Coffee

It's the start of my second week at work. In my attempt at living the life, I pitched up at work with a take-out coffee from the university refectory. It wasn't just a coffee, it was a decaf skinny flat white, which I've practiced saying over and over until I've stopped tripping up.

"I've never turned up at work with coffee in my entire working life" I said to Alannah.

"Really? God, it's such a big thing here. We Australians take our coffee seriously"

"Yeah, I'm getting that impression. I used to work in a place called Wigan. The nearest I ever got to take-out anything was a pie pea wet bin lid. The coffee just didn't figure"

Her face was a picture.

Famous

It's "Logie night" down here, the Aussie equivalent of our BAFTA awards. We've never heard of any of the people on the telly, hardly seen any of the programmes they're talking about.

The Aussies aren't really known for exporting good-quality TV programmes. Neighbours doesn't count. "The whole world is wondering what's in our water that we produce such outstanding actors" says the presenter.

Are you really?

Congratulations Iain and Janine

Our friends Iain and Janine are getting married in Knutsford today. We've known Iain since we were at school; he's the last one to get hitched and we're not there to see it.

"If you emigrated, you wouldn't just be making a choice about where to live, you'd be effectively wiping out your history" I said over dinner.

"What do you mean?"

"People don't keep in touch. They say they will, they say they'll visit, but it's so far away. They gradually forget about you, expats always say that. Give it ten years, you'll be lucky if you're still exchanging Christmas cards. You could make new friends, but imagine wiping out all that history with the ones you've had all your life".

"But that's the choice you make"

"I suppose, on the other hand, you don't see your friends every day. You'd see all this every day if you lived here".

I thought about missing the wedding and it hit me what a brave thing people do when they opt to emigrate.

Plus ca Change

I bought the British version of Hello magazine because it had Kate Middleton on the cover. I'm desperate for her to spill the beans; it cost me $6.95 to find out that she isn't going to. Every time I see her now I think "doors to manual" in reference to her mother. The Aussies don't understand the British class system. They don't understand that the daughter of a woman who runs a catalogue could never be Queen of England, especially not when their own, home grown Princess Mary of Denmark (formerly of Tasmania) started life as an estate agent. They have a point, I suppose.

I did have a look at the TV listings though. Wednesday's resume for Coronation Street read simply "Ken threatens to leave Deirdre" which got me thinking that an expat could dip in and out of British culture every few years and find Ken leaving Deirdre, Deirdre leaving Ken, and Betty serving up another two hot-pots. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

Anyway, we had such a pleasant day yesterday that we repeated it all over again today; the morning at Coogee, the afternoon at Cloey. Darren has bought himself a snorkel and mask from one of the dive shops so he's been off spotting groupers (2 feet long) and stripey reef fish while I've been kicking a ball back and forth on the park at the back of the beach.

This evening we got our babysitter round and went out for dinner to a vietnamese place on Bondi beach. The food was pretty much like Thai; absolutely delicious.

Hooked

My friend Natalie called from the UK. She doesn't believe I'm really down under but she's had to accept it now she's called me on 0061. Anyway, I was caught red-handed singing to Rolf Harris and his wobble board, so there's all the proof she needs. Tie me Kangaroo Down, Sport. I know all four verses:-

Watch me wallabies feed, mate
Keep me cockatoo cool, curl
Send me koala back, Jack

and

Mind me platypus duck, Bill (my favorite).

Natalie thinks I've lost it but this is nothing compared to Darren. Yesterday I bought Ella a Wiggles magazine from the newsagents. I noticed there was a new "yellow wiggle" and wondered what they'd done with Greg. I mentioned it in passing to Darren, who presumably filed it under "pending", because this afternoon he went actively searching for the magazine to check it out for himself. "They can't just replace him!" he exclaimed from the sofa, a look of genuine disappointment all over his face.

He's gone, far away to the land of wiggledom. He sings the songs at work as well. I can't help thinking there are poor souls whose last moments on earth will be filled with the presence of my husband singing the oop-dee-doo. If he starts twirling round while he pours his tea, it's divorce.

Trick of the Light

The day is like a split shift. We nip back home at midday for Ella's lunch and afternoon sleep before heading out again around two o'clock. The sleep situation has improved considerably since I realised the power of peer pressure. She doesn't really want to go to bed but she's much more inclined to do so after I've reeled off a list of her nursery friends who are "going to sleep, just like Ella".

We had a few pleasant hours on the beach at Cloey this afternoon. Ella wanted to go in the pool but announced it was "a bit chilly" and backed out, still clutching her yellow watering can. On the beach, an Asian lady broke wind loudly, which sent a group of twenty-something women into heaps of laughter. They were drinking red wine at three in the afternoon. I felt the slightest twinge of envy, but then Ella offered me half of her Philadelphia cheese sandwich, saying "there y'are Mummy, s'nice and soft" and I realised I wouldn't swap with them for anything.

By 4pm most of the beach was covered in shade, the sand went suddenly cold, three enormous yellow-specked black cockatoos soaring from one side of the cliffs to the other. By 5.15 it's dusk, half an hour later it's dark. The mind plays funny tricks; we expect a long summer's evening on the back of days like these. The light goes out like a switch, we go home and put the lamps on.

Nappy Valley

We spoke to Darren's parents over the webcam before going down to Coogee for breakfast. His Dad has been helping keep an eye on our garden back home, opening important letters and running the cars. Our £150 bay tree is dead, but there's fertiliser on the borders. You can't have it all ways.

After breakfast at Barzura we spent and hour or so on the beach. I won't review the breakfast in too much detail, except to say there was no butter on the toast. Mr "Breakfast Blog" does a far better job than I ever could. I admire his blog (and his stamina) but I disagree with his description of Sydney as a "two trick pony", which he qualifies with "spectacular harbour, stunning beaches, but after that, what?". Mr Breakfast Blog is from Melbourne, which enjoys a bitter rivalry with Sydney, a bit like a pair of squabbling sisters. I've never been to Melbourne but I like Sydney a lot. As a temporary Sydneysider I'll shout "weather!". If that makes me shallow, I'll live with it.

Anyway, here's another shot of Coogee this morning. I don't need to tell you why they call the eastern suburbs "nappy valley". The picture speaks for itself.

Breakfast at the Beach, By Ella

It's a hard slog down here with the rest of the convicts; breakfast at Barzura, lovingly-buttered multi-grain bread and fresh-baked muffins straight from the tin. If you kick up enough fuss a lady comes to your table with a tin of felt-tips.

I offered my mum the crust off the toast so she would give me some of her eggs. She gave me the white and not the yellow. She reckons that's a fair swap. I wanted the yellow bit.

Afterwards I practiced my sandsurfing and had a bit of a lie-down. My favorite game (after pretend cooking) is pretending to be asleep. My mum says it's ironic but I don't know what that means.

Coogee Mornings

Friday

I hid the tin of insects after Ella had gone to bed but forgot she'd nodded off clutching the ladybird so let out a shriek when I spotted it this morning, upside down in her cot.

We have a whole day to fill today. Darren won't be home until about 10pm, which means he won't have set eyes on Ella between Wednesday night and Saturday morning. Being married to a doctor has certain advantages (like co-codamol on request) but the downside is living with shift systems and long weekends alone. These are the sort of gaps it's left for mothers to fill. The sort of gaps that require fuzzy felts, cotton bobbins for threading and nerves of steel. The sort of days you have jaw-ache by five o'clock through gritting your teeth and getting on with it.

We set off down to Coogee for a stroll along the seafront at half nine this morning. Since the humidity wore off, we now officially live within walking distance of the beach, but that doesn't mean we actually walk down there too often, we usually take the car for reasons of practicality and steep hills. Anyway, there's heaps of free parking along the seafront. What more incentive do you need?

It's mid autumn and we're having what the British would probably call an "Indian summer". Just as the temperatures in Sydney and Warrington got to level pegging, so they shot back up to 27 degrees. The good people of Coogee need no persuading to get out and enjoy their morning. The seafront was already busy with skaters, mothers and retirees walking four-abreast in shorts and hats. Now that's the way to retire. Ella spotted a shih-tzu dog so we stopped for a while and chatted to it's owners, a scottish lady called Felicity and her Aussie husband, Cliff. Cliff returned from the kiosk with cappuccinos and offered to go back and buy one for me. I declined, but it was one of the nicest gestures in the whole time we've been here.

"I came in 1968" said Felicity, breaking bits of dog biscuit for Ella to feed to Scruffy. "A ten pound pom". She laughed and rocked back on the bench. "I've never regretted it". They invested in a small unit (flat) which they rent out. That takes care of the pension. "We come here every morning. If you're here tomorrow, we'll be in the same spot". They looked remarkably tanned and relaxed. "Cliff's youngest daughter is fifty years old" said Felicity. "you'd never know from looking at him". I notice this a lot, this healthy glow that the older people have. Even my relatives in Perth look tanned and healthy and my uncle will be eighty next year. They've both lived with serious, life-threatening health problems for years. They take each other's medication by mistake. As far as I can see, they owe their longevity to the lifestyle as much as to anything their doctors are prescribing.

Eventually we had to leave; Ella had some difficulty understanding that the dog's ball didn't belong to her and after she'd thrown it three times across the seafront and onto the sand, I'd had enough of playing fetch. We wandered up the front, she chased some seagulls then we stopped for coffee. I succumbed to the banana and raspberry bread (toasted until the crust caramelises but not buttered - that ruins it). It only takes one sunny stroll in Coogee to appreciate why they call Australia the lucky country. Cliff, Felicity and Scruffy will be gracing the seafront every morning after we've returned to the gloom of a British winter. They're lucky, but I think they already know that.

This afternoon I made a veggie frittata in between doing jigsaws and taking Ella to the park, where a fellow mother immediately launched into a story about her current pregnancy being a result of failed contraception. This is the same park where I met the woman with poly-cystic ovaries (and equally unplanned pregnancy). I want to push Ella on swings, not hear about rhythm methods.

Anyway, yes, I know, jambalaya and frittata in the same three-month period. I am the Nigella Lawson of the eastern suburbs. As my baking dishes are 12,000 miles away, I had to make it in the roasting tin, which takes up the entire top shelf of the oven. The result was an enormous frittata that we'll be eating for the rest of the week, whether we like it or not. It's scary-looking, like a Costco's pizza, but not as scary-looking as the (very flat) veggie lasagne I made in the same tin last week. For future reference, double the size of the tin requires double the amount of ingredients.

Minibeasts

I collected Ella from nursery a bit earlier today, but not early enough to avoid her leaving with some fairy bread from the tea trolley. Two slices of the stuff. Fairy bread is another Aussie instituion; it's bread and butter topped with sprinkles (hundreds and thousands). The feckless spread it with Nutella as well. It's evil.

The traffic was worse than usual. It was dark by the time we got to Randwick so I decided to treat us both to having our evening meal in one of the food places on the high street. We parked up and walked hand in hand along the pavement looking for somewhere suitable, which, given that the residue of the fairy bread was on both our clothes, was a pretty big ask.

I've never noticed it before, but when Ella gets excited, she comes out with all sorts of new words and sentences. It's like that scene from ET where he learns to use the Speak and Spell and starts communicating with Gertie. She was beside herself at walking down the high street in the dark, she kept stopping and jumping up and down on the spot looking at her feet. The pavement was really busy and some of the shops were still open. "Look!" she shouted. "Sun gone bed, moon come out!. Oh look! Two dogs! Man got cases! Shoe shop! Got telephone! Just like Ella! Pizza! Cake! Want walk! Hello man! Hello Lady! Ella walking! Bye! See ya later!". She was gorgeous, her face shining, her spotty shirt covered in mess from lunchtime.

We eventually found a pizza joint, the sort of place with an all-round formica kind of feel. The pizza took ages to cook, which gave her the extra time to commit a few more felonies, including throwing an empty can across the room, tipping the pepper onto the table and deliberately dribbling water all down her front. When the food arrived, it was too hot for her so I had to separate the topping from the base and blow furiously. All the while a girl in her twenties watched with interest from the sidelines. I am a one-woman non-stop contraceptive shop.

When we eventually got home I showed her the tin of mini-beasts I got her from Kids Central at Moore Park. I realise now it was a stupid thing to buy. In a country with huntsman spiders living in people's houses, you can't afford to find stuff like this on the floor if you get up for a drink in the night. I might hide them after she's gone to bed.

England vs Australia Part VIII

"I think Australia possibly has more cute animals than Britain. It could sway the decision to emigrate"

"How many does it have?"

"Well there's the possum, koala, bilby and potaroo. The feather-tailed glider, kangaroo, wallaby, quokka, numbat and quoll. Then there's the echidna"

"Oh yes, he's cute, especially the way he walks"

"But not the wombat. And the platypus, fairy penguin, flying fox and kookaburra. That's fifteen".

"What about the UK?"

"The badger, hedgehog, vole and shrew. The rabbit...erm"

"The fox?"

"That's not cute. The otter I suppose. The dormouse. That's only seven".


England 4 Australia 6

England vs. Australia Part VII

The legendary moustacheod cricketer Merv "The Swerve" Hughes greeting you every morning from your box of Kellogg's All Bran. Memories of the 1989 Ashes series, Steve Waugh, Allan Border and Robin Smith's maiden test century (he signed my ticket). Johnners in the commentary box and Fred Trueman carping "line and length". Beefy still threatening to hit the ball onto Warwick Road station.

If you rememeber it too, I'm smiling for you.

England 4, Australia 5

NBF

Kate touched me on the arm as I was about to cross the high street. In a city the size of Sydney, it's unusual to bump into someone you know. It's like when the phone rings and we look at one another and say "who could that be?" with complete conviction.

"Hi Sarah. Listen, thanks for the trip to the park yesterday, we really enjoyed it. It's nice to try somewhere new, I'm useless, I can't read maps so we have to keep going back to the same places".

Kate's been in Sydney for sixteen months. She's lonely. She doesn't have much confidence, I'm her NBF (new best friend).

I thought about the blog and about how shouty and pissed-off I felt yesterday, then I felt bad.

"Let's do it again", I said. "I'll give you a call".

Ladies What Lunch

I used to wonder who these "ladies that lunch" really are. Hanging around Stockton Heath drinking white wine while the rest of us are working, meeting up for a tray of sandwiches after their mid-morning swim at the Park Royal. And then I turned into one. What's next? The vicarage garden party?

I stood in front of the wardrobe wondering what to wear. It came down to a blue hemp skirt (impulse buy, will probably shrink in the wash) and the brown cotton trousers I'd been wearing last night. The latter won, which was unfortunate, because after I'd left the flat I noticed the stain on my right leg where I'd dropped a slice of olive-oil coated tomato the night before. I'll never be sophisticated, for all my Estee Lauder eye-shadow.

Despite her previous procrastinating about Coogee (that it's like Nottingham on a Saturday night), Lynda arranged to meet me at Baruza for lunch, a lovely Italian restaurant with a view of the Pacific and a cracking caesar salad.

"It's to die for" she remarked as she ordered it. "You won't eat for the rest of the day". She was right, it was good, though the penny dropped instantly that thin people stay thin by eating very little; I don't care how big the plate is, lettuce is lettuce is lettuce.

"I'll just have water" she said to the waitress, scotching all my hopes of a nice jug of Pimms and ruling out ice-cream or any other indulgences - there's a certain degree of peer pressure between ladies what lunch but I'd love to see what goes on in private.

It must be nice to be thin, to slide into a belted pair of jeans without having to heave them up across your thighs, (I'm yet to patent the denim shoe-horn, I think it'd catch on), but think of the fun these people are missing, living it up with lettuce and water like a dwarf lop-eared rabbit. It makes you want to scream "live a little! Go on, stick another bar on the gas fire!".

Sheesh.

Anyway, she's booked her flight home, so she doesn't have to worry about spending Christmas in Sydney. "The obese lady is still living in my house in the UK" she said. "I hope she's not wearing out my sofa".

I Don't Like Cricket

no, uh-huh. I love it-cha-uh-huh.

The team is back in town, clutching the world cup. It's serious business; the radio was playing that song and even the Prime Minister is giving statements about it. A civic reception was being held for them in Martin Place but I couldn't stomach it, the smug, sledging, bad-losing ockers that they are.

Not such an Aussie after all then.

More Swearing

The Kyle and Jackie-O Radio Show, 8.45am

K: You know what, TV producers are allowed two f-words per programme

J: Yeah, but the rule doesn't apply to radio broadcasts

K: But doesn't that piss you off?

J: I can't say I give a shit, really

K: I wonder whether, if you don't use them all series, you can save them up and use them all in one go?

Listening to the radio at the traffic lights, I spotted a shop with a poster in the window advertising their "kick-arse" sale of men's jeans. I'm still not acclimatised to this swearing on the radio. It still stops me in my tracks.

Random Driving

I've got the knack of being a mum now. I knew Ella was about to fall asleep in the car, so I removed her shoes and socks. If I forget to do this, the spends a good ten minutes screaming and trying to do it herself and it's impossible to help her when you're driving.

She was asleep within five minutes. We had to head home, I was wearing a white linen shirt which was now covered, literally top to bottom in chocolate ice lolly. I looked such a mess that people were staring at me in the car park. It's not just Ella that needs to carry a change of clothes.

Ten minutes later we arrived home but we couldn't get out because in the time it would take me to get into the flat and fiddle with all the keys, she'd be awake, and I mean awake until bedtime, awake, crying, moaning and demanding. I backed out of the carpark instead and went "random driving", which invariably leads me in the direction of the airport.

The thing is, it's such a miserable situation to be in. You're tired because you've been awake since 5am. You could do with a nap or a sit down with a drink at the very least. You just need a break, but instead you find yourself driving round the city in a sort of zombie state (which leads to inattention at traffic lights - I wonder how many minor accidents are caused by despairing mothers?), worrying that she'll wake up if the car slows down or stops (which she usually does). Every speed hump brings new anxiety, every traffic light fingers crossed. The airport run is great, but only if you happen to turn up at the same time as a plane because you can't actually stop and wait for one. I spotted one today, a 737 taking off, which I managed to watch for about ten seconds before an articulated lorry pulled up alongside and spoiled the view. "That just about sums up my day" I thought.

Eventually we drove round the entire circuit at Centennial Park, which was a mistake because the speed limit is 30km/hour. I now know, to my cost, that Ella's price for sleep is a speed higher than 30. And strictly no stopping.

Toothache

Meet the Wiggles. They've been entertaining the children of Australia for fifteen years with their singing and dancing, crap songs and dubious aquaintances, Dorothy the Dinosaur, Henry the Octopus (who never swims alone, kids), Wag the Dog and Captain Feathersword.

Some days, spending time with a toddler is delightful. They make you laugh with the things they say, the way they run delightedly towards a dog, the faces they make. Those sorts of days don't make interesting reading though. It's the bad days that make a story, the days I call "Toothache" because of the relentless, gnawing demands and tantrums, the endless questions they already know the answer to, then the same questions asked all over again.

On days like these, I thank God for The Wiggles and Timtam biscuits, the only two tricks up the sleeve to buy a few minutes of peace for myself.

It was a gorgeous day today, 24 degrees with an endless blue sky, parrots swooping around. I knew it was going to be a toothache day because Ella woke up at 5am. This isn't a good time for her to wake up, it means she spends the rest of the day tired and grumpy, and given that you've been awake since 5am, you don't have the energy to deal with it in a jolly-mummy kind of way.. It was still dark so she lay in her cot grizzling until twenty to seven, when I gave in and got her up. It's not a very sociable time, 6.40am. Ella wants playdoh or paints almost immediately, I want strong coffee.

I had a plan to take Ella to the beach at Parsley Bay today and get some lunch at the beach kiosk. I phoned Kate to see whether she was free.

Kate's probably not somebody I'd hang out with in the UK. She's nice enough, but she's one of those people who always needs to be a passenger because she can't find her way around. She won't drive on motorways, never comes up with a suggestion. It means always taking a back seat and letting other people do the work, which is tiring if you have to be that other person. She's also the sort who talks and talks on the phone no matter what's going on at your end. Your house could be burning down loudly in the background, complete with sirens, and she'd still crack on with her chattering.

"Yeah" she said "I've got nothing planned, but I don't fancy the beach. Bradley will want to go into the water and I don't want him to get wet, he might get cold feet".

I should have stuck to my guns and gone to the beach alone but I suggested Lyne Park instead. Kate didn't know where it was. "Give me an hour" I said, "I need to have a shower and make a picnic for Ella. I'll phone when I'm leaving and you can follow me". Yep, you can follow me to a place I don't really want to go. I need to learn to say no.

An hour later I phoned her back. The phone rang and rang. I tried again a second and third time. Ella was grizzling, whining, pulling at my trousers so we left the flat and got into the car. I tried Kate a fourth time, drove to the block where she lives and tried again but still no reply, so we drove away. I don't know which flat is hers, I couldn't ring the bell.

She rang me five minutes later, while I was driving. I probably sounded a bit irritated, not least because we were now dressed for the park and not the beach, we didn't have the bucket and spade. I was fed up.

"Sorry, I was on the phone"

"Oh, we're in the car, we're already on Carrington Road"

"You said you'd phone me. I don't know where the park is"

"I rang you five times. I thought you'd gone out. Ella's really grouchy, we needed to get out of the flat"

"Oh, there's no engaged tone on the telephone. It just rings out".

I turned the car back to get her and by the time we got to Lyne Park, Ella was in full-blown crying mode. On the park she insited on carrying a football then got upset because she didn't have her hands free to climb up the ladders. She cried for food then threw it on the floor for the birds. She raided Bradley's sandwich box and started throwing that as well. A cockroach landed on my knee. I shrieked. Kate kept talking.

Eventually I strapped her into the pushchair and we headed for the cafe.

The cafe had no ice-creams, just lollies on sticks, which I bought. Kate was still talking incessantly, Bradley sitting on a chair like an angel, happily licking his lolly. Ella stomped about the cafe with her lolly dripping all over the floor, down her legs, covering her shoes. Listening to Kate and watching Ella left me no further processing capacity with which to read the menu. Instead I pointed randomly at a cheese and ham foccacia on the counter "I'll have one of those, and a long black coffee with milk on the side". It wasn't what I wanted at all.

Ella covered herself in the chocolate lolly and tried to feed it to a shih-tzu while I ate my lunch and responded to Kate's chattering with nods and sympathetic "mmm"s. The dog's American owner started talking to me at the same time, which didn't deter Kate from continuing to bend the other ear. All this between mouthfuls of sandwich and sitting on the edge of my seat in case I needed to leap off and chase Ella. Beam me up scotty.

"Oh by the way, I rang Yvonne. She's meeting us in the park but she might be some time".

"But we've finished in the park" I said. "Ella's in no mood to go back there".

Kate's phone rang. It was Yvonne. Kate handed the phone to me so I could direct her to Lyne Park, still eating my lunch. She arrived half an hour later, at which point I'd truly had enough. "What's up with Ella?" said Yvonne immediately. "I've never seen her so grumpy".

Kate jumped in before I had chance to respond. "You know what, Sarah, you look a bit tense. Perhaps she picks up on that. Perhaps that's why she whinges".

Bankers

There's something seriously amiss in the world of personal banking here in the great southern land. We opened two bank accounts with NAB. First a "cheque" (current) account, followed by a "savings" (current) account, the latter intended for accruing enough money to fund the trips away from Sydney. When you pay by Eftpos (switch), you have to indicate whether the account is cheque or savings to the checkout girl.

Later, we opened a credit card account, just for convenience. I had to go into the branch to collect the card because they wouldn't post it. I couldn't activate the card because I didn't have my passport as identification, so I took my passport to the branch at Bondi Junction, which was closed for refurbishment. The card is still in my purse, unactivated.

You'd think we therefore have three accounts with NAB, but no, we have four accounts because they opened another one by mistake.

The bank's charges include charges to use other banks' ATMs, $5 per month account handling fee, $5 to set up a direct debit, and so on and so on.

Ella's nursery also bank with NAB. We wanted to set up a standing order to pay the fortnightly fees, so we went into the bank. They told us it would be better to do it online, but the fees were due that day, so we asked whether we could transfer some money from our account to theirs. This, apparently, wasn't possible. Instead I had to go out to the cash machine, withdraw the money and rejoin the queue in the bank to pay the money in.

So then we went online to set up the standing order, but the NAB website said we had to do it in the branch. By now, another fortnight had elapsed, so I went back into the branch to set up the standing order, but also to write a cheque and pay it into the nursery's account to pay the fees, which were due again. Paying the cheque into the nursery's account involved lots of form filling and signatures and took about ten minutes.

After that, I asked the bank cashier to set up a standing order. We filled in lots more paperwork so that the first payment could leave the account on April 2nd. And then we were just grateful the whole thing was taken care of.

Last week we received a bill for over $2,000 from the nursery. The fees have not been paid because the bank forgot to set up the standing order. We have to find $2,000, like, now.

Bankers, the lot of them.

Pest Control

Job description : Someone career minded, self-motivated and focussed. Oh yes, and someone who doesn't mind raking the sandpit over for redback spiders. Apparently there's a pest problem at work and I'm the first line of defence.

"We have a few huntsman spiders" says Allanah, my colleague.

"In the garden?"

"No, on the walls, behind the pictures"

"You Aussies are so calm about it, like a nation of Steve Irwins"

"You have to be kidding! We're all terrified of them".

At Ella's nursery, it's ringtail possums in the garden causing a nuisance. We saw one this evening when I collected her - it ran under the table while the kids were having afternoon tea, straight under Ella's chair, brushing her legs. Ella and I are the only ones even slightly interested by this, which the staff find endearing. They're amazed she knows what all the Aussie animals are called. "Yeah" I said, "But she wouldn't know a hedgehog or a badger if she fell over one".