Apologies, again, for the procrastinating. Simply put, I have been enjoying the end of our summer, despite the overbearing dull with wet patches conditions we have been enduring as of late.

If I had have written last week I would have started with my damming condemnation of the worldwide con that is Valentine's Day. I do not need any nod of the head from Clinton Cards, or any other card shops out there, to show affection towards Lysey; for anyone out there that does believe in the marketing wet dream you're a literal moron. Last year Lysey received her first ever card (I only bought her a card as she made such a point about never receiving one. It was a blank card however - I did not conform to Clinton's aims) so this year I went back to being myself and I bought her nothing. Maybe I could blame the timing; it was her birthday and our anniversary last week so she's been inundated with gifts. On that note, imagine my glee when I informed her that my present buying for her in 2009, bar Christmas, which is so close to 2010 I've conveniently rounded up, is over. She wasn't happy upon hearing this declaration, but what can I do about it?

The escapade that is St. Valentine’s Day annoys me. Everywhere I looked that Saturday it seemed apparent that men were running around trying to appease their other-halves. Even in the cinema, arguably the least lit arena for any lovebirds, people were still pandering. To me, the buying of random gifts on a date not predetermined by marketing forces is much more significant. Like I said, though, my present buying for 2009 is over!

We did venture to the cinema during the day, not to mark Valentine's Day, but because it was raining and we both wanted to see Ricky Gervais' new flick, Ghost Town. What a disappointed that turned out to be. Gervais plays a character that goes to hospital for a routine operation but he dies momentarily on the table. Consequently, upon making a miraculous return to full health, he has the ability to communicate with ghosts and throughout the film he is harassed constantly by this love-rat male who tries to relay his thoughts and fears for his ex wife. Not a new concept, I know; it was like Ghost, that cheesy flick starring Patrick Swayze, on crack. The script, vastly short on substance, was predictable and for all the talent Gervais has, he is becoming too two-dimensional. Do something new Ricky.

Because of her work rota, Lysey has been working the majority of recent Sundays, so therefore my hands were tied when it came to doing something during the night. The Mardi Gras opening ceremony began on the 14th, but the appeal of taking her to the world's largest gay and lesbian celebration was not withstanding. (Not because I am a homophobe - I am anything but. We are both going to the carnival parade in March, but the idea of celebrating Valentine's Day at a gay fest doesn't sound right). Therefore, I ventured into town to go to a few pubs and onto a club with a mate of mine from my hostel days.

Our final destination for the night was going to be the Chinese Laundry, where current superstar DJ Deadmau5 was playing. However, come 10pm - early for Sydney, the queue to the club was already stretching around the corner. Post haste, we joined it, but after 45 minutes' of waiting, coupled with the fact that it was monsooning upon us, we had had enough. I was literally drenched from head-to-toe, but I wasn't in the mood to head home so we all went to another of the city's clubs - Tank. Besides, Deadmau5 was due to play an encore set the following Friday (20/2), simply because of demand. However, I wasn't to go because the organisers sold out; they firstly put the ticket prices up from $25 to $40 and then they moved venues - from a decent club in the middle of the city to a stadium on the outskirts where transport links are virtually non-existent.

Anyway, I have heard many a decent report about Tank, but for one reason or another I have never actually ventured inside. I was immediately impressed with the open planned set up and the relaxed attitude of the bouncers (people were wearing wellington boots because of the rain; you wouldn't be allowed in many venues donning such a commodity). Despite resembling a drowned rat for the duration of the evening, I still managed to have a good time.

Moving on, the nation is still grieving over the bushfires that have raged through Victoria. The public support has been amazing - over $100ml has been raised in donations. The death toll has past 200 now and over 1000 homes have been destroyed or affected. Money cannot fix everything, but that sum sums up the nation's response to the disaster. Indeed, during a recent one-day cricket match between Australia and New Zealand, over $5.5ml was raised on the day. Corporate donations were coming thick and fast during the action, but the Australian players were doing the rounds of the Adelaide Oval during the day's play. By walking around with the buckets they raised over $25,000 alone.

The worldwide attention the disaster has received even amazes me. I heard that the 'fires were front-page news in the New York Times, displacing Obama's stimulus plan. Moreover, I gather having spoken to a few folks back home, the British press has been dominated by the events. This may not sound significant, but from my journalism studies and having a keen eye for all world news and current affairs, Australian news virtually fails to get a mention anywhere outside the Pacific region. For example, and I realise I am back dating here but this story is worthy to dominate the news coverage in all four corners of the world, in 1967 the Australian Prime Minister, Harold Holt, disappeared while swimming off the coast of Melbourne. A frantic search, as you would imagine, began, but two days later the police announced: "The search has come to a dead halt". His body has never been found. Bill Bryson, in his excellent book Down Under, comments on the news flow emanating from Australia, and he mentions that the west were virtually unaware that this had occurred. Furthermore, from his individual studies, he found this not to be a rarity. These findings appear in the beginning of the aforementioned book, so if you’re ever browsing in Waterstones read the first chapter. I cannot recommend it enough. (Moreover, there were rumours that Harold Holt was the first Australian Prime Minister to travel to the Antarctic, but these were never verified!)

On a more personal note, I have been granted my working holiday visa for New Zealand. Valid until February 2010, I have to enter the country before that deadline and once inside I am entitled to stay, work and travel for 12 months. As it stands, we're still unsure of our departure date; Lysey has heard nothing about potential jobs over the ditch (that's how Australians affectionately describe the Tasman Sea) plus she has her graduation ceremony in May this year, despite completing her course last year. I can now begin the process of job-hunting, but I tend to find this sort of thing more rewarding when actually being there (wherever 'there' is. We could still end up in Auckland, Wellington or Christchurch, thus rendering my job search pointless). Moreover, my aim is to arrive in NZ with a decent amount of money so I am not panicked if I am unable to find work immediately. However, my plans of arriving with a decent sum of cash depend on how long we are hanging around in Australia for; because of my visa I have to leave my current job at the end of March, and then my mate from my winery days, Jason, and I are planning a road trip. Sydney to Perth, some 4500 km's has been muted, but it's only at a planning stage.

Considering I hold intentions of raising a decent sum of money before I leave, I have subjected myself to the pitfalls of Australian TV. The nation's television schedule does reflect the consummate outdoors' lives of the average Australian; during the summer the airwaves are filled with repeats, but as autumn sets in new series of an array of different shows arrive. (There is a popular joke in Australia that goes as follows: during the Melbourne Open tennis championship, most games/sets were interrupted with television commercials advertising the new shows that were soon to appear. These adverts would conclude with the line ".... coming to the station after the tennis". Hilarious) Now that the tennis has concluded we're inundated with crap television, ala the Farmer Wants a Wife. Recently, I was thinking about the scheduling over here and the television directors remit to virtually give money to any production. I would like to make my own show(s), and I reckon they would be popular. Firstly, I'd suggest a new reality TV program called Osama Wants a Wife. Self-explanatory this one: I get bin Laden to appear on TV and he has to choose a wife(s) from anyone willing to be his other half. I would pay to watch that. Secondly, and this runs along a similar style, I would propose: A Backpacker Wants a Wife for Immigration Purposes. Again, a little self-explanatory, but I would watch it.

Like I said, bar a few exceptions, Australian TV isn't all that. Instead, I am keeping with my tradition of watching Tottenham play, usually at some ungodly hour in the morning, and usually on a non-English Internet stream. I recently woke at 5.30am to watch us play Shaktar Donnestk in a European match via some Turkish outlet. The game was awful and the commentary mind numbing. Couple that with the fact we lost and it didn't make a great start to my day.

Hopefully, I will have something to distract me from developing square eyes as the girls' football season should recommence soon. I haven't had word on anything, but as we're now staying until May I would be available to take up the mantle of coaching Marouba United under 12s once more. (That's if they haven't already found a permanent replacement for me). Moreover, I suppose we'll have a leaving party to arrange soon. I commented to Lysey that if there was to be a banner at the party signaling our goodbyes it would read as follows: “Goodbye Lysey”, and in the corner of the poster, inverted in tiny little brackets it would say: “plus him”. Of course, all of her friends are nearby, but mine are of the travelling-and-not-remaining-in-one-place variety, so it could be a one-sided affair.