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.