“And in sport, Chris Killen bagged a brace as Celtic downed Todham 2-0 in a pre-season friendly at Wembley last night…”. Todham? Todham? Who the F.C.U.K are Todham? This very piece of ‘sports journalism’ sums up New Zealand’s coverage of the beautiful game – a sign not welcome by yours truly. Incidentally, Chris Killen is a Kiwi, hence the actual coverage itself, but the journalist in question clearly needs to do some research for future reports, especially as the football season is bestowed upon us (it’s been a long summer, or rather a long winter given that I am on the other side of the world).

New Zealand, it must be said, though is trying its hardest to repel my enthusiasm. Unlike Australia, for example, these folk on my current side of the Tasman do not have the ability to show any match they like: Australia, I would argue, has got to be one of the best places in the world to watch the Premier League, despite the at times monumental time difference. The ‘red button’ option in Australia allows the user to watch any game of their choice, but in this neck of the woods there is no red button. Instead, their paltry offer consists of watching those matches that kick-off at the same time as the one match they have decided to show immediately after. They literally have no clue about the significance of football – who wants to watch a delayed version of a match? It’s all about the here and now with football and not two hours later when you already know the result.

Furthermore, there is only one 24-hour pub in Auckland, so this has become my new place of worship come the early morning kick offs (add 11 hours to BST kick off times to see what I mean). Amusingly, there is a sports bar located near us in the city – a title that in my opinion it should be stripped of: the blackboard outside boasts that they show live sport, but as I strolled past it this week in my attempt to find a pub for Tottenham’s first game of the season the very same board, under the title of ‘this week’s action’, read: ‘live football – delayed coverage of the English Premiership’. Don’t make me laugh! Don’t waste my time either!

Therefore, I decided to watch Tottenham’s first game of the season against Liverpool in the only pub that allowed me. (Luckily, this happens to be my local anyway, but I’m limited for choice – especially as it’s a bit of stroll home at 5am). That night, prior to our match against Liverpool was the Manchester United game, and I decided to meet my Irish friend, Connor, for it. (I bet you can’t guess who he supports?) Personally, I think he took what greeted us very well – a group of intoxicated people hogging the karaoke machine. Is there anything more annoying than a pissed person who clearly cannot sing attempting to do so? Yes. It’s a group of pissed people who all get their own microphone and attempt to sing in harmony. The noise was dreadful (not as bad as my pet hates – wind chimes and bag pipes, but it wasn’t far below), and they sung throughout the entire game. Luckily, the barman insisted that they shut up for the start of the Tottenham game (3am – haven’t this people got homes to go to?) and we managed to watch our compelling and comprehensive victory in peace.

Just like its football coverage, a number of other aspects of New Zealand life are lurking in the Dark Age. It seems that not a week goes by without me thinking: ‘that wouldn’t happen in England, or anywhere else the real world for that matter’. Take, for example, the rudimentary issue of obtaining a visa debit card. Because of my nationality I am not entitled to one, however Lysey is. In this country those with permanent residency rights’ or natives are allowed a flexible friend of the very variety, and for all the others it’s a ‘hard luck’. Of course, being British I am bound to rack up a mountain of debt and flee the country without paying anything back!

There are other examples: I am currently on a pay-as-you-go contract with Vodafone, and every month I am sent an email of my bill, which gives me a week or so to pay in order to continue with my current deal. Printing it out, I made haste to our nearest Vodafone store to pay (in cash of course because I cannot be trusted with a visa debit card), but could I pay my Vodafone monthly bill here? Of course I couldn’t – that would require something that most people refer to as common sense. Instead, the customer service-shy people at my nearest store demanded that I had to go to a Post Office to pay my phone bill. Obvious, really.

There are others. Since my last update I have landed a few more temporary roles, most of which have been supplied by one employment agency (read on to see what other depressing errands they have sent me on). Before embarking on any work, one is required to fill out a tax form and to also supply the necessary bank details in order to get paid. Well, as I was eagerly awaiting my first pay packet I had a phone call from the agency in question asking me to ‘pop in and supply an official bank statement with my personal account information’. Apparently, this is a standard requirement in New Zealand; in order to receive your payment you need to provide something official with your bank information – just to verify the information you have provided. Oh please! As if I am going to provide the incorrect bank information. If anything, this is the one section that I can guarantee will be correct.

Finally, as money has been hard to come by, one of our main sources of entertainment has come either via the telly or the internet. (It’s also usually raining or biting cold come the weekend.) The latter, it has to be said, is like pulling teeth: trying to connect to the internet in the evening in Auckland is like trying to crack the Da Vinci code. It seems that if more than three people in the city try to log on at once the system goes into overload, making Skype conversations, or anything else for that matter, a near on impossibility. (The best time I have found is in the middle of the day, say around 1pm NZ local time. That means people back home, such as you mum and dad, we need to speak at 2am your end if you want a fluent conversation from me – and one that doesn’t consist of constant expletives from me aimed at the telecommunications of New Zealand). Of the former, originality and New Zealand television are like chalk and cheese; they import a lot of shows from Britain, including the dreadfully benign Allstar Mr and Mrs. Of the five minutes I caught of this abysmal Saturday night show they were focusing on Wendy Richards and her partner. How long has she been dead? I am sure there will be more anomalies of every day life as I see it in New Zealand in my next update.

Moving on. Since arriving in Auckland we have been on the search for a new property, with a number of factors behind the house search: the building site opposite is a blot on the landscape, and as much as the scaffolding poles act as an eyesore, the on-going hammering is unbearable; the neighbours above seem to be running their own private gym as we’re convinced the tenants are lifting weights and then dropping them from a great height above; finally, with the 2011 Rugby World Cup due to be held in New Zealand, plans are afoot to expand the appalling public transport system (it will take longer than two years, believe me) and one of the projects include expanding an existing motorway exit to one of Auckland’s major roads. We happen to live beside that major road.

We have been here for over two months, so as one can imagine we have seen a fair share of apartments. Most of them have either been vastly overpriced, or are simply not an improvement one what we currently reside in (despite the aforementioned problems). However, from what was proving to be a fruitless task (most decent apartments were snapped up within hours of appearing on estate agents’ websites, usually by the growing number of students who call Auckland home) we came across a gem of a place, located about ten minutes by foot from our current digs. Our new abode will cost us the same in rent but for our bread we also gain a gym and a swimming pool. A picture really is worth a thousand words, and if you want to see our new place contact me and I’ll send you the link. (I refuse to publish my new address online).

In reference to the ‘dreadful errands’ that I have been sent on since my last update, I have been reading about the recession and the inevitable affects in has on the population. Experts in this corner of the world are urging people to partake in work that in essence is deemed a step down, just to make ends meet and to avoid signing on. That message, I feel, can be laid down to almost the entire western world, for we’ve all got outgoings to contend with. From a personal point of view, I have no issue with people signing on – all of us have different circumstances to contend with, but I would need to be deep in the proverbial to consider such a move. Besides, because of who I am New Zealand will not like me sponge off the system. (I have never had this confirmed, but I don’t care – I’m not that sort of person).

In order to help myself I have been dotted around a few various supermarkets of the city. My first stint, a three-day effort as that was what I was required for, was simply tidying up and stacking shelves. Apparently, the head honcho was due in town, so therefore I, plus a dozen others of various nationalities (including a Welsh chap who constantly cracked me up. I have very little time for whingers, but whenever I hear someone with a deep Welsh accent moaning I fail to hide my amusement) were doing just that. Because of our status of being disposable staff, I find that in some circumstances those who are actually full time members of the establishment feel they have carte blanche to talk to us however they like. One particular tosser, a Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons lookalike, tried this game with me.

Considering I take no enjoyment from this line of work I simply keep my head down, work hard as I find time goes quicker when doing so and communicate with as few as people as required. Doing just that, one afternoon this cartoon character lookalike of a colleague approached me in his own imitable way and pointed out that someone had spilt a carton of milk on the floor. His ‘oi, come here’ approach didn’t impress me; neither did his expectation that I was expected to clean up the mess. Of course, I told him to ‘feck off’, to which he replied that he was one of the assistant managers in the store and I have to follow his instructions. I don’t feel bad or sorrow for my outburst, and I got on with the job begrudgingly, but he never spoke to me like that again. Lysey suggested that because I was only here for a few days I should have sucked it up and got on with the job with no questions asked. I retaliated by stressing that if you let jumped up little fleas like this moron get away with their behaviour then they’ll keep going.

That particular chap, along with the majority of the other staff, could have applied to appear in Eastenders as no one smiled. For the record, I have no problem cleaning up any mess – as long as I created it. I do have an issue cleaning up someone else’s however – especially if they address me as such. After my outburst the idiot in question informed me that a customer had in fact spilt the milk, but I have serious suspicions about his claim.

Luckily that role only lasted a few days, but I have since been based at another supermarket, but in a different capacity – and on a different shift. My new role is that of a refurbishing one; this very supermarket is knocking down all its dilapidated shelves and coming into the 21st century (perhaps another anomaly of New Zealand life as this place was based in a time warp), and because of the inconvenience we would cause to the customers our work begins at past tea time with a completion time set for breakfast. Personally, I am surprised that the health inspectors haven’t closed the store as the place is a literal dump! I have been there for just under a fortnight, but within that time the tables in the canteen haven’t been wiped down once. The shop floor itself isn’t much better, and as for the toilets….

It must be said, I am not the biggest fan of working nights. Many moons ago when I was back home I did indeed work nights, but a totally innocuous remark put an abrupt end to that. Whenever departing the office having worked a 9-5 it’s customary to say something along the lines of: ‘Have a good evening – I shall see you tomorrow’. In this very role I muttered words to that affect, to which I was instantly corrected as the recipient of my jocular statement stated: “Don’t you mean tonight?” That was the straw that broke the camel’s back; this person was correct, as you do not have a life as you are literally at work day in, day out. You finish early in the morning only to be back at work that very evening.

Moreover, not only does it mess up ones social life, but it also plays havoc with the following daily rigours. As I am temping I am still in the process of applying for jobs, but by the time I wake up the very thought of completing application forms is the last thing on my mind. By the time the brain kicks into action I am then back at work. (Then I go back to a vegetable state as it’s very boring, but plans are afoot to fix the situation. Apparently the same agency has a few ‘suitable’ roles lined up for me that will put me back on a day shift).

The role is physically demanding, but it’s hardly challenging. Relating to the expert view on the recession and taking a step backwards in order to make ends meet, I am working alongside a qualified teacher, a bank manager and a civil engineer. As for the remaining other 37 people, I have no clue what they actually do as I simply don’t speak to them. (Blame the language barrier as the majority of them are from Samoa and they all seem to keep to themselves).

The only challenging aspect of the job came on its very first night. The agency left me under the illusion that I would be working from 9pm to 8am – a 10.5 hour shift every night. What they failed to mention, however, was that they actually send people home once all the work for the night is completed. Raging as it had just turned 3am, I explained to the lady that the shambles of a set up was not good enough as I had no notification that this could happen. I further explained that the last bus stopped running at 9.30pm and the first one in the morning was at 5.30am. She didn’t care, and I knew she wouldn’t do anything about it, but I wanted to vent my frustration on someone. Luckily, however, I managed to sponge a lift that night. For the rest of the duration of the project, finishing early has been a constant issue, but I have been fortunate enough to get a lift home with a variety of people as the 5-6 km walk home at night really doesn’t appeal. I was once told not to get in a car with a stranger, but since working there I have travelled with a Kiwi, a Chinese lad and a couple of South Africans.

On the potential threat of get kidnapped, I have also worked with the Afghans again who run the Persian rug company, mainly moving rugs and setting up their shop display. My facetious remark solely relates to the concerns of Lysey, who found it dodgy that I was initially expected to work at 11pm on a Sunday night. (The Sunday night shift never matierialised though, but instead I have worked a few Monday mornings for them, usually starting about 7am and finishing anytime after midday.) I appreciate her concern, but I found it a little OTT. I told her that if I appear online, donning an all-in-one orange jumper suite pleading for the Allies to retreat from Afghanistan with Arabic writing in the background she should be worried. Until I appear on Al-Jazerra news she should trust my instincts. Furthermore, the people who run the organisation are excellent, although they could pay more money as I often leave with my back in knots.

Finally on all things work related, that role that I had been waiting so patiently for (the role that was working for a company that dealt with computers, or a computer that deals with companies – the information was ambiguous at best) has failed to materialise. I have a sour taste in my mouth about the whole incident – one that tastes of unprofessionalism from the agency’s part. They have strung me along all this time, meaning I had rejected a few alternative roles as this particular job promised to last a substantial amount of time. The cowboys in question, and in particular the cowgirl who dealt with me, really do not know their asses from the elbows (or as I heard the other day, shit from clay) so I take pleasure in having no more dealings with them. (In Australia, the very same agency was also shocking: they are run by literal morons it seems).

Finally, since my last update I have not been all work (well, temporary work) and a dull boy, as I have actually maintained a social life. One particular highlight came on Saturday (8/08) when Lysey, courtesy of the powers that be in her hotel, arranged a free harbour cruise for the both of us. The trip lasted for nearly two hours, and in that time we toured the harbour itself; paid a visit to Rangatou Island (an island made up of volcanic activity – a first for me); sailed past the stunning Waiheke Island (there’s lots to see and do here – so much so that we’re planning on returning come the summer months. Bike hire is available and offers the best mode of transport to see the World War II caves), and strolled under the Harbour Bridge (it’s no Sydney, but the architecture – a 1.6km long bridge, was impressive nonetheless despite its dull grey exterior) – all of which was accompanied by an in-depth commentator. From the commentators readings’ I established that Auckland is colloquially referred to as The City of Sails, mainly because one in five people here own a boat. Moreover, one in three have access to a boat. Both Lysey and I fit into neither demographic, plus we know of no one who owns or has access to a boat. Lies, dam lies, and statistics. Nevertheless, nice trip.

Of his time in New Zealand, Charles Darwin commentated: “I believe we were all glad to leave New Zealand. It was not a pleasant place”. Of Australia, he also said: “Nothing but sharp necessity would induce me to immigrate” (1836) Clearly, he’s a hard man to please – and if I am honest, when I initially landed in Australia I shared them same mindset as the man who is donned on the £10 note. (As it currently stands, I am echoing his New Zealand sentiments, too). However, my mind opinion of Australia drastically changed, and I am hopeful that the same will happen now I’m on the other side of the ditch.

Could you imagine going backpacking ‘Down Under’ with Charlie? He would have been a nightmare, what with his flagrant disregard for all things Australasian, and his frequent ability to slag everything off. However, having ventured to our weekly pub quiz sojourn, I understand that he did refer to the Samoan Islands as the ‘Friendly Isles’. Apparently, the people there were just that – friendly, so maybe he’s not that hard to please after all. (By the way, we got that question right, but flunked the others at the quiz).

Moving on, and if Darwin was here today I am sure he would have something biting to say about this, I can now tell people that I have been present in a country that has been hit by an earthquake (15/7). 30 km’s off the south west coast of New Zealand, a quake measuring 7.8 on the Richter Scale had us shook up and consequently, a tsunami warning was issued for this part of the world. (South island New Zealand, Tasmania, and the south east coast of Australia – Victoria and NSW – were on high alert). Auckland, located north of the north island felt nothing, but those in southern cities such as Queenstown reported shaking and all the other symptoms that go with a quake of such magnitude. Luckily, no damage was reported either from the quake or the tsunami itself, but I am still going to tell my grandchildren that I have been in a country where an earthquake has struck. (When both Mike and I were in Bangkok all those moons ago, there was a quake in Laos, near its capital city Vientienne, but we felt nothing despite aftershocks apparently ringing through Thailand at the time. Of course, I cannot claim that as ‘being in a country that has been hit by an earthquake’, but ironically, Vientienne and Bangkok are probably closer in distance than that of Auckland and the south west of New Zealand.)

From all my irreverent procrastinating, you have probably guessed that I am still unemployed. Believe me, measure have been taken, and are afoot, to fix the situation, but so far I have found little glee in my search. One possible glimmer of hope, however, lies in a role that I applied for several weeks ago (1/7). It’s what I would class as a long-term assignment (it could potentially last for several months depending on the work flow), but the job details are still a little sketchy. (I think I’ll be contacting clients about the company, or the company about clients - I don’t know). I think I can safely say, however, that it won’t be rocket science, or nearly as exciting as working with rockets, but it appeals as it’s one of only a handful of roles that does not discriminate against my nationality.

Personally, I understand where the companies who have rejected me are coming from. Not only have they got to invest time, effort and resources into me for any given role, they also know that 12 months’ down the line I will be off to pastures new. Given the current climate, whom do you think a company is going to employ? A non-native backpacker or a Kiwi?

However, I do not want this to be seen as an excuse. I have applied, and have continued to apply, for jobs on a daily basis. Furthermore, the aforementioned role, where I was informed that ‘I should expect a call towards the end of the month (I am still waiting) confirming my start date’ saw over 120 people apply. They’re currently looking for a dozen people or so, but I was told in the interview that this scenario is reflective of the current market. My fingers are crossed that this agency delivers the goods, but given the delay, and the tone of the interviewee during our meeting, I am not sure of a positive outcome. (This person, in their characteristically haphazardous way, told me to my face that the company ‘are not going to get the best (staff) for the money on offer’. There’s a sure fire way to give yours truly a confidence lift).

I haven’t taken that jibe personally. (Not because this very person had the professionalism of a goose, but because life’s too short.) Moreover, I have actually landed some temporary work – labouring at a nearby location. The role is still in its infancy (and it’s due to end soon, but I am awaiting confirmation for a date), but I spend most of my days generally looking busy (the orders from the boss, so it’s practically legal) and dodging authority (which sort of ties in with the bosses orders’). I have encountered a few jobsworths to contend with, but generally speaking I am feeling pretty happy to have a reason to rise in the morning. Furthermore, the notion of getting paid, although it’s an experience I last encountered a few months ago, will make the efforts even more worthwhile.

Finally on all things monetarily related, up until now, I was yet to suffer at the hands of the recession. In Australia, for example, everything was easy, as I always felt safe and secure in my state government role. This assumption was loosely based on the knowledge that working in the public sector often means there is no boss loitering with the sword of Damocles waiting to swoop in order to appease the balance sheet. (The taxpayer, after all, was funding my way in life. Luckily, the lack of accountability in such tumultuous times worked in my favour). A recently related article about the stresses and affects of the ‘economic slowdown’ caught my attention, but the source and the exact numbers escape me: apparently, (and all the findings are based on a Western society) suicides and stress related incidents are vastly up, but road related accidents are down because fewer people can afford to drive. Although times are tough, I am not at any of the stages pointed out in the article (or will I ever be – the football season is just around the corner and that’s bound to cheer me up. If, however, my team flops again, hopefully the promise of that role arises).

Before the beginning of my temporary assignment, my days had been long, often boring affairs. (With no Lysey to play with I can retrace the entire daytime TV schedule) As it’s both cold and wet at the moment, free daytime activities are in short supply. However, now that the Ashes have begun, my nocturnal manoeuvres have compromised of either visiting the nearest watering hole or listening to the coverage online. Of all the times I have ventured to the pub, a favourite night of mine was when I, plus a group of five of us, began speaking to a pair of Australians and a random English chap.

This random English chap informed me that he had in fact only popped out for a quiet pint while his wife put his kids to bed. Well, five hours later, plus a satisfyingly amount of beer and 3.30 am was upon us and this bloke was a complete mess. As he left the pub that night he stumbled into the bar, such was his state; he would have felt awful in the morning, as I wasn’t feeling too sharp myself. I would have loved to see him justify his movements to his other half the next day. As I am usually the only one in the pub at 10pm wanting to watch the cricket, I was enjoying the company. Moreover, because a few Aussies were in attendance, we proceeded to celebrate the fact that they were getting a heavy tonking.

I have, however, begun a bit of a health kick, not only to balance my binge behaviour, but because I enjoy partaking in some rigorous exercise. Near to our house is a park that has a 1km circumference, and to my amazement I have been looping that at ease. (8km first day – take that). All of my efforts, however, started in earnest, and in completely inadvertently, largely thanks to my fantastic mother. A while ago she sent me a parcel, and included in that parcel was a few things I have been patiently waiting for. Well, sadly the parcel was too big for our letter box, so I decided to make the 14 km round trip walk to the sorting office to pick it up. (I had no idea it was such a distance)

Before setting off I made myself a rough map but I soon realised that my directions were completely whack. At this very time the rain was becoming more persistent, but I persevered with the trip so I could get my hands on the parcel. Taking refuge at almost every bus stop I came across, however, I managed to re-evaluate my trip by referring to their route map, and luckily I finally found the depot. Of course, I did not envisage the trip would take so long (1.5 hours each way), so imagine my fury when I rocked up at the post office to find out the parcel was still in transit and that it wouldn’t return for another three hours’ (it was about 2pm at the time). Image further my anger when I found out that the parcel I was hoping to retrieve wasn’t the one at the depot – it was in fact a credit card for Lysey.

So, I hastily made my way home where I found a notice on our communal board from a neighbour who notified the whole world that he had a parcel for me as it was mistakenly addressed to his apartment. He had received a letter from the postal service informing him that the letter was too big for the box so he needed to contact them and arrange for it to be sent elsewhere or to be picked up in person. This chap, as it happens, was expecting a parcel too, so anticipating that mine was his, he rang them and ordered that the parcel be sent to his mothers place – located in southern Auckland. However, the parcel wasn’t for him and, to compound my frustration further, he wasn’t going to head to his mum’s place for another week, so therefore, it took over three weeks for the parcel to arrive.

I was pretty angry and the air was blue, what with all the slanderising that was being aimed at Courier Post from yours truly. However, it has since come to my attention that mother dearest did in fact put the incorrect apartment number on the parcel. I have since calmed down though, especially as mother included lots of quality goodies. (Cheers, mum, you are the best).

Like the ying and yang of life, I take happiness in knowing I have a job. Like the ying and yang of life, however, I become unhappy if this job turns out to be not what I expected. (Deep!)

Having arrived some two weeks ago, I have been frantically searching Auckland for work. My usual avenues of potential employment have been exploited: the internet, job agencies, newspapers, hostels (I have stayed in more than enough of these to realise they’re a great source of casual work), and to my pleasure, I thought I had landed on my feet (26/6). One recruitment agency gave me a role working for an internationally recognised telephone network, where I was basically going to be dealing with a new project by updating records of customers’ requests and suchlike.

However, after two days’ training it became clear that I was in fact going to be carrying out what I classify as one of the most demoralising roles in the work market –call centre work. Firstly, nothing is beneath me when it comes to work as I will do almost anything for money (flexible, I know, but I need something to keep me occupied as New Zealand daytime TV is even worse than the British equivalent). However, call centre work, in my eyes, is just pretentious and patronising. Putting on a ‘customer service pitched voice’, declaring your intentions and then only to have either the phone slammed down on you or to receive a barrage of abuse isn’t for me.

Aware of the reality that jobs are scarce in this part of the world, I felt lower than the proverbial snake when I told them I couldn’t work there anymore. I refused to communicate with Lysey as I went over the ramifications of my decision, and it was probably the lowest I have felt since I left England some two-and-a-half years ago. If I had continued in the role I know I would have become a grumpy, bordering on angry, person and Lysey doesn’t deserve that. Moreover, I am on a working holiday visa so my personal happiness is paramount, too.

I have since managed to get that chin of mine up, even though I am still unemployed. However, measures, not to dissimilar to those already outlined, have been taken and I am hoping on a result of sorts soon. I have signed up with four agencies so far, some good and some bad, plus I have applied for umpteen jobs online.

Out of the employment agencies that I have signed up with (plans are afoot to sign up with more), two of them remain to be my best possible hope. Out of the others, one I think I may have already alienated (they shouldn’t have given me a call centre role), and the other didn’t fulfil me with any great hope. The latter deals solely with labour employment, and admittedly so, to look at I am not the stockiest of people. Therefore, whenever I go for roles that require me to apply some elbow grease, I am always greeted with stares of amusement. Firstly, the starer will look me up and down, and secondly, he would attempt to give me the cold shoulder by declaring something like: “It’s hard work here – can you hack it?” Right on cue, this happened to me when I went to sign up with the latter agency.

Pre-empting their response, I answered all their questions. However, I am currently awaiting my IRD number (my tax number), but synonymously with New Zealand, things here take about two weeks to complete. (We’ve just got online, for example, despite applying almost two weeks ago. Moreover, our ‘internet connection’ is terribly weak, so we’re awaiting a ‘booster ariel ‘ to make things faster. I predict it will arrive in August!) Without the tax number, if I was to work for the aforementioned agency I would be deducted about half my hourly wage (it’s the same if I was to work elsewhere, but the point I am trying to illustrate is that the wages with this agency were scandalously low - $12.50 an hour to be precise. If I translate this amount to British sterling I would be on a whopping £4.80 an hour. Don’t forget, though, I am still without my IRD number, so I would need to half that generous wage once more. Note to self, stop translating wages and get an IRD number)

In my defence, I have applied for my tax number. In order to obtain one of these beauties, though, one is needed to produce two forms of ID. Exhibit A was easy – a passport would suffice, but exhibit B was tricky: they take anything with a New Zealand seal of approval (like a student card for example) or an international driving license. Considering I hold neither of those, I had to wait until I had a ‘letter of employment’ - my final hope as I am not in a position to gain anything else they would have accepted. Well, those two days at the unnamed phone company were useful as I managed to obtain a letter of employment. However, I am still awaiting my tax number despite applying for it last week (26/6) where I paid $10 to speed up the delivery process. According to the not-so-helpful-chap at the AA office (he was very blunt and even ruder) ‘I was going to receive it in 48 hours’, but 120 hours later I am still waiting. (Like I said, New Zealand likes to take its time)

Harping back to my work flexibility, the opportunity arose last Wednesday (1/7) for me to demonstrate it. Scouring the local hostels for any sniff of work, I had a stroke of luck when I walked into one based in Auckland CBD (what did I say about them?); as soon as I clambered up the stairs I was greeted by a demanding receptionist who enquired if I was after any work. After removing my headphones, my ears soon pricked up as he went on to explain the role. For that very afternoon a chap named Shawn was after a few men to lug Persian carpets.

There was no Shawn (I don’t know who he was and I never found out), but instead I, plus an Argentinean and an Israeli guy, worked with a family of Afghans who had a company selling the aforementioned front room luxury. Our job was to load up a lorry with the rugs and then unload it at the other end. It took us about five hours in total and I must have shifted over 200 carpets during that time. I must say, though, it was rewarding to get paid for a job well done. (My last such experience of this was back in April).

I was grateful to have something that was going to fill my time that afternoon. (This was just one day after leaving the call centre role, and I was still feeling down about things.) Like I said, I am desperate for something to keep me occupied. Furthermore, I have the routine outgoings to contend with so I obviously need the income. Recently, I caught a television show about the recession in New Zealand; the program was rather upbeat about the situation and it concluded with the advice to remain positive as markets fluctuate and things will get better. I am taking solace in that statement.

Lysey, by stark comparison, has found work already. She’s started a role for the same hotel brand that she worked for in Australia (24/6). I am happy for her as she hasn’t got the uncertainty of the temping world to deal with (plus we have one income coming in, but I am not going to be a kept man), but prior to landing this role she did apply to a few agencies about a variety of different roles. Amusingly, she informed me of one interview she had with an agency about a hotel role; before the interview began she offered her hand to the interviewee, but this person rejected her handshake, simply because of the fear of catching swine ‘flu. The hype in this corner of the world seems to be dying down (nobody has rejected my hand at any interview, but three people have died this weekend because of the virus) but I found this measure to be rude. If someone took this step with me I would be tempted to cough for the duration of the interview. Then again, I am unemployed, so maybe I would think twice. Still, I thought it was ridiculous.

Despite our financial situation (and this was before Lysey landed her role – 20/6) we decided that we owed ourselves a night on the tiles, just so we could have some fun, see the nocturnal activities that Auckland has to offer, and forget about our worries for the evening.

Whenever Lysey and I go out as a couple we often question who could get the most drinks bought for them if we had a competition. Of course, I never put a wager on this as I am a male and being one means that I am aware of the potential intentions of the buyer. (Call it a stereotype, but I am also of the knowledge that a man is more likely to part with his cash to buy a lady a drink rather than the other way around.) This night, however, we did set a challenge of sorts – who could get the first friend. At the time, we only knew each other, so we were very interested in stretching our social circle to more than the two of us. (It has since doubled in size, all because of Lysey’s workmates. Wednesday night is our regular quiz night at our local watering hole, The Albion, where our team seems to grow a new member each week.)

Anyway, to our amazement, we found some joint joy at our first port of call – an Irish bar in the city. Pulling the pints that night was an Irish chap called Conner, who we subsequently got speaking to. He too had travelled and as a result he knew no one within the vicinity. Therefore, he asked for our number, all with the intention of arranging a beer or five. (I gave him mine as Lysey didn’t know hers at the time) However, he’s turned out to be just like all the rest of them: he hasn’t called, he hasn’t text, he hasn’t written (why would he have written? He didn’t get our address, but you see my point). Timewaster! Maybe he was after Lysey’s number instead.

In 1977 Fleetwood Mac graced the charts with ‘You can go your own way’, and just like their number one hit, I’ve done just that. Granted, I could have made an earlier update, but I went my own way and was busy tying up loose ends in Sydney before Lysey and I departed Australia. Since then, we’ve experienced the land of smiles (Thailand, Bangkok to be precise) and we’ve spent a few weeks in the land of bad teeth (England, and good old Taunton predominantly), and now we’re in the youngest country on the planet, New Zealand (Auckland to be exact). I’ll get to the latter later, where I’ll end my writing in the present. This is where I vow to remain from now on.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience Australia for almost two years (23 months and three days to be precise) so I won’t go into too much detail about my final days there. Instead, I’ll summarise: I landed my tax rebate from K. Rudd (that was unexpected, but I was $900 richer as a result); I agreed to paint Lysey’s nan’s house as my main source of income (it took me 8 days. Michelangelo took over three years to make the Statue of David, who’s the best? He is, probably, simply because he finished it. I didn’t/couldn’t as I was uncomfortable on the ladder); I almost fried in my new role (I clipped the main wire going into the roof of the house with a metal ladder. Luckily, a rubber covering on the top of the ladder saved me. My tradie days as a consequence are at an end); I learnt how to use eBay (I raised over $180 selling my junk, which included a wooden clothes frame I found in our back garden. I landed $50 for that bad boy alone). Finally, Lysey graduated. (She now has a degree in something. It’s a BA in commerce, majoring in marketing and management – well done, I was very proud of her).

There was a whole lot more than happened, but as it was so long ago, who cares? Prior to our trip to England, we had booked a five-night sojourn in Bangkok, where we planned to meet up with a few mates and generally relax before the fun of England. Well, we managed to catch up with a few mates, but relax? You’re having a laugh – this trip proved to be an experience, which sadly left a bad taste in the mouths of both Lysey and myself.

Mildly put, Lysey was taken to the police station while in Bangkok, accused of stealing a packet of mints. The whole experience shook her up, so much so that the whole incident still plays on her mind. (I’ve tried to lighten the mood many a time about the whole situation, trying in my own imitable way of making a mockery of the situation, but to little avail) The nuts and bolts of the story are that Lysey, while out with her friend Susan, was in a 7/11 when an argument ensued about one of them being short changed. (At the time I was tucked up in bed. Lysey, fair play to her, took me home by about 9.30pm as I was smashed. Stupid buckets!) As the argument developed Lysey headed out of the door, only to find someone had planted a packet of mints in her bag: conveniently for the conniving swines, the police were also present, meaning she was taken to the station. She was part of a massive set up and I’m led to believe the other shoppers all framed her. It’s scandalous to think this would happen, especially as the mints cost something like 20bath (about 40pence).

Fast asleep and completely out of it, I was awoken by an understandably hysterical Susan who tried to relay the whole incident to me. Given my state and the fact she was making little sense, I initially didn’t believe her - and I was probably too frank with my dismissals. Nonetheless, she managed to convince me that I was needed – as was my wallet (my wallet? That sums up the entire situation), so I left the room wearing what I slept in plus a singlet (a vest to all you non-Aussies), which was classy.

Lysey’s plight was becoming more and more clear to me as we left the hotel, but it didn’t stop us initially taking a wrong turn and heading the opposite way of the police station. Maybe I should have used this time to compose myself, as when I rocked up to the police station I told them what I thought: I am not proud of my actions, or my words, and with hindsight I definitely made the situation worse. Still, it didn’t stop me calling this roly-poly policeman a ‘corrupt bastard’, who came from a ‘corrupt country’. It got worse as I said to him ‘f*** your country and f*** you’.

This policeman, who just shook his head (he looked like Harold Bishop with all his double chins), was pleased to let me through to the interview room, just so he could get away from me. Once in, I found the shop attendant from the 7/11, about four policemen, and a distraught Lysey who was trying to calm me down. Rightly fuming, I laid into everyone in the room, telling them what I thought of their justice system. Looking back, I feel ashamed as my priority should have been consoling Lysey. In the midst of all the shouting, Lysey informed me that they wanted money – and 8000 baht of it. (Fair play to her – she talked them down from 10,000 baht, or 200 quid. This admission just further highlights how corrupt they were acting.)

As I made haste to the ATM, I had to pass the fat policeman who had been on the receiving end of my vitriolic abuse. Not looking into anything, he was waiting outside along with two other officers now. With the vein in my forward still bulging, I couldn’t resist another dig, but they beat me to it – literally. My remarks had earnt me a kick to the legs, which knocked me off my feet, plus a couple of punches to the head. I immediately leapt to my feet and said: “Do you want your money or not?” They left me alone after that.

I returned with the money, and as soon as I strolled into the interview room I slammed my wallet down on the desk. I had decided to withdraw 10,000bath, plus I already had a couple of thousand baht in there from my night out, so I had more than enough. Acting like a cocky git full of emotion and alcohol, I proceeded to empty my entire wallet on the desk and count out 8000baht in front of them, making sure they saw me put away the remaining few thousand.

All this happened on our penultimate night, and prior to this corruption we had all enjoyed our time in and around Bangkok. Our days were largely spent relaxing with a few beers beside the hotel pool and our nights out saw us take in a different restaurant each evening, followed by one or ten sociables. The one day we did venture out of the city saw us head to the floating market, roughly a 1.5 hour drive from the capital.

I would guess that you could literally find anything you desired in the floating markets. There was stall upon stall, both in the water and on terra firma, where they were selling anything from food spices, to knick-knacks, to clothes. The water was bustling with boats trying to get each passenger to as many stalls as possible on the convoluted water. As there was no traffic system in place (I did spot some water police doing the rounds, however, acting in an authoritative manner trying to direct the boats) we were told to keep our fingers inside the boat as they always collide. Indeed, I do not speak Thai, but I sensed there was a lot of road rage (or water rage I should say) going on. Our three hours or so spent there were highly enjoyable; both Lysey and I bought a set of paintings for our new pad in Auckland.

Come the end of our brief stay, though, we were both happy to be leaving Thailand. Despite what happened with Lysey, my views on Thailand won’t change: I have had some amazing experiences there, and the people are really easy going and helpful. I won’t let the actions of a few corrupt bastards diminish my memories. Moreover, out of the few Thai friends I have made, they were all embarrassed and comforting towards Lysey. They know the actions of the police were not uncommon; furthermore, they know it’s their actions that tarnish the great country that is Thailand. Nonetheless, I was happy for Lysey that we were off to pastures new. Personally, I was delighted as I was going home!

My pledge that I was going to wear flip-flops for the duration of my stay in England (we landed on May 12th and departed June 7th) lasted for about 12 hours. I was under the impression that Blighty would be warm – how wrong could I have been, initially? I must admit, and I was proud of this – just so I could show Skippy (Lysey took on a new pseudonym for our stay) that England, come the end was capable of a ‘summer’. (I’ll still take your 25 degrees and raise it 10, making it slightly uncomfortable, but the standard temperature for Australia). Nonetheless, the change in temperature didn’t prevent me from picking up a respiratory tract infection, or a snotty cold, as I’d like to call it. This also meant I had to embrace my phobia of the doctor, something I was delighted about. (But I’ll explain more later).

There were many highlights of our stay in England. Catching up with the family, listening to the banter, experiencing some of mother’s home cooking (she was on top form in every sense) and generally chilling out in their presence was better than I thought. The saying you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone definitely springs to mind. The same can also be applied to my mates – going out and around town (I have never been so generous in my praise about a night out in Taunton since I was 16 – and I did this on more than one occasion), going to the cricket, watching the cricket with my brother, being passive while my other brother watched Jeremy Kyle, going to the pub with the team to play pool, going for lunch with nan, or just catching up in general was great. (I could name you all, but I’d fear I’d miss someone out) Sadly, I could have done more with them – especially my friends, but we both had a full-on itinerary that included a trip to London to see some of Lysey’s mates, and we also had family excursions such as a trip to the zoo in Paignton to fit in. (My dad would argue that our itinerary was anything but ‘full-on’. Many a time he would comment how we did nothing with our days apart from spend them around the house. He was right, to a degree, but we also had to work on a budget. Moreover, we were both happy to spend time with the family.)

We were also able to meet, for the first time, my nephew, Samuel. I would like to say we bonded really well. I’d also like to think I was a natural with him. I do know one definite thing though; I have been put off being a father for the foreseeable. Seriously, watching Sam’s mum in action on a daily basis hasn’t inspired me to raise the subject of the patter of tiny feet with Lysey.

Sadly, there were low points. Prior to departing Sydney, I was informed of some news regarding my dad. Personally, I feel uncomfortable divulging too much information on here, (it strikes me as being insensitive) plus I am the sort of person who feels comfortable keeping things to myself. It still plays on my mind, but I, and the rest of the family, am hoping for a positive outcome. Furthermore, Lysey had to return home early because of a family bereavement. I was gutted for Skippy as we had planned our trip for such a long time, but I fully understood her decision to return. At the time we still had another week together where we planned to see Cornwall; she was initially due to leave England on the 4th to spend a few days in Singapore with Susan (the lass who was present when she was escorted to the Bangkok police station). She was able to rearrange her flights so she could spend some time there (it was trouble free), but everything was rushed.

Preparing for my return flight to Sydney, I had to conquer my opiophobia (or my fear of the doctors) - solely based on the advice I received from Skippy. During her flight home to Australia, she informed me that two passengers were pulled aside because they were suffering from ‘flu like symptoms. Swine ‘flu, or H1NI (we can’t offend the pigs) was rife Down Under, and to prevent further spread they were taking precautionary measures. Knowing that I was imminently going to take the same flight, I was hoping to get something for my cough, just so I could avoid any interrogation at immigration. However, Dr Murray informed me that there was no prescription available for a ‘respiratory tract infection’. I simply had to sweat it out – and I had three days to hope it would budge. To keep events in a chronological order (that’s the problem with making updates every now and then. I feel dirty), I’ll let you read on to find out the humorous outcome.

Anyway, leaving Taunton that Sunday was difficult. I was feeling upset as the train departed, knowing that I was saying bye to the family. I never envisaged that leaving would have this affect on me; when I initially said goodbye back in 2007 I was relatively fine with the farewells, but this time was different. I don’t know why this was to be honest – my family have always been fantastic, but for the majority of my stay in England I spent my days in their company. I suppose spending so much time with them in such a brief timeframe made me realise how much I’ll miss them. I have set a goal of hopefully returning for Christmas, but that depends on a number of things: will I have work? Will work allow me time off? (That’s not really an issue, but I am trying to conjure up potential snags) Will I have enough money? (Now that is an issue).

I was low for another reason as my train set off for London. I knew I had a mammoth travel itinerary ahead of me which consisted of firstly getting to Heathrow, then jetting to Singapore and finally arriving in Sydney – some 26 hours later. My spirits were further dampened when I arrived at the airport; upon requesting my boarding pass, I was informed that I required a visa to enter Australia. I was oblivious to this: I informed the steward that I only intended to stay in Australia for 48 hours. Moreover, Lysey didn’t require a visa to enter Britain, so why did I need one for Australia? Previously, I travelled on a working holiday visa, so this was never an issue. However, having since landed in Auckland, I decided to check for myself, and it was correct – I did need a visa. Luckily, Australian visas are the only ones on sale at Heathrow; furthermore, I had 34 quid in my wallet, which I had intended to change to Australian dollars, but the visa set me back 30 shifties. I have kept the remaining 4 quid – maybe I can spend it at Christmas.

Still showing signs of a cough, (it didn’t budge after all) I was informed from Lysey that along with an immigration card, health declarations were also required now for entering Sydney. Since swine ‘flu was discovered in Australia, the virus has spread, presumably aided by the winter months’ and the temperature that comes with the season. (I hear UK officials are expecting a spike in cases come the winter over there. Call me cynical, but I also hear that by my current age I was supposed to have already caught bird ‘flu and SARS, but I managed to evade them. What happened to bird ‘flu? Weren’t we all supposed to be susceptible to it?)

Coughing constantly between London and Singapore, I wasn’t dedicating much thought to the possibility of being locked up in quarantine. Instead, I was trying to sleep – something I never manage to achieve, so I occupied myself with Clint Eastwood’s excellent Gran Torino. I certainly recommend it highly, along with Frost Nixon, which literally had me on the edge of my seat when we flew from Sydney to Bangkok. My nose was centimetres from the screen come the end of the film.

To be fair, both legs, plus the two-hour stop off in Singapore, were smooth and trouble free. However, as we were on the final stage and en route to Sydney, the health cards were issued. Clearly stated on the inside cover was: It is an offence to make a false declaration. (Considering you get a whopping fine for not declaring any wooden items upon arriving in Australia, I thought it was best to be honest). The card also instructed anyone who did have ‘flu like symptoms, which ambiguously was under the umbrella of a cough, cold, runny nose, sickness or diarrhoea, to report to an in-flight steward.

It was the middle of the night by the time I had filled the form in and everyone, so it seemed, on board the plane apart from me was asleep. Therefore, I felt it was a perfect time to inform the stewards, who were all gathered at the back enjoying a break, that I was ill with a ‘respiratory tract infection’. (I wanted to keep the issue private). Amusingly, the reaction of the first stewardess I informed was ‘oh shit’. Her blasé comments were not made out of fear for my health and that of all the others on board; no, they were made because I had informed her that on Lysey’s flight two people did declare they were suffering from ‘flu like symptoms and as a consequence they held up the plane for over thirty minutes. I assume she was in a rush to get something done in Sydney.

Listening in, a steward pulled me aside and ran through my symptoms. I explained that I was feeling fine apart from the cough and that I had been diagnosed by a doctor back home. This led to some mischievous chat about me perhaps altering my health declaration form, which I mused for a while, but considering the potential fine, and also the fact I was coughing what seemed like every two minutes (how could I hold that in during immigration checks? One thing Australia is known for is their thorough checks upon arriving into the country) I decided against the suggestion. Therefore, the steward (this chap was more concerned than little miss quick-get-me-of-this-plane-for-I-have-something-to-do) made haste to the pilot who reported back to me that Sydney quarantine had been informed of my situation and that I was to sit tight and await their verdict.

A number of hours later and we were preparing for landing. I was still none the wiser about the decision and for a minute I thought they may have forgotten about me. If that was the case I am sure I wouldn’t have gotten away with it, though: come the end of the flight I was getting daggers from a woman sat in the middle isle. Every time I coughed she would try to relay a message through her staring eyeballs that said something like ‘you better not give me swine ‘flu’. Moreover, the chap sat directly next to me had begun covering his face with a scarf each time I coughed, obviously fearing that I had been to visit a sty in Mexico. Knowing this, I took pleasure in perhaps enhancing my cough in an attempt to make it look worse than what it was. (I also did this to a bloke in Bristol; displaying appalling customer service, this chap at Bristol Parkway Station was annoying me, so as I approached the counter clutching a packet of Lockets and some water I muttered that I had not felt the same since my return from Mexico. He soon got a move on when I told him this. I was tempted to use a similar line to those around me on the plane, but with hindsight I made the correct decision to refrain. Airport immigration and jokes go together like water and electricity).

Eventually we landed, and just like any flight, as soon as we hit the tarmac people were out of their seats ready to disembark. (I have never understood the rush some people demonstrate to leave a plane – the luggage is never waiting for you when you get to the collection point.) Embarrassingly, though, the pilot made an announcement that went like this: “Hello ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Sydney airport, where the local time is 5.30am. Before we disembark I ask that all of you return to your seats as Australia Immigration are going to board the plane to check on the health of one of our passengers”.

‘One of our passengers’ - imagine my horror. Everyone on board knew they were coming on to inspect me. My embarrassment was more prominent than the moans and groans from my fellow passengers that accompanied the announcement of the pilot. I requested that my check up could be carried out in private, but that fell on deaf ears; instead, I had to wait for a chap with a clipboard (he wasn’t donning a spaceman suite which I was grateful for) who came aboard and asked about my travel history. After answering his questions – still in front of a gawping audience – he informed me that I would need to see a specialist from immigration before I was given the green light. Was that the end of my embarrassment? Of course it wasn’t. Finally, as I began the walk off the plane, I was told that I had to wear a surgical mask for fear of transmitting anything I potentially could have had (I looked like Michael Jackson as I left the plane). Consequently, everyone in first and business class knew I was the one holding everyone up.

My interrogation in immigration was straightforward. I was asked by a female doctor if I had visited either Mexico, Panama, Japan, USA, China or Melbourne recently, to which I responded no. (I was intrigued about Melbourne’s inclusion on the list, but having since returned to this part of the world I have figured out why they asked: as I previously mentioned, swine ‘flu has been rife within Australia, but predominantly in Victoria. Recently, during the state of origin rugby league match between Queensland and New South Wales played in Melbourne, any child who attended the stadium to watch the game was not allowed to immediately return to school for fear of taking swine ‘flu back with them). I was literally there for two minutes, but before I departed I was told that New Zealand immigration was even more thorough, so I was to expect this when I headed there. To my immediate fortune, however, I was informed that anyone who was pulled aside was permitted to head to the front of the queue in immigration – something definitely not to be sniffed at (excuse the pun, but during my first visit to Australia I must have spent over two hours waiting to clear immigration).

My two days in Sydney were largely spent in bed, where I battled jetlag, but where I was also attempting to keep warm. Australia was the coldest I had ever experienced it to be, and the media sensationalism that is rife ‘Down Under’ didn’t miss a chance to play up on the conditions. One news headline, and this is gospel, went as follows: “Sydney freezes as temperatures plummet to 14 degrees”. Ha ha, how laughable is that? Granted it was cold, and granted it was probably about 14 degrees, but Sydney freezes? Come on – if you want cold at least wait until the mercury approaches zero. Lysey is an offspring of the Australian media – she was, and usually is, complaining of the cold, and those two days weren’t any different. Admittedly, it was chilly, and our trip to the fish market required us to wrap up, but we weren’t in town for long before we headed to our new home, Auckland. Bless her, though, she bought me some cough medicine during our brief stay as I think my incessant spurting was beginning to annoy her.

We set off for our new home, well at least for the next year, (11/06) where we were greeted by Lysey’s sister. Thanks to the cough medicine Lysey had insisted I take, there was no repeat of my landing into Kingsford Smith. I was fearing the worse, based solely on the information I had gathered while at Sydney quarantine, but I declared I was suffering from no ‘flu like symptoms and I managed to get through. As soon as we were outside I immediately turned to Lysey and said: “I can cough now”, and I proceeded to cough up what I had been storing up during immigration.

Lysey’s sister was due to remain in Auckland for another week, of which we were grateful as it meant we had someone to show us around. Moreover, we were fortunate as her travels meant she was due to leave Auckland permanently (17/06), thus enabling us to move into her empty abode. Our new digs, a one-bedroom pad situated near the harbour, is completely furnished and it offers ample space for the two of us. Unlike Australian places, our new joint also holds the heat – something we’re both grateful for. (I’ll change my mind come December, though.)

Since our initial days of battling jetlag (this certainly was the case for me anyway) and finding our feet, we’re both starting to settle. Now the fun begins as I am frantically looking for work. However, here lies a problem – my workers rights’ are virtually the same as those of my days in Australia. I am entitled to remain in New Zealand for a total of 23 months’ (if I want to extend my visa, which currently stands at one year, I need to complete a medical and pay some unknown amount to immigration), but for that time I am only legally allowed to work for 12 months’. Therefore, and just like Australia where I was only entitled to work for one employer for six months at a time, very few organisations are willing to employ someone who in 12 months’ will be off to pastures new. In summary, I am back in the temping game, but because of a certain recession, plus the fact that Auckland has fewer roles than Sydney, I am finding work opportunities hard to come by.

Mind you, it doesn’t help that I’ve been sending out my CV which contained a spelling mistake. (Apparently, department is spelt depatrment – what a moron!) Prior to discovering this embarrassment, I had applied for something like a dozen jobs. Am I surprised that I didn’t hear back from any of them? Not in the slightest, especially as I boast that writing is a passion of mine within most covering letters I sent that accompanied my CV. Having since readjusted it, I have applied, but not reapplied for previous roles, for new jobs. I am trying to be the bearer of fruit, but so far my job search is proving to be fruitless.

Even though I have found no fruit, both Lysey and I have managed to explore Auckland, but our explorations so far have been limited to just the city. Blame the weather (this place, it seems, gets more rain that England during the winter), the fact that neither of us know a great deal about the surrounding vicinity (I am mildly ashamed of this because everywhere where I’ve been prior to NZ I have thoroughly researched. However, I was prepared that neither of us would be expected to travel immediately because of the winter months and our employment status), and the fact neither of us have a guide (I sniff a potential birthday present) and it’s easy to understand why we are yet to head off the beaten track.

My limited travel thus far, however, hasn’t prevented me in making some observations about ‘the youngest country on earth’, the slogan used by Tourism New Zealand, but these are solely based on the experiences I have encountered so far. When initially making my notes about what to write, I was torn between using either ‘backwards’ or defensive’ as an adjective to describe some of New Zealand’s attitudes towards basic everyday situations. For example, I am not allowed to apply for a visa debit card, based simply on the fact that I am not a Kiwi or an Australian. Moreover, to obtain my pay as you go mobile phone I had to endure a credit check (the notion that I would pay as I go must have evaded them, as I imagine the owners of the Icelandic bank that went bust, what with their amazing credit history, could readily get a mobile of this descript anywhere in the world). Like I said, I do not know if they’re being defensive, fearing that I am going to run a huge debt, or just backwards.

On the subject of mobile phones, Vodafone virtually has a monopoly on the market out here, but this is beginning to be challenged with the introduction of a competitor. As it stands, however, Vodafone has a free reign to charge what it likes, so until that competitor breaks through I will be paying .89cents a minute for a phone call. As a consequence, most people communicate via text, and at 25cents a text, one’s $29.95 a month tariff doesn’t go far. To counter their astronomical fees, Vodafone are kind enough to provide perks to the deal: for the aforementioned amount I have 600 free texts to any other VF user within New Zealand (yeah, I’ve got loads of friends) and I am also able to call Lysey for free at anytime. (Thoughtful, considering we live together and practically live out of each others pockets). Despite the perks, my money won’t go far so I won’t be calling home as often as I once did when living on the other side of the Tasman. I particularly have to be vigilant of this when drunk: I was forever phoning home in a intoxicated state, but at these prices all you folks back home may get an incorrectly worded text instead– not to dissimilar to my previous CV.

Moreover, Auckland, and from what I gather, New Zealand, has a limited public transport system. There is a train line that connects the country, but there is no tube; instead, public buses (my favourite) commute commuters from A to B. Considering Auckland is New Zealand’s largest city, holding 1.2 million of its total population of 4 million, this could become an issue if and when I find work.
Nonetheless, there’s a friendly and easy going vibe about the city, where everything is within reach; almost everyone we’ve come across so far seems more than willing to help, and once the weather has perked up and when we have earned some money, we can head further afield to check out the rest of the youngest country in the world.

Times are tough, people. Gone is my regular and better-than-warranted income courtesy of the fire brigade, (thank you, visa stipulations) only to be replaced by the uncertainty and degrading low pay of the temporary work market. Furthermore, prior to becoming just another unemployed statistic, (there seems to be an ever increasing few of us over here) I was struggling to be honest, just with my everyday costs.

Throughout the duration of my stint at the fire brigade I had been walking to work in attire more suited to a tramp, for my right shoe has had a 50pence sized hole in the bottom, and my work trousers are annoyingly three inches too short. (I seriously need to put some jam on my shoes and invite my trousers down for tea - it's that ridiculous). I can hear my old man now saying something along the lines of....’son, I used to walk 10 miles to school everyday and we only got one pair of shoes a year.... I used to put cardboard in my soles when they became threadbare.... I also had to wear my big brother's trousers once he finished with them.'

All of the thoughts of my father may be true, but interestingly, I have recently found out that this very man has just spent a couple hundred quid on a 'dog whisperer' as Jol, our boarder collie who was named aptly after that great Tottenham manager, has a fearless streak that is landing him in a lot of bother. Apparently, his behaviour is not acceptable at dog club and he's being threatened with eviction as he continually attacks the other dogs. Call me cynical, but I would love to see a dog whisperer in action; what exactly do they do? Lift one of his ear and whisper, 'Jol, stop attacking other dogs'. Like anything, it needs to judged on results - and I for one hope to eat a fat slice of humble pie, but one thing is clear: frugality has been replaced by frivolity in the eyes of my old man.

Having completed 819 hours', or six months, work at the fire brigade, I have been frantically searching for work - and to be honest it's been partially successful. However, 'partially' is the not the bill paying guarantee I currently seek; things, however, haven't got to the stage where I am putting a bowl around my head for a haircut. Oh no, I still managed to fork out $35 for a trim. There's a quote from the imitable David Brent that sums up the situation better than any analogy that I could think of: "Does a struggling salesman start turning up on a bicycle? No, he turns up in a newer car - perception, yeah?" Maybe I should buy some new work clothes then.

Continuing on a money related theme, last month I encountered some strange on-goings with my Australian bank account. I have no direct debits for the aforementioned account, but mysteriously I noticed $97.94 had gone walking from it. Apparently, I had ordered something from England as a conversion rate was included within the amount, but the description within my bill was too ambiguous to discover what, if anything, I had actually ordered; it stated I paid money to a 'Prime Member Fee', which I instantly put down as a fraud. Credit to ANZ, the bank of which I deal with, as they also knew something dodgy was going on as nothing was authorised by myself. They promptly gave me my money back, but they kept $10 for their trouble which I thought was a bit cheeky.

To counter their sheer nerve, I had the opportunity to get a free flu' jab courtesy of the fire brigade. Now that the clocks have gone back (we're now 9 hours ahead of England, which I am rejoicing about as a 3pm football kick off will now begin at midnight) it signals the start of winter. Although we never dip to anything comparable to England when it comes to mercury readings, the houses are not insulated against the elements so the soft people out here get their fair share of colds. (Seriously, Down Under we Brits are regularly referred to as 'whinging poms', but I have never heard anyone moan so much about the cold as an Australian national. They even put my mother to shame - and that's saying something believe me) However, I reluctantly refused my free jab as I suffer from latrophobia. I'm sure you all know what that means, so I won't patronise any reader. It's a self diagnosis, but I don't like the notion that a stranger can have so much control over you with often the simplest pieces of information.

Like I said, my search for work has landed me a few jobs. The first of these roles was working in a large department store (27/3 - the same day my contract expired at the fire brigade. I was forward thinking enough to realise that work opportunities cannot be sniffed at) where I was a 'retail assistant'. Not being retail's biggest fan, I was happy to be tucked away at the back of the store where my duties included hiding from a persistent boss and preparing stock. As I had already put a full day in elsewhere, I was grateful that this job was only four hours long.

The second, and currently, last of the jobs I have found since last Friday was a cash in hand number, but the pay on offer hardly had dollar signs twinkling in my eyes. Digressing slightly, Lysey is now working back at the hostel in order to get some money together, and daily I send her texts asking if there are any jobs on the notice board. As luck had it one job was on offer working at a wine and fashion show, with the bulk of the duties consisting of setting up and preparation, and I duly made contact with the organisers who in turn took me on (31/3).

The work was due to last me three days, and for that time I, plus a group of other chaps, were expected to prepare the fashion side of the show. Amusingly, after one day the other chaps had all resigned (11 of them) leaving me as the sole bloke. Their reasons - and I had similar thoughts going round my head - were because of the insulting pay and long hours. We were all on $10 an hour (roughly £4.50 - an absolute joke), which is drastically short of the minimum wage Down Under. We were not even earning $100 a day despite often working 9-10 hours a day, with our shifts consisting of heavy lifting.

Because of my financial predicament, plus the fact I am forward thinking enough to realise that job opportunities are at a minimum at the moment, I decided to stick it out. With day one out of the way the majority of the heavy lifting was complete; the remaining two days were spent preparing the stock and displaying it for the hoards of customers predicted for the three week show, so the boss bought in about half a dozen women to help with the preparations.

Annoyingly, being the only bloke meant that whenever anything heavy needed moving the bosses would always yell my name. Regardless of how heavy or awkward the object was, I was expected to deal with it whilst all the woman put the clothes out. I took some revenge, however, when the boss had to make a trip to Kings Cross to pick up a rental car. As no one within management knew the area, I had the job of directing them to the other side of the city. According to Google Maps, to get to William St, Kings Cross from Doody Street, Alexandria, it would take 14 minutes along one major road. Of course, I knew this, but I also knew that they didn't know the area, so we didn't go the Google Map way - we went my way. My way was the scenic way via as many traffic lights as possible and via the city centre. Over an hour had past and we still weren't back at the warehouse; moreover, when we eventually returned my day was near an end.

Those last two days were akin to working in a Calcutta slum. The illegal pay, the hours, the demands of the boss - everything resembled what I would assume working in an Indian sweatshop would be like. Indeed, my Facebook status at the very time mentioned that I was going to return to my Indian sweatshop. Sadly, one of my Indian friends, I think, has taken offence to my comments. I only say 'I think' because I haven't replied or attempted to justify my statement.

Amusingly, I found out during my three days that the boss, who's toured Australia with the fashion show idea, moved apartments because his previous place would cost him $30 in a cab. This amount, despite the fact he was paying us an illegal wage and that he would make a fortune on the thousands of items on sale, was too high. His new place was considerably closer than the previous place, which was a whopping 3km's from the site.

I have calculated that if I work for the month of April I will have sufficient funds for the remainder of my days in Australia, assuming of course that I am unable to find anything substantial and I continue on the temporary merry-go-round. Granted, April consists of a number of national holidays, but these have also been taken into consideration. Moreover, I have also included the wages I have made since leaving the fire brigade, but believe me, this amount is laughable and it hardly gives me any financial reassurances.

Moving on, Lysey provided me with a moment of great hilarity (28/3) when she managed to miss out on seeing Groove Armada. It sounds wrong to laugh at someone's misfortune, but she had a free ticket to see the British dance group, who were touring NSW and playing at Wagga Wagga, Wollongong and Sydney. (That's akin to Daft Punk touring England and playing Taunton, Swindon and London - highly laughable in itself). The gigs were all free, but to obtain a ticket you needed to apply online well in advance. Anyway, someone within the hostel hierarchy had done just this and he gave Lysey a ticket to the Sydney event. In order for her to gain entry she needed to fill in the online ticket application with name, address etc, but to do this you required a specific code - something that was provided by the hostel hierarchy.

Anyway, as she was about to enter her information (by this stage her unique code had been entered) she was due to start work, so she had to log off. However, because she had switched off without entering any of her information she wasn't able to return to the page. (There was no ‘save’ option on the page, so in all fairness the website is to blame and not Lysey) The organisers must have assumed that anyone lodging their ticket application would complete it all in one go (an easy assumption to make, so why wouldn't they?). Without a contact page or a complaint forum, she was screwed and subsequently spent that Saturday night in with me.

Of course, she wasn't downbeat about spending an evening with yours truly. Moreover, (30/3) she was pretty grateful that I am her other half as her rear left tyre had suffered a puncture. I have never managed to change a tyre beforehand (my record prior to that Monday was attempted tyre changes, two. Successful tyres changed, nil), but we both got the job done with great ease. I overheard her later during that week on the phone to her sister in New Zealand where she told her that it was team effort. It wasn't, unless you call me completing 60% of the work as a team effort. Nonetheless, I surprised myself and I think I even surprised Lysey.

Finally, I can announce that I am coming home - and I am bringing a certain someone with me. Lysey and I have been planning this for a while and the initial plan was to rock up and surprise everyone. However, I had to apply some logic to my decision - especially after I spoke with my family on Skype recently where mother informed me that due to the on-going renovations in the house the spare room was anything but a bedroom. I was set on the idea of surprising the family, but having put the thoughts of everyone back home before myself, I now realise it makes more sense.

Prior to informing them, I sent a text to my mother that said something along the lines of: "Mum, can you call me as I have something I need to tell you. Don't worry, it's good news x" Being the comedian that I informed mother, who sounded a little apprehensive on the phone, that Lysey was pregnant. Interestingly, she took the news very well, but I think that was down to the fact that my younger brother - Ben - had already suggested that this was the reason of my text.

Nonetheless, her apprehension was soon erased as I went into detail about our plans. We leave Sydney on May 7th where we both fly to Bangkok. Lysey wants to meet up with a friend here, so we've agreed to stay in Thailand (predominantly in Bangkok because of short stay) for five nights. Having spent three months' in and around south-east Asia before flying to Australia I met a few folks in Bangkok, so it will be good to see them again, too. Our plans for our stay consist of relaxing by the pool, catching up with various people, and having plenty of Thai massages.

We arrive in England on May 12th and I depart on June 7th. Lysey, on the other hand, leaves England on June 4th as she wants to spend some time with the same friend we're meeting in Bangkok in her adopted home of Singapore. I was invited, but believe me, I would prefer to spend a few extra days in Somerset than in Singapore, or Disneyland with the death penalty as it's referred to in the Lonely Planet Guide. (That’s Singapore, not Somerset)

Like I said, it makes more sense that people know of our plans. We are constructing a busy itinerary that includes visits to Bristol and London, but we plan to see everyone back home so we'll have plenty of time in the big T. Moreover, everyone in the family can take time off work, and Samuel - my nephew who I have yet to see - can pay us a visit. Furthermore, we can fine-tune our sleep arrangements.

So to reconfirm: Lysey is not pregnant and we will both be home on May 12th.

When I put my mind to it I can, sadly, become a walking cliché of an Englishman with great ease. Sometimes I forget that I am in an amazing part of the world where beaches and natural beauty lay on my doorstep and I slip into my old pre-university days of getting drunk for the thrill of it. (I recall years one and two of university going the same way, too).

Last weekend, (14/3) I found myself become that cliché as I went to a mate's place located next to the beach at Maroubra Bay, where I had a BBQ, drunk copious amounts of alcohol and spent the day in front of the TV watching football. All that was remaining for me to complete the 'Complete guide to being English' was to wear a football top, get sun burnt, buy a kebab and throw the half I don't want on a stationary car and then kick off one of the wing mirrors. I did none of this; I also failed to take a pee in the street while declaring my love for the nearest person next to me. University, it has to be said, provided me with a tangible learning experience as well as a textbook based education.

So much for the sights and delights I have encountered so far. So much for all the culture I have induced, but every now and then a blast to the past can be justified - as it was last weekend. I enjoyed drinking cider in the sun followed by a football binge. To the next time....!

Moving on, I haven't sustained my binge drinking and become something of a Twiggy figure (the obese one from the Royal Family), for I have been taking in more Australian experiences. The weekend previous (7/3) Lysey and I attended the annual and world famous Mardi Gras, which took over the streets of Sydney.

Opening with the famous 'Dykes on bikes', the parade - lasting well over four hours - was an eye opening festival. Not afraid to stoke controversey, the liberal thoughts and images on show were not only entertaining, but highly thought provoking. I have never attended a gay parade before, but I have attended many street festivals as well as a number of carnivals. The predominant purpose of the carnivals I have attended is usually to raise money for local charities. However, the Mardi Gras is anything but a fundraiser: nearly all the floats and participants were conveying a political message about gay rights. Moreover, the theme for this year's parade was 'United Nations', where the intention was to raise awareness about the countries where it is illegal to be gay. According to some of the posters on show, it is illegal in seven countries, and within these borders being gay means going to jail, or in some cases, death.

Provoking my thoughts, I undertook my own research to find out the names of these countries. Using possibly the most unreliable source known to man, Wikipedia, I uncovered a list that was more substantial than just seven countries. Most of these countries were located within the Middle East, and if I were a practicing homosexual I wouldn't be lured on discovering this region. (Two weeks in Iran, anyone?) Moreover, as a practicing heterosexual I have no great desire to head to this region. However, it's important to stress my findings were found on Wikipedia; if I have defamed the Middle East I am sorry. To make amends, when I do reach the region anyone who's offended can kick back and have a Gay Time with me. (Incidentally, a Gay Time is a popular ice cream in Australia, apparently popular back in the 1980's, but they're making a come back. To promote their reemergence they have launched a TV advert which has a jingle that goes: "It's so hard to have a Gay Time on your own. Smutty)

The majority of the floats at the Mardi Gras were basically sticking two fingers up to the anti-gay establishment. For example, a number of these floats depicted religion in a most derogatory way, often making a mockery of Jesus or the Pope. (One float, solely made up of a large banner which stated 'fuck homophobic religions' underlined the general vibe of the parade) Furthermore, the parade also highlighted human rights' issues, including matters relating to Aboriginals and also to Tibet. To me, it was apparent that everyone associated with the parade was armed with a no fear agenda.

Furthermore, to some organistaions the Mardi Gras provided a perfect opportunity for some PR offerings. The fire service, police, lifesavers, and the ambos - they were all present and joined in with the parade. Although these organisations weren't associated with any of the aforementioned political stances, their presence was a welcome sight to all. To me it added weight to the idea of a 'United Nations' as these organisations are obviously all open minded to the idea of employing gays and lesbians. However, there were a number of conglomerates who joined the feel-good bandwagon, who in my mind simply offered nothing but to promote their own needs and wants of their respective company's. ANZ (Australia and New Zealand Bank, who was whored by Joan Rivers), Virgin Blue (an Australian airline) and Foxtel (cable TV) were the guilty parties.

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole parade, but neither Lysey nor myself had the stamina to see it all. To get a decent vantage point we had arrived about two-and-a-half-hours before its start, so come the end we were both feeling the effects of being on our feet for so long. In my summary I would say the floats were nowhere near as good as anything you'll likely to see at something like Bridgewater Carnival (that's the only time I, or anyone else for that matter, will compare or contain the words 'Bridgewater' and 'Sydney' within the same sentence), but the costumes were worthy of Broadway. People go to so much effort, and not to gain money, but to promote something they feel strongly about.

Moving on. We had good reasons to return home early from the Mardi Gras, as we were due at the airport the following morning. Having had a few hours sleep due to the Tottenham match (our fixture against Sunderland kicked off at 2am, of which I watched on some dodgy internet stream via South Africa. It was so bad I missed both goals) we both awoke early that Sunday (8/3) to head to the airport. Our destination, for what was only going to be a 24-hour trip, was Melbourne. Our reason for going was to celebrate Lysey's parents wedding anniversary.

Her dad came up with the idea that we both make the journey as Lysey's sister and her boyfriend were doing the same from New Zealand. They initially had reasons to leave New Zealand and be in Melbourne as the pair of them was attending a wedding, of which Lysey’s parents were aware. However, her mother (and her sister and her boyfriend) was none-the-wiser about our arrival, so they looked a little shocked when we both met up early that Sunday morning. (It was about 11am, but we had been on the move since 5am. Unsurprisingly, her dad wasn't shocked as he organised and paid for us to be there)

The intention of the day, once the greetings and surprise was out of the way, was to have lunch and then go for a few drinks somewhere in the city. Our choice of cuisine was Chinese - not my most favourite, but I am a top faker (I gave Lysey instructions not to tell anyone that I don't like Chinese. I did not want to make a scene, so I went with the flow). Instantly, they could probably tell the concept and the food was a little alien to me; my fingers became my choice of cutlery replacing my chopsticks. I don't know why, but when I have Chinese I struggle using chopsticks, yet when I have sushi I find them simple to use.

One hour later, having consumed an ample amount of Chinese dumplings, we left China Town and made our way to a pub on the other side of Melbourne. Disappointingly, my geographical knowledge of Melbourne is virtually non-existent. I say it's disappointing because as a lad turned 26-year-old man I have had a fetish to read maps. (As soon as I sit down in a plane, for example, I instantly pick up the magazines that come as standard and study the maps and the routes the particular airline operates. I have never seen anyone read these magazines, apart from myself. However, some people must read them as the Sudoko in my magazine that very Sunday morning was half complete. I was not amused - either finish it or don't start it.) Therefore, I had no great idea where we were in Melbourne, but I was more than happy to be in a pub where I could have a pint or five.

To my knowledge, Victoria is the only state in Australia where pints are regularly served (you can get them in NSW and other states, but most pubs tend to serve in schooner glasses - roughly just over half a pint). A few hours later I sensed that we were all getting in the mood, but that's where out night ended. As we had been up since 5am tiredness was overtaking the effects of the alcohol. Moreover, we were due to rise at 5am the following day so we could make it back to work on time, so we opted to head back to the comfort of our air-conditioned hotel where a plush bed awaited me.

Our flight home the following day (Monday 10th) was problem free, apart from one tiny glitch. We flew back with Qantas and I was happy about because unlike all other domestic airlines in Australia, Qantas serves breakfast as part of the ticket. (The Sudoko in the magazine wasn't complete either) However, the aforementioned airline has had a few recent problems with safety: nothing tragic has occurred, but a few of their planes have dipped a few thousand feet whilst in transit, meaning they have been under the media limelight for a while. Anyway, during the standard safety chat where they tell you how to fasten your seat belt and what to do if a mask appears in front of you, (by the way, I cannot be the only one who would love to jump out of a crashed plane onto one of those inflatable slides that emerge from the doors. The chances of this happening are slim, so if it does ever happen I won't take the advice of the airline, which is to gently lean over and glide down the shute. Oh no, I will be taking a running jump, just to further remember the experience) the video they were using to portray this message cut out. One of the stewardess' had to convey the rest of the video over the tannoy, which I found amusing given their recent safety record.

The missus and I, we are both risk takers. Personally speaking, I am usually a Royal Gala man, but from time to time - often without much thought - I would switch to a Pink Lady. I make snap decisions on my variety of apple just like I do in everyday life. That's why, literally with a drop of a hat, Lysey and I attended the Celebrity Twenty20 cricket match held at the SCG in support of the bushfire victims (22/2).

Minding our own that sunny Sunday, we received a phone call from one of Lysey's friends who informed us that she had two spare tickets to the aforementioned event. I realise that bagging free tickets to a charity event is pretty low, but I more than made up for it with my spends at the bar that evening.

To put the bums on seats, famous sports stars, all of them Australian, plus a few celebrities, donned the whites. Seeing Steve Waugh at the SCG is akin to seeing Bobby Moore at Wembley to the average Australian, and I can now say I've witnessed him. For one of the teams, a young lad was playing, but he had no celebrity background yet he took the wicket of Steve Waugh. I found out, a few days after the match, that he had in fact lost his siblings along with his grandparents in the fire, and from the family house he was the only one to survive. (His parents were out of town at the time hence them being with their grandparents.) It's a tragic story, but I think the 20330 of us who turned up managed to put a smile on his face.

The relief effort is continuing simply because the fires are still no extinguished. The generosity of the public however has never waned – money continues to pour in.

Moving on, I am literally over the notion of work. Because of my visa stipulations I only have a few weeks left before I need to seek pastures new (I could continue, but it's the sort of thing that would come back to bite me in the proverbial, which is hardly conducive to any potential de facto visa's I could later apply for. However, I am resigned to the fact that I know I will miss the job when I leave, especially now jobs are hard to come by. Thank you, global economic crisis). Therefore, facing the prospect of being at work on my own (26/2) and fearing the potential bludgeoning of someone else’s workload (I struggle enough with my own), I was desperately seeking an excuse to duck out of the office. As luck had it a big boat by the name of the Queen Mary II had docked in the city that day and I, plus half of the city, made headway towards the dock.

Initially, the prospect of staring aimlessly at a massive ship didn't appeal, but having witnessed it close up my original thought process of only going to see it to sneak out of work was replaced with amazement for this thing is MASSIVE! It's so big it could not fit into the traditional dock of Circular Quay, so instead it was marooned at the nearby navy base. Moreover, I was unable to actually fit the boat into any decent photograph (those LED screens on the average digital camera just aren't big enough), so I spent the remainder of that afternoon scrawling the city for a decent vantage point. I had to move quickly because she was en route from Auckland to Tokyo and she was only in town for 24 hours. One hour, two blisters, and a number of kilometers later, I was still no better off, though, so I gave up. I will make a point of visiting the street venders who sell paintings on a Sunday near the Opera House so I can get a copy.

I don't actually know when I will get a chance to visit these venders, though, as I seem to be a social butterfly come the weekends. Saturday (28/2) Lysey and I embarked on a road trip south from Sydney to the seaside resort of Huskisson (roughly three - four hours drive). En route we stopped off in the seaside town of Kiama, famous for its blowhole. How do I best describe a blowhole? Basically, it's a hole that has been formed, presumably by coastal erosion, in the rocks. Every time the waves crash into the rocks seawater squirts forth making the effect of a blowhole. The weekend we travelled coincided with the start of autumn, yet the blowhole was still drawing a crowd. It's something I have neither heard of nor seen before, so I was keen to check it out. Even though it may just be a blowhole (yet definitely the best blow hole I have ever seen) I would highly recommend one paying a visit to it.

Huskisson, or Hussky as it's affectionately known as in Australian, reminded me of a typical British seaside resort, yet the horizon wasn't polluted with arcades and adolescents loitering outside. It's a small town consisting of two pubs and five or six different restaurants (yet dozens of motels) which oozed a family atmosphere. I have never headed south of Sydney along the coast before and I was more than happy with our chilled out surroundings, which were largely made up by the beach.

Wanting to explore some more, I was keen when Lysey suggested we head further south for a short drive to visit Greenpatch Beach. This stretch of sand belongs in a national park so we had to pay $10 to enter, but it was one of the best ten dollar notes I have ever exchanged for entry; the beach was simply stunning, easily on par with the best beach I had the pleasure of visiting, which was in the Whitsunday Isles called White Haven. The white sand, the type that doesn't stick to you when you exit the water and is apparently good for cleaning jewelry with, stretched for miles. It felt like I was walking on flour for it didn't scold my feet despite having been sun baked all day. Furthermore, the seawater glowed an appealing blue, making a dip a necessity. Unfortunately, I didn't take my camera so you'll need to type Greenpatch Beach, NSW into Google maps to see for yourself.

Continuing with the comparisons of a British seaside resort, Hussky was quiet during the night. Besides, it struck me as being the sort of place one wouldn't visit in order to create drunken carnage. I certainly wasn't after that, and neither was Lysey, so during the evening we were both happy having ordered some fish and chips. Abetted nicely with a few bottles of cider, we sat on the harbour and watched the world go by.

To break up our homeward journey we decided to stop off in another seaside town (1/3). Gerringong, where on face value it appeared no one under the age of 50 resided, was our choice of destination. Again, we were treated by another tranquil beach which continued past the horizon. Lysey, having obviously driven both ways, was keen to recharge the batteries, and our 20-minute dip in the Pacific Ocean achieved that. A little fresh at first, we both acclimatized and had a splash before setting off home.

I had plenty to be excited about when we arrived back in Sydney: the match for England's first domestic trophy of the season was being played that Sunday night, of which Tottenham were contesting. Prior to the League Cup final (where we were to play Manchester United) I have witnessed all the games leading to up to Sunday's finale at the same pub. For the majority of these fixtures I have been the only one in attendance (it was almost the same when we played against Hull, but four others joined me on that occasion. I bet the management were rubbing their hands together at the boost in numbers), so therefore I feel I should have been entitled to a seat at the bar, or anywhere else of my choosing. I have a moral obligation in life to give up my seat for those who are pregnant, disabled or elderly and I would like that ethos to continue when it comes to watching sporting events in any watering hole.

My thought process can be replicated during any major tournament. Sadly, during such events the pubs are awash with people, mainly women it must be said, who thought otherwise to watch the World Cup qualifier between England vs. Georgia in Tbilisi on a cold Wednesday afternoon because they simply had something better to do. However, come the World Cups they're there in their hoards, making incessant chants of 'Rooney, Rooney, Rooney'. I must admit that not all fans, along with not woman, can be labeled with such a defamatory tag. (I really want to emphasise that) However, the majority of these ‘fans’ can; call it misogynistic, call it a stereotype if you like - I will call it fact.

Sadly, we lost the football on penalties, which is akin to losing on the toss of a coin. Tottenham chose heads whereas Man Utd chose tails. (Tails never fails - we should have chosen tails!) Personally and neutrally speaking, I thought we were the better team throughout, but it wasn't to be. I am surprised I can cast such an aspiration as for the duration of that night (it started at 2am and finished at something like 4.45am) I was a complete wreck. I had no ambitions to get drunk, but sadly I fell into the trap of being oh-so-easily-led.

To aid my encouragement I got speaking to an Australian chap, Todd, who was much like me as he was watching the game on his own. Conveniently, or inconviently, this chap happened to know someone who was working the bar so he continuously kept getting me free pints of cider. (He said that he doesn't drink pints because the liquor inside gets warm. This is a definite trait of an Aussie; who else would worry about a warm beer?) Come match time the pub was rammed with a probable 55/45 split in Tottenham's favour (where were these people when we beat Watford of Burnley I ask?) and Todd at this time was getting free drinks for a number of Tottenham fans' we were talking to. Talk about taking liberties, but good on him for doing it.

Come the end of the game I was gutted. My feelings were not helped by a bunch of gloating Man Utd fans, especially one girl who kept giving it all the chat. Was she there on Thursday morning when there was virtually a full list of fixtures? Was she f#$%! I eventually stumbled home at 5.25am where I soon made the conscious decision that I wouldn't be attending work that Monday. (I usually wake at 5.40am to get myself ready) What did I say about being a risk taker?

I have dedicated too much of this installment on football, so I will end with more pressing matters about Lysey’s and mine immediate future plans. As of June 4th 2009 I need to evacuate Australia, so that leaves me with little less than three months. Lysey still hasn’t found a job over the ditch, and the prospects of finding one look slim. Focusing on the here and now, we have a leaving party to plan, or as Lysey's friends put it, 'we should arrange Elyse's leaving party soon'. (Yeah, don't worry about me. My mate(s) and I will have a whale of time elsewhere). It has been mooted that we are going to have our party at one of Lysey's mates' parents high rise apartments in York Street, slap bang in the middle of Sydney's CBD. (Apparently, it cost a few hundred dollars a night to hire) However, this very location is 14 floors high and it has what I would class as 'extremely low walls on the balcony'. Looking over the edge sober is scary enough so therefore maybe I will go elsewhere with all of my mate(s).