Darren reckons it's still warm enough to go into the sea, which he describes as "bracing".

Yesterday we went to Manly and had brunch in a beachside cafe without having to find one that had a high chair or enough room for a stroller. If you don't have kids, you won't appreciate the freedom of wandering into whichever cafe or restaurant you fancy. Parents have to assess the facilites (and other diners) in each and every eatery before proceeding inside. The Zinc Cafe scores 5/10, (not enough hollandaise sauce on the Eggs Benedict). Darren read the paper while I read my new book, "Sydney for Under Fives". I'm amazed at the wealth of things to do with children in Sydney; the number of farms and wildlife parks, adventure playgrounds, splash pools and indoor swimming/adventure complexes. And that's before you even get started on the beaches, aquariums and playgroups. Even the opera house hosts quarterly "Babies' Proms".

There's a free magazine you can pick up in the chemist every month called "Sydney's Child" which has loads more ideas and some restaurants geared specifically at families with young kids (including the aptly-named Park Royal Hotel, which has a sunday buffet called "Treat the Tribe" featuring children's entertainment, a children's buffet and a playground right next to the food. Oh yeah, and the kids eat for free).

I've been trying to think what we have at home.

1. Municipal gardens/NT properties with hefty parking fees
2. Soft play cafes
3. Pools open to children at specific times
4. Rubbish pub chains that tolerate kids and feed them turkey dinosaurs
5. Pizza Express which gives out free crayons

I think Britain has some way to go.

Celebrity Specs

It's our wedding anniversary next month. We've been married four years.

We've organised tickets to see the great Dame Edna.

I know, I know. But when in Rome and all that. Anyway, I think she's fab.

Mercy Drop

When the first fleet settled at Sydney Cove, it took two years for more supplies to arrive from England.

We're doing a bit better. The Bisto arrived today. It came from Asda at Westbrook along with some Cadbury's. The Cadburys was a bit bashed up. Some of it fell into my mouth when I opened the wrapper. The rest of it has been falling into our mouths all day.

Ken and Lynda

I spoke to Lynda on the telephone this morning. Lynda's husband, Ken, is a teacher on an exchange from Nottingham. He teaches in an inner-city comprehensive and he's swapped for a private girls' school in Sydney.

"You've put the fear of God into me about booking return flights" she said. They came on single tickets (with two kids) and haven't booked a return. They've decided to bail out early and head out of Australia before Christmas. I told her about the trouble we had with Qantas. I've no idea whether she'll get on a flight in December.

"Don't you want Christmas on the beach?" I asked. "And to see the fireworks at new year?".

"No. We think Christmas will be really flat with just the four of us. We are thinking of Hawaii or a snowy Christmas in North America on the way home".

I can't see the logic in this. It will be just the four of them wherever they stop over. I didn't question it.

"The only thing with Hawaii is, you know, I don't want to spend Christmas with a load of fat people in condominiums. I don't know, we'll see".

I don't think Lynda is enjoying her year in Australia. I'm not sure she's such a fan of the culture or that she's really got stuck into the way of life. She doesn't rate the schools, the food or the suburb she's living in. Her daughter is way ahead of the other kids in her class. And she's spent too much money. "I've decided I need to get some part-time teaching work" she told me. "It's so expensive to do anything in Sydney. Ken's relaxed about it, but the money situation is really worrying me. I phoned up about doing supply work but they want me to take an English test and have my skills assessed".

In many ways they have been more fortunate than us. They didn't have to look for somewhere to live, or to furnish it and buy a car. Her husband's exchange status means their schedule has been largely planned already. They've been to stay with other teachers up and down the coast at no extra cost.

On the other hand, they're stuck out in Sutherlandshire; their nearest beach is miles away. "I do wonder what it would be like to live in one of the nicer areas, like where you are" she said this morning. "Then again, we went to Coogee at the weekend. I said, oh Ken, it's just like Nottingham on a Saturday night".

No, it's not.

And then there's the fact that the Aussie teacher is living in her house back in the UK.

"Apparently his wife is rather obese" she said. "And a bit disabled. And he's got his mother in law with him as well. She's 83 years old. All I can think is "don't die in my house"".

I hope she can sort the flights out. I hope the beds are clean when she gets home.

The QVB

If you ever come to Sydney, you should take time out to visit the QVB. It was built towards the end of Queen Victoria's reign and is set over five floors linked with iron stairwells and old fashioned lifts.

There's a clock in the middle (not the one in the picture) featuring scenes from Australian and British history, including the beheading of whichever King Charles is was that lost his noggin (told you I know sod all). The clock strikes, the model of the king loses his head. It's bizarre.

There's also a full-size wax model of the present queen wearing coronation robes and replica crown jewels. The Americans crowd round taking photos, thinking they're the real thing.

The QVB eventually fell into disrepeair and was due for demolition in the 1980's. It was saved at the eighteenth hour and now houses chic boutiques, cakes and a branch of "Camper" where the shoes cost about $270 a pair, which is considerably more expensive than they cost in the Trafford Centre. "Hmm" said Darren. "I was going to bring mine but somebody threw them out of the case saying they were too heavy". My turn to look sheepish.

Doing a Baby David

We've done a "Baby David " today. If you never watched "The Royle Family", this means palming your child off all day and evening. My mother is always good for doing a baby David, but here in Sydney we have nursery and babysitters. We just pick her up in between, make dinner, bath her and put her safely to bed. She's none the wiser.

This afternoon we took the monorail from Darling Harbour to Chinatown, where we had lunch on Dixon Street. Chinatown in Sydney is nothing to write home about, so I won't, except to say that we once stayed in a hotel here and got stuck in a lift with thirteen chinese people when we should have been getting ready to see Swan Lake at the Opera House. It wasn't an experience I'd want to repeat.

After lunch we went down to see the QVB (Queen Victoria Building) and Strand Arcade, both of which have ornate tiled floors and iron balconry. There's a jeweller on the second floor of the Strand called Raphael. You'd never know he was there because most of the other jewellers are downstairs. Raphael made Darren's wedding ring. He has a lovely big shop/workshop with a clock on the mantlepiece and a canary in a cage.

Afterwards we headed back to Darling harbour for cocktails before collecting Ella from nursery. She made us sing Baa Baa blacksheep all the way home.

This evening we took a bus to Darlinghurst, where Oxford Street is lined with gay bars and peep shows. Had dinner in a tapas bar called Hernandez, nice food but we were sitting on the pavement and Darren had to kill four large cockroaches during the course of the meal. I spent most of the time with my feet resting on the table's pedestal, scanning the floor. When you kill one, it's mates turn up to eat it. They are foul, disgusting creatures.

I apologied to the waitress for having my feet on a chair while Darren went to the loo. "I know", she replied. "I wish there was something we could do about it. They're everywhere".

Chicks

The chicks at nursery have hatched. Three survived, which is incredible given that the toddlers have had their hands on them.

Here's Ella when I collected her a couple of hours ago. She was enjoying the experience until the chick hopped off her knee. Fear I might have given her a lifelong aversion to birds as a result.

It was payback time when I went to change her nappy.

Cann Park, Botany Bay

This afternoon we drove down to La Perouse, which stands at the north head of Botany Bay. Botany Bay, you might remember, is not Sydney Harbour. Botany Bay was the first place Captain Cook landed and had a punch up with the aborigines. There's a monument marking his landing place on the south side of the bay near Kurnell.

Just after Captain Cook landed, the french explorer La Perouse arrived in Botany Bay and raised the flag on the north head, which now bears his name.

These days, Botany Bay is an odd place. The airport's two runways stretch out onto the water and there's a mix of ugly industry and pretty beaches scattered about the shore. La Perouse is the sort of place you suspect the beach might be littered with broken glass (and it is). The local kids don't apologise when they bump into you, they just stare. It's not like the eastern suburbs.

Just recently, the police have taken to providing escorts to city buses running out to Lapa (as the locals call it) at night because of problems with youths boarding the bus, refusing to pay and then pulling the emergency handle to force the bus to stop when they want to get off. There's talk of pulling the service altogether.

Sydney has its share of crime, but it's somehow not in the same league as the sort of crime affecting large cities at home. In Maroubra, a gang calling themselves "The Bra Boys" (as in MarouBRA, not because they wear ladies underwear) claim the north part of the beach as their own. It's off limits for surfing, I don't know what they do to people who try, but they also have a history of drug crime (and perhaps guns). A movie has been made about them (called, imaginatively, "The Bra Boys"). It's showing in the cinema here, though I don't expect you'll be seeing it in the UK anytime soon.

The road at La Perouse curls around near the clifftop then snakes back up the way it came. It's a hot-spot for kids cruising in customised Holden (Vauxhall) Corsas and old American-looking cars in shades of pastel blue and green. The blokes (and girls) driving them look like the T-Birds and the Pink Ladies from "Grease". It's all terribly impressive, especially when they make screeching noises and leave a trail of smoke.

But not as impressive as the local snake show that's been running for 108 years, or three generations of the Cann family. We stumbled across it in action this afternoon. John Cann (author of the above book, which he shamelessly plugged) has been running the show for over forty years at the same spot, which has since been designated "Cann Park". He has literally bags and bags of snakes (and goannas and water dragons) that he lets loose in a corrugated iron pen at the side of the road while he gives a talk on the snakes and reptiles of Australia. Afterwards, he passes around his battered old akubra hat for coin donations, which not everyone offers. It was unnerving to hear stories of children in the western suburbs of Sydney killed by brown snake bites. I watched where I parked my bum after that.

Ella wasn't impressed. After a quick shuftie at the water dragon, she went tearing across the grass after a west highland terrier called Dilly. I've seen half of the snake show, Darren has seen the other half. We'll put our heads together and get the full story later on. In the meantime, I now wish I'd taken more notice of Steve Irwin.

My Day by Ella

Daddy worked nights last night. As soon as he'd gone to bed this morning, mummy was checking to see what time the zoo opened, then she fleeced his wallet and got my coat. I saw her do it. I wouldn't say she was desperate but we were whizzing through the harbour tunnel by half past nine.

Now I love these lone expeditions with my mum. She gets distracted by working out which lane she needs to be in and finding money to pay tolls, which leaves me free to do a Harry Houdini with the car seat - and what can she do about it when she notices anyway? Ha! As she's always telling me, she only has one pair of hands.

The best thing about Taronga Zoo is the shop. The aisles are so crowded that my mum can't push the buggy through without me reaching what I want. Today was a particularly good haul. I netted a hardback book, miniature echidna and koala mask just by refusing to let go of them. My mum was swearing a bit, which made the other customers stare. She eventually hands over the money and nobody gets hurt. She knows it makes sense.

Oh yes, and I saw some animals. I especially saw the platypus. As it's April 1st, I think someone's taking the micky - I've never seen anything like that at Chester. We got the cable car back up the hill because Daddy wasn't there to push me. I held mummy's hand for reassurance, but she still went a bit white.

This afternoon they took me to the RSL club for sunday lunch. Mummy says it's the only place in Sydney I'd get away with my table manners. Some of the ladies in there have purple hair. A couple of them smoke, though not near the food bit. I've learnt how to shout "faggin's disgusting" at the top of my lungs, which makes the olds cringe. My mum says it's the worst possible place to shout about fagging but I'll prove her wrong the next time we go down King's Cross.