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).