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).

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.

As of the 7/2 (Saturday) I have been on the road for two years. Lysey regularly points out that 'I am no longer on the road' as I am settled, but still, I have been away from home for 731 days now. How much more 'on the road' can I get?

On the subject of all things home, I must say, for the first time in a long time, I have been envious of the weather back in Blighty. The aforementioned day of my anniversary happened to be the day when NSW was officially deemed the hottest place on the planet. (Take that plains of Africa and deserts of the Middle East). Baking in 47degrees heat is ridiculous, and unlike England who has witnessed a couple of snowflakes, we don't get time off work.

I have not stopped banging on about the snow back home. I have been keeping abreast of the weather, especially in Somerset, for the past week and I read that my old secondary school - Heathfield - closed because of the severity. Why did that never happen when I was there? Moreover, on the Beeb's Somerset news section, there are a number of webcams allowing viewers to watch the world go by from a variety Somerset townships. I know, it's a little intrusive, but for all the saddos out there (yes, I fall into this category) it offers a great way to pass the time whilst at work. (I remember, in a previous job for which I will not mention, I along with a colleague, watched the on-goings from the main street in Burnham-on-sea for over an hour. It was shocking, and the job wasn't much better).

Anyway, during my working week in the blistering heat, I logged on to the Richard Huish College webcam available on the aforementioned website. Lo and behold, the roofs were covered in snow, but because of the angle of the camera and the darkness, not a lot else was going on. (Not much happens on the bike-shed roof, especially at 2.36am, which was 1.36pm my end) I stopped watching after twenty minutes and returned to my work.

As you may have witnessed, Australia, and in particular the state of Victoria, is currently awash with bushfires. Tragically, over 170 people have died; having read their various tales it left me feeling numb – a feeling echoed by the entire nation. The worst of the fires, according to a few media outlets, was over 80km's long and it swarmed people's properties in minutes. With the gusting winds spreading the firing embers people also noted how it was literally raining fire. During my stay here of almost two years I have never known Australia suffer any disaster, but the national response has been overwhelming. I would draw comparisons to the response effort that occurred during the tsunami. Admittedly, it seems that only Australians have been affected, but the parallels between the response then and now can definitely be drawn. (Moreover, the worldwide attention it has received highlights this, plus America are sending experts in planning and reconstruction) Hopefully the forecasted rains will arrive soon.

On the subject of rain, the state of Queensland has been battered by cyclones and severe rain. Again, there have been loses of lives, and because of the raising waters crocodiles have been spotted in some towns. (A five-year-old boy, searching for his dog in a burst lake, was taken by a crocodile this weekend) It's amazing to think that on the south of the country they are fighting the worst bushfires in the nation's history, yet at the north-eastern side of the land they are battling a completely contrasting disaster. Admittedly, to fly from Melbourne (Victoria's capital) to Brisbane (Queensland's equivalent) would take roughly four-five hours; if one was to fly from London for such a similar amount of time they would end up in Egypt - a different continent. That offers a scale of how big Australia is. Being in NSW (where Sydney reigns as its capital) I am bang in the middle of the two; we've had a fair few bushfires within the state, but most of them have occurred in forests away from urban areas. The rain is due this week, and my incessant bleating aside of complaining about the climate, the whole of NSW and Victoria needs it badly. Queensland, on the other hand, needs no more.

K Rudd, or Kevin 747 as he's affectionately known to his detractors (simply because he's always abroad) has been, as you can assume, appearing in the news for a variety of reasons. Firstly, the PM showed a responsive approach to the bushfires by immediately enlisting the army's help, and providing $10ml in aid. (I suspect this figure will rise within time, especially as he public donations have so far exceeded $14ml) He has also been dealing with another on-going crisis - the economy. Earlier last week, in a bold attempt to stimulate the ailing economy, he introduced a $42bl stimulus plan with the intention of creating jobs and providing Australia with the opportunity to work itself out of the global downturn. He has also appealed to the average Joe Bloggs, too, by giving every tax-paying Australian (or student) a $950 cash bonus. The words 'every Australia' act as my downfall even though I have paid tax along with the rest of society. Opinions are divided amongst my social circle as to whether I will actually receive anything. I am not holding my breath, but I know Lysey will qualify for it. Politicians are divided on the issue too; the opposition are fearing that everyone will go and blow it on either plasma's or in the pokies, but I suppose you could argue that if they do just that they're stimulating the economy.

Politics aside, Lysey reached the grand old age of 24 last week (3/2 - a day after our first year anniversary. I'll never forget either dates that's for sure). One of her requests was that I cooked a meal, which I duly obliged in doing so. However, as I am no Gordon Ramsey in the kitchen I had to enlist the help of our housemate, who is a culinary genius. (However, I am better than her at telling people to **** off!) The meal, something involving pasta and prawns, tasted superb if I don't mind saying so myself. I cooked for four, and I think they were all in agreement with my biased assessment.

Another request of hers was to have an ice cream cake for dessert. Considering I have never heard of it before I wasn’t going to attempt to make one, so instead I bought one. The most appealing one on offer at the supermarket was a Freddo the Frog cake, but I don't think anyone minded. Besides, if I had have made one I only would have decorated it in frogs.

On the day she received a silver ring, a gold chain, a Trans-Siberian Lonely Planet plus some other stuff from yours truly. I have also ordered a few DVD's online, but because Australia is so behind the times, I wasn't allowed to get them sent directly to Sydney; one nameless DVD is yet to be released here, and as Amazon put it, 'this title isn't available in your region'. Therefore, I had to get them sent to my parent's house in England with the intention mother would forward them. However, because of the snow they were first delayed in arriving, and as I gather, mother has suffered because of the same conditions. Therefore, by the time Lysey receives them they probably will be 'available in our region'. (I am not having a dig at anyone - the snow cannot be helped. Mother, I really do appreciate you posting them on to us, you know I do.)

To also help celebrate, Saturday (7/2) the pair of us spent the day at Coogee Beach. The mercury has constantly been between 30-40 degrees during the summer, but this was the first time we have been to the beach. Nonetheless, the water was still freezing - and I mean freezing. We both struggled in the tepid temperature and an hour later I was getting annoyed the sand was sticking to me (which is definitely the reason why this was my first venture to the beach this summer) so we left. However, we had a good reason to do so - we were going out in Kings Cross with six of her friends to further celebrate.

Starting at a pizza restaurant, the eight of us all had a great time. We duly ended up in some back street joint in Sydney's red-light district (it's not as bad as it sounds, honestly) where we drunk the night away. Feeling slightly hung over the following day (8/2) we both went to the cinema, largely to escape the predicted 47 degree heat, and secondly to watch a film. Our choice of flick was the Changling; after leaving the cinema I commented to Lysey that the film was literally bleeding Oscars, such was the quality of the film and the acting. Set in America in the 1920s the film depicts the kidnapping of a boy and the corrupt attempts made by the police to help trace the lad. I could talk and talk about the storyline, but I don't want to say much more as I would reveal the plot to anyone who intends to see it. (However, because I watched it in 'our region' the Changling probably appeared in British cinemas in 2008).

A little while back I put myself through two hours of so called acting when I watched Point Break, the film based on a group of President, mask-wearing bandits who rob banks, and the emotional conflict endured by one member of the gang who is in fact a policeman attempting to infiltrate their efforts. Before the credits were rolling it had made my list of 'worst film ever', which, at the time, solely compromised of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Last Action Hero.

However, I recall, as a child (an impressionable one at that) watching Keanu and Swayze in the same film and thinking it was fantastic. So what's changed? Keanu has always been a bad actor, and the film hasn't deteriorated over time (it was as awful then as it is now), so that leads me to believe that I have changed. Here is where my incessant rambling comes to ahead, as last weekend, to highlight my change, I experienced something new - something as a child I could never envisage doing: I went to the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.

I have always told myself that, later in life, I'd like to attend the Last Night of the Proms. I annually tune into the Beeb's coverage, just to see and hear the patriotism oozing around the Royal Albert hall. Moreover, I actually enjoy the music, and last Saturday (24th) I couldn't let pass the symphony orchestra's appearance at the Domain, a massive stretch of green grass situated near the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. I am not going to lie, I am not at the stage yet of being able to dissect the two hour show, but I know what I like and we both enjoyed what we heard. To help us through the night we took a picnic and some plonk, and come the end we joined the thousands of others who gave a standing ovation as one of Tchicosky’s numbers’ was playing. (See what I mean about not being at the dissecting stage?)

My newly found sense of culture was shortly undone, however. For the past two Saturday nights I have stumbled out of the pub past 4am, what with either the football to keep me occupied or many of Sydney's pubs. The first Saturday (24th) I caught up with a few mates and we duly managed to get wasted. (One of my mates - who shall remain nameless - was already wasted as he had been on the biscuits. All of this occurred immediately after the opera so you can see why my culture intake had been erased).

The second of these two debauched Saturdays (31st) followed a meal I had with Lysey and her parents (it would be a bit weird of it was just me and them) as we celebrated her birthday. Even though it's not until the 3/2 - one day after our first year anniversary - we took advantage of the weekend. To celebrate we went to a Brazilian all-you-can-eat BBQ. I know very little about Brazilian culinary, but I certainly didn't leave that place feeling hungry (or sober). Round two of the night proceeded to take place in a nearby watering hole and the drinking continued at a fast pace, especially between her dad and myself. Come the end of the night he was a mess.

During the night, we were talking away and we got onto the subject about my non-existent ability to drive. On my first visit to the family home in Goulburn her dad, who is mad on cars, took me out for a spin in his Subaru. The streets of Goulburn, for those five minutes or so, were transformed from a leafy residential area to Silverstone. Prior to putting my seatbelt on he was telling me that he added a 'HFJ 56 to the carburetor' or a FGNF32 to the exhaust - basically stuff I know nothing about, but I assumed he wasn’t aware of this. (I am aware that none of the above actually exists. In fact, I don’t know that for sure, so if they do it’s nothing more than a sheer coincidence). Because I was attempting to please him I nodded and added to the conversation as best I could. However, on the Saturday night, and after he had a few beers he told me he knew I had no clue about cars. Clearly, my attempts to keep the conversation going were awful.

Nonetheless, it was a really good night, but I wasn’t ready for bed. Having walked Lysey home I went back into town to catch up with a mate of mine, who has had a desire to go to a proper nightclub in Sydney. Of course, he came to the right man, as I took him to a place that has been voted in the top 100 ‘clubs of the world (I think Dellers polled at 98 in that list, two spots behind Shout) – the Chinese Laundry. The place, a former laundry would you have guessed it, regularly hosts’ international acts and DJs and that weekend (31/1) was no exception: Paul Woolford, a bloody British legend, was headlining and all in attendance (that would be a lot of us) lapped it up.

I haven’t been in many laundries in my life, but the main room is known as the Cave, simply because of its appearance. The low ceilings and underground aura add something extra to a nightclub in my opinion, and I reckon not many laundries would be similar in appearance.

Besides, I was more than happy to go underground because on the surface it’s too hot here in Australia. I gather there has been some news coverage shown back home of the severe heats currently being experienced in Australia. We also take a fair share of news about the snow in Britain, and believe me, I would swap places with you tomorrow. I am over waking up sweating, or walking to work at 630am in blazing sunshine. Like I say to people here, if one is cold you can put a jumper on, but if that very person is hot there isn’t a lot one can do. To give you an indication of how hot it is, my hair product – Dax Wax, a tough putty – literally turned into liquid last weekend (24th) even though it is stored in the bathroom cupboard. This image, I am sure you’ll agree, is much more fitting than any bush fire the media reports.

Moving on, project New Zealand is most definitely a goer, but there is still many a hurdle to clear. To be honest, it's starting to stress me out. To start with, I required a chest x-ray in order to complete my visa application as prior to coming to Australia I spent three months in Asia. As I filled in my application I was tempted to lie about my travels, but if anyone from NZ immigration glanced at the various passport stamps inside I would have some explaining to do (and I'd probably be on the next plane home for lying to immigration). The only positive I can find in this rigmarole (I had to wait a week for the ray and a further week for my results, thus delaying my application further) is that I haven't got TB, the very thing they were searching for. As I collected my results on Wednesday (28th - directly after leaving the pub as I was watching the Tottenham Stoke game) I asked the lass behind the counter if I had passed, to which she said yes.

The actual x-ray itself set me back $84. I was nervous that morning, as I am with anything doctor related (I think I have a phobia. I don't like the way a stranger can dictate one's life with the simplest piece of information) so I was relieved that it only took two seconds to complete. All I had to do was take my top off, stand against a board and breathe in. In total I have paid $204 (about 90 quid) for my visa, which isn't too bad considering I paid over 100 quid for my Australian visa.

In hindsight, my application has proven to be the easiest part. Lysey, who let's face it, is only going to New Zealand because of me, is struggling to find work. Her current employer, IHG (a hotel brand) have invested time and money in her, so rightly they want to see a return on that. Therefore, she has been seeking a transfer from Sydney to any branch over the Tasman. However, because of the economic climate, jobs are sparse, and the only one available required her to fulfill an interview. That took over an hour and a half, and she is not guaranteed the job in the Auckland branch because there are strong internal candidates vying for the job of reservations manager. She should have been informed of an outcome last Thursday (29th), but they have been very slack; they failed to inform her that they are awaiting a final interviewee. Therefore, they are going to make a decision on Tuesday (3/2).

Understandably, it's clear to see the stress I am encountering. Furthermore, if Lysey does get the job she may be required to start on the 9/2. How can she prepare her life in such a short space of time? Moreover, I doubt I will have my visa through by then. On the flip side, if she doesn't get the job I don't know what she'll do over there. Her current contract ended at the start of February, but they have offered her a casual contract for a month. After that, if she doesn't get the job in NZ, who knows what will happen. Like I said, there are too many variables.