Bringing blogging back

She’s back! The self-interested rambler, here to tell you more stories of her really rather run-of-the-mill life experiences. “Haven’t we all got over the blogging?” I hear you cry. Not this girl.

As one of my standard responses to a complainant at work approximately goes “the joy of the internet is that you can stop reading at any time.”

obligatory beach shot

(I've also stuck in some unexplained pictures for some spice, you lucky things)

In a quick recap (editor’s note: having now finished this blog entry, the term ‘quick recap’ should be taken with a pinch of salt) I was sent out to the Sydney office on a 3-month secondment at the beginning of January this year. Having only had my visa granted on December 19^th, I hadn’t really had time to realise that work were actually being serious.

With the belief that I was here by some fluke, gorging on borrowed time, I embarked on a stint of revisiting all my fondest spots and overcrowding all my favourite people in Sydney. If any of you have been unlucky enough to endure my boastful exhibits of these 3 months on Facebook, you’ll have a clear visual on what this involved. By the end of March, I successfully tipped off the right gods and my secondment was extended by a further 3 months.

Mates & beaches = 'Straya

It felt a bit like suspended reality as really, how seriously can you take life when it’s broken up into 3-month blocks? My determination not to have a life plan was finally having some benefits. Having no property, investments or boyfriend really frees one up…

One stipulation of this extension of my secondment was that I had to give up living in a hotel in the centre of the city. As scandalising as that sounds, the ejection was rather timely as I was turning into a spoilt monstrosity. Having fresh sheets every day does that to you.

See look it's my bedroom window view again!

Saved from disgrace, a legendary couple that I had met on my last jaunt to Sydney, James and Heather, offered me a spot in their stunning house in Glebe. Glebe is really only one suburb to the west of the city centre yet it feels like an ornate village. Its rows of colourful houses are skirted by the southern edge of the harbour. James and Heather’s place is surrounded by lush greenery and is a moment’s walk from bakeries, cafes and dusty bookshops galore.

Since then I’ve entered into a life of domestic bliss and reclaimed my favourite pastime, 3^rd wheeling. Peering over their shoulders as they plan their wedding, muscling in on their wholesome evening meals and striding alongside them on their evening dog-walk, living with James and Heather has really allowed me to hone these skills. 

With winter setting in, and Jon Snow back on our screens to tell us so, I would be pretty happy to continue this peaceful setup for a while longer. Australian Immigration is calling though and my visa will expire at the end of June.  Whilst I would be happy as Larry to return to the UK and crash in on everyone’s summers, there is a rumour of another visa in the air. A second visa would grant me residency in Oz for 4 years. Ah! I think would have to start taking life seriously in that sort of scenario. It’s all very very much up in the air at the moment though so for the time being I’m back to pretending I’ve only got a month and a half left here. Honk honk, bring on the steam train!

Drawings, Paintings and Naked People

London life moves at a million miles per hour. 
The moment I have an experience or encounter that I want to describe and revel in, something more thrilling seems to happen. 

It's a glorious city, though challenging in every possible way. At 10 months in, I still feel like a complete newcomer. 

To try to re-engage with this blog (though really as a way to prove to myself I used to apply my myself to something other than the pub) that kept me so happy through Islay and Australia, I decided to include some images of my artwork. 

Please find the link to the page "Drawings, Paintings and Naked People" to the right ----->

My bluey-black period.....

Drained of any of my own creativity by London life, I've taken to relying on this glorious blog www.lettersofnote.com for any abstract thought.

"When copywriter Robert Pirosh landed in Hollywood in 1934, eager to become a screenwriter, he wrote and sent the following letter to all the directors, producers, and studio executives he could think of. The approach worked, and after securing three interviews he took a job as a junior writer with MGM.

Pirosh went on to write for the Marx Brothers, and in 1949 won an Academy Award for his Battleground script.

Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave "V" words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.

I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?


Robert Pirosh
385 Madison Avenue
Room 610
New York
Eldorado 5-6024"

Pick yourself up and try again

I read an article the other day that came out with some cracking theories. According to this magazine, which I bought as part of my "make myself a wiser and more employable individual" drive, we tend to equate happiness with freedom. Freedom being the ability to lead a limitless lifestyle. 

But, it said, 

without obstacles to our desires it's harder to know what we want, or where we're heading. 

It elaborated on the benefits of facing difficulties, and argued that our lives are better as a result of them. 

It is this thought that I've clung to as I've faced the demoralising and confidence crushing exercise of trying to get a job in London. I am not merely a Tentative Graduate anymore, I'm now planning to add Listless Housewife as a byline to this blog. I spend my days pottering around our house in Fulham, cleaning, hanging up Jessie's laundry, waving at our Polish builders, making tea, and writing increasingly crazed covering letters. 

I've written an entire covering letter in film quotes - ending on the line "so go ahead....make my day (and give me a job)." I applied to another job with a Power Point presentation, trying to match my skills with the prerequisite ones. It got tenuous when I tried to say that Helen means "bright" in Greek and surely that was more than just a coincidence. I even tried to write convincingly that my skills and experience made me the ideal candidate to stand on the door of a club in Lederhosen and stamp wrists. 

I'm already nostalgic for the bright eyed and bushy tailed lass that stepped off the train in Kings Cross one month ago. But its something I always knew would happen. Infact, my entire sojourn in Australia could almost be seen as a tactic to avoid this Herculean task for a wee bit longer.

Soon my friends. Soon. And when it happens I'll be damned grateful!

It was acceptable in the 80s....and still is

And so passed another merry summer with all the smuggery of the last. Despite being so distant, in every sense of the word, from the Olympic sporting frenzy of London, we followed it feverishly. Mr French erected a great “Team GB” flag in the garden (far from the eyes of some of the more Nationalistic locals) and every morning’s breakfast conversation was focussed solely on which sport was going to be played and won by Britain that day.  The advantage of writing this entry post rather than pre-Olympics is I can get away with that kind of self-aggrandisement. Go Team GB!

I was relieved to find that there is even a chance of my competing in the next Olympics. Some may follow in the steps of great swimmers and rowers, but I chose the less glorified path of the Speed-Walker. With hips jutting wildly and arms clenched like giant claws, Rio 2016 - here I come.

Following Islay, I have safely ensconced myself back into the warm bosom of my family. With no Maclean do’s on the horizon the household is feeling rather quiet. As a break from my foremost occupation, absent-mindedly staring out the window, I have taken to wandering around the house looking at photo collages to pass the time. As I moved between them something odd struck me though, by some cross-temporal anomaly my older sister Sarah’s childhood outfits of the late 80s/early 90s appeared to be bizarrely fashionable in 2012. And you can’t deny…. By the looks of things she knows it.

Our fashion jury check out the photos below:

Take Sarah at 3. Here Sarah daringly layers a waistcoat channelling this coming Autumn’s polka-dot print trend over an 80s-inspired striped jumper. To make the look work she has coyly tucked the jumper into a simple high-waisted denim skirt and finished the look off with some white tights. Fab!

Here, Sarah (10) has taken some serious style notes from Valentino’s recent summer collection with this over-sized 90s knit. The bright clash of colour really screams summer and by adding some understated black jeans and green wellies, she has made this look wearable for both the high street and festivals. And don’t she know it? You go girl!

Sarah (4) is joined here by sassy sister Miranda (2) as they work this Autumn’s trends. We love Miranda’s use of colour blocking as she flies the flag for the Parisian style houses. By combining the bold shades of red, white and blue in her retro dungarees and t-shirt combination this girl has got chic down to an artform. We also can’t get enough of her accessorising, the red drawstring handbag and over-sized blue fimo earrings really tie the look together. Sarah meanwhile, has opted for a more whimsical look, matching an embellished cream blouse with a pink babydoll skirt and a pair of whiter-than-white ankle socks. We’re glad her trademark feisty scowl stops this ensemble being too saintly.

 We’ve seen high street stores packed with floral print jeans this summer, but once again Sarah (8) got there first. She offsets their classic slim-cut of these gorgeous jeans with a modest polo neck and boxed fleece, making sure to co-ordinate the blues all the way up to her edgy Alice band.  A wear-anywhere winning outfit!

 Where to start with this little fashion-savvy ensemble?! As always style-concious Sarah of course. Sarah (far left, 6) shows us how to work the Summer 2012 midi-skirt trend by modernising it with socks and glittering gold ballet flats. Topping it off with that casual-cool floral t-shirt adds that extra zing!

 Snapped here on her way to work, Sarah (5) brings new meaning to office-attitude. Her demure choices of pale chunky knit and floral leggings (Trend Alert!) are immediately given definition with this oversized handbag with Minnie Mouse print that we are just LUSTING after. See you at the board meeting sista!

This is what happens when I’m left to my own devices. Hold on to your seats for the next instalment….. (she adds with a heavy dose of sarcasm)

Et in Arcadia ego

A few weeks on from the Clan affair and I have found myself relocating once again. Ever indulgent and with a slight regressive tendency, I decided to allow myself one last summer of idyllic seclusion on the Isle of Islay. 

Nothing has changed. The sun is still beating down, the ponies impeccable and the French's company first class! 

I'm trying to use this time productively, beginning my quest of self-betterment that I have been in sore need of since Sydney where I spent far too much time staring at a computer screen and attempting to eat myself into a better state of mind. Dealing with 25 ponies, all with the strength of a medium-sized tractor, takes care of the fitness issue, and I've been facilitating my spare time to get back into drawing, doing lots of writing and attempting to read all the books I've been intending on reading for months. No I'm NOT talking about 50 Shades of Grey. 

As it's my day off, I'm currently lying on a hillside on a bed of daisies and dandelions, being eyed suspiciously by the mammoth bull Prince whose field this is. The sea is silvery, blending seamlessly with the dimmed shades of blue sky. Ireland is out of sight today, only visible on those crystal clear days where all the hues of the sea are powerful topazes and turquoises. I'm in Arcadia!

The only negative note to all this is that it has to end and I have to find my next job for September in London. With this in mind I'm erroneously attempting to shift my mental state from wildly content and whimsical to that of a contestant on 'The Apprentice.' Can I be a real prat and quote a poem by Herman Hesse? Only because it really is relevant... I promise. 

"Often I tried the frightening way of "reality,"

Where things that count are profession, law, fashion, finance,

But disillusioned and freed I fled away alone

To the other side, the place of dreams and blessed folly." 

That about says it all. 

Death or Victory

The fabled week of Macleanarama started off surprisingly low-key. The programme leading up the main day of revelry largely consisted of tours and talks based around small collections of rocks around Mull and drinks parties that us "young things" weren't invited to. My Mum kindly let us lie low in our cabin overlooking Tobermory harbour, only emerging to shout insults down at my Dad's friends who gathered there daily to compare scabbards. I should add that my Dad was the ringleader of this exploit. 

There was a concert evening in the marquee next to Duart Castle (the Clan castle) where Dougie Maclean made a cameo and performed his "world famous" 'Caledonia.' Is it sacrilege that I've never heard it? After him the lovely Gaelic laments continued and we were taught THE MACLEAN SONG! I did not know we had one, and the only bit I now remember goes "and we gather, gather, gather, like  the sons of loyal men." The rest I will happily improvise if I'm ever mocked into reciting it after a few glasses of wine. Later, just at the point where heads were beginning to nod, a band of men in 16th century Highland costume broke into the tent yelling "Get out! The Campbells are coming!!" I.Kid.You.Not. 

At that, we all evacuated and hovered awkwardly at the base of the hill leading to the castle. Clearly not stirred enough, the actors had repeat the cry "Defend Duart from the Campbells!" and we hobbled forward. I write hobbled because the average age of these "Maclean warriors" was genuinely 70, there were even a few wheelchairs amongst us. Nevertheless, on we went to the sound of musket fire being sent into the darkness behind until the dreaded Campbells were "killed off." Mercifully the fireworks then began and we didn't have to do much more than make supportive noises and complain about draughts for the rest of the night. I think this should go out as a warning to anyone planning on mustering an army at short notice not to target those who attend Gaelic singing concerts by choice. 

When equipped with my bullet-proof kilt, I was almost triumphant when the big day dawned in a thick fug of greyness. At the castle, the hordes had gathered to await the grand procession. Chieftans were herded to the front along with their flag bearers and anyone else garbed convincingly enough in tweed to pass as a big shot in the clan. The rest followed after and the slow walk up to the castle proceeded in all the heraldic dignity the Clan Maclean could hope for. At the doors to the castle my Dad stepped forward for his big moment, reciting in Gaelic the words his grandfather had said 100 years earlier, telling the Chief that his clan awaits him. Top that Mel Gibson. 

Robin 'Bravehat' Maclean

After that peak, the rest of the day played out in a melee of pipe music, speeches, white hair and (faux) musket fire. One of my Dad's friends was put in-charge of the tannoy. I'm not sure whether that was in spite of or  because of the fact he always sounds a little sloshed... Anyway, it was entertaining enough to hear his commentary boomed across the acres of land in general, but he really peaked when he lost his wife and repeatedly asked over the sound system whether anyone had seen her. I think someone swiftly took over from that.

After a group photo and a few more songs (I swear this is not a cult) my immediate family of 8 (these points have to be clarified in this context!) sidled off to regather strength before throwing ourselves back into the lions den of family fun - a night of ceilidh dancing. Thankfully my sisters and I had been headhunted during the day by some youngsters who, by a series of covert nods and winks, communicated that the Young Macleans were going to have drinks beforehand in Tobermory. Finding we had more in-common with one another than having hair pigment and identical surnames, the pre-drinks turned out to be great fun.  

The sizeable bunch of new Maclean friends had already whittled down the key features that make a Maclean - laughter lines and a smile gets you away with anything. The latter I can definitely NOT attest to. My smile only owns to my guilt or awkwardness. The laughter lines are impending. 

When in Rome

Regardless, these outgoing types had our haphazard group of youngsters boozed up in readiness for the rest of the nights dancing in a flash of that smile. Tragically the evening did not end with another rendition of the Maclean song, but there were free venison burgers which I judge to be a fair compromise. My sisters and I left Mull the next day in the blazing sunshine, feeling grateful to return to relative normality. After a few days of it though, I'm starting to think that normality has lost its edge. The brainwash has been a success...The three foremost questions on my mind are now - when can I attack a Campbell again? when is the next gathering? and how easy will it be to get Tom Cruise to initiate? 

And I would walk 500 miles...

I now know why people travel, it turns out that returning home from 9 months away is about the funnest experience possible. After almost two days of twiddling my thumbs on the long haul flight back to Britain, willing those propeller engines to whirr just a little faster, I was ecstatic to land in a drizzly and grey Heathrow airport at the beginning of June. Through my rose tinted spectacles everyone I spoke to was full of good humour, every building I looked at was eked in history and the name of every street sounded homely and familiar. This is in London, the place I've probably spent altogether a month in in my whole life. Just imagine how I was going to react North of the border?  

Ignoring my pleas of jet lag and behaving like pushy mother crossed with an army major (let's not forget she joined the OTC in first year), Jessie had me showered, champagned and ready to go to the pub within 2 hours of landing. The pub was filled with almost all the wonderful people I had been pining for all year and I immediately knew I'd done the right thing in coming back. The rest of that week followed in a heady haze of the delights of London and I boarded the flight to Glasgow the following Monday feeling slightly broken. So much for stepping off the plane from Oz brimming with sunshine and cheery stories. My Dad picked me up at the other end and whizzed me up North to the homeland. 

Now, when I was in Australia I always reasoned that people were so baffled by the stories of my upbringing because I was exaggerating ever so slightly - rrrrolling my r's and throwing in more references to tartan than is ever acceptable. However, it turns out that if anything, my family got more extreme in my absence. I probably timed my first week back in Scotland quite badly as it was the run up to the Clan Maclean International Gathering 2012. The Maclean household, being avid supporters of all that is clanaholic, was getting PRETTY heated. No "how was Australia?'s" or "not such a tentative graduate now eh?'s" for me. Instead, I was immediately enslaved to preparations for the gathering; covering any visible possession in tartan, even our dog's collar, and cooking lunches for the various Macleans passing through on their way to the Mecca of Macleandom - the Isle of Mull. Those Macleans didn't care I'd just come back Australia, they'd probably come further..and purely for this event. 

It's really hard to describe to anyone that hasn't been brought up in the midst of a clan the significance of all this. 1,000 distant relatives descending on a wee island to celebrate the one thing they have in common can more easily be alikened to the early stages of a cult than a traditional family gathering. But this is Scotland, and we blaze our own trail for family get-togethers. This one only comes around every 5 years and is the 100th anniversary of our first official one. Having been washing my hair over the last few, I thought this one should not be missed. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation I am re-packing my bag. My Surry Hills hipster skirts have been replaced with bullet-proof tartan ones and my suncream with woad. Actually that was a lie… I don't own any hipster skirts. I am also rehearsing the all important battle cry of the Macleans as it may become scarily relevant to the week ahead; "Death or Victory!" 

Here goes...

Cometh the theme, cometh the woman

One part of Australia which I have left deplorably bereft of mention in this blog is the country’s love of fancy dress. Time and again I’ve been forced out of my floral comfort zone to don various guises for themed parties as wide ranging as “Where the Wild Things Are” to “3^rd World War Robots in Hawaii.” 

Perhaps the most successful costume to date though was becoming a strawberry for the Australian version of The Secret Garden Party. The Secret Garden party is a newcomer to the Australian festival circuit, largely organised by friends of friends and seemingly attended by just about everyone I’ve met in Australia so far. 

Amy Robinson's fantastic photography
This year it was on the verge of being cancelled thanks to the flashfloods that have characterised this Sydney summer, but instead was reduced to one stage and no live bands.  A write-off you might think? 
No my friend. Not so easily will an Australian be put-off a chance to dress up. I went along in a monster of a vehicle, blasting out 90s songs (all of a sudden worryingly ‘retro’) and piled high with Croatian-Australians happily slipping from one language to the next. True to the title, it was an impossible site to find, a mudbath hidden behind walls of bushes in a field on the outskirts of Sydney, but absolutely heaving with excitement. People had gone to TOWN with their costumes and mercifully there wasn’t a single sexy cat in sight. 

I clambered into the giant foam strawberry lent to me by Heather (now dressed as one half of a Double Rainbow) who had handed it over saying “you will enjoy this” with a knowing glint in her eye. She was right, I have NEVER had so many unsolicited hugs in my life. The comic effect of my frugality only maximised my approachability. Where most people had sensibly bought some “gum” boots to face this knee-high mud, I insisted on wearing flimsy shoes encased in plastic bags. I don’t think Aussies have ever come across this method before, a trick, I told them, that was all down to my Scottish ingenuity. 

What followed next was comparable only to a Bacchic revel (without the sleazy inferences), or some unintended mud-wrestling championship, in front of the remaining stage. Not only were we treated to some epic DJ-ing, but the organisers knew how to make this festival truly stand out by organising a flashmob synchronised dance to Whitney Houston's "I wanna dance with somebody."  Quite potentially one of the best moments of my life. 

Just a small aside, did I mention there was unlimited free booze? 

Talking of Bacchic revels (again, sans the whole orgiastic nonsense), I was lucky enough to be invited to my old housemate Lau’s 21^st themed “Where the Wild Things Are.” Situated down in the Southern Highlands, it bore some uncanny resemblances to my 21^st : fields, fires, hog roast, massive speakers, obscure theme and wonderful people (I’m just buttering you all up now!). I was plagued with nostalgia! 

In order to waylay the oncoming hypothermia from the chilling winds of the south, we spent the night dancing like idiots amongst the smoke and flying hay, or all but clambering into the heaving mass of bonfire. The boys took it upon themselves to keep this bonfire stocked up and so would go off in animal onesie-clad roving parties to triumphantly bring back the biggest log they could haul between them. The last log to be found was so gargantuan that the last of the revellers were able to dance on top of it, surrounded by the sizzling embers. 

We camped amongst the nearby woods, each tent overflowing with bodies, fur coats and beery fumes - a fitting tribute to Where The Wild Things Are!

Homeless and happy

Commencing my last month in Sydney homeless and penniless you would think I would be a little ashamed. On the contrary, I haven’t got a regret in the world!  At the end of March I packed up my belongings and set off for a month long adventure which would take me all over New Zealand and down to Melbourne.   

Risking a lifetime of abuse, Lydia and I had decided to board the big green emblem of all that is Gap Year tragedy, the Kiwi Experience bus, as it seemed like the easiest way to get round the country. It was that, but so much more.

Imagine a bus filled with 50 of your new best friends (I renamed the Kiwi Experience 'Rent-a-mate") going from one epic location to the next for 3 weeks. We laughed, we cried,* we worked out syncopated dance routines to terrify locals, but most importantly ; we saw the best country on this whole damn earth.

When people now ask me what New Zealand was like, words escape me. I can only let out this strained wail that sounds like a cross between a lonesome wolf and a woman in labour (not the Harriet Harman type)- it was just too brilliant. For such a small landmass, there is almost every type of terrain; whilst on one day we might be clambering over the cliffs of a wave battered shoreline, the next we could be kayaking through an untouched rainforest. It wasn’t all goon sacks and arms-wide photo posing (or as I like to call it, the panic pose), we did some fairly strenuous stuff.  

(This rather long extract from my journal sums it up with a bit more aplomb)


" Easter Sunday! And what better way to see it in than by nearly killing myself with exertion? We boarded the bus bound for the Tongarero Crossing (aka the path to Mount Doom) at 5.30am to arrive at 7 feeling more excited and cheery than we’d be for the rest of the day.

The first part involved getting up Devil’s Staircase (aptly named). Once there it was a short walk to the base of Mount Doom where, if you made it before 9.15am, you’d be able to start the long ascent.

I really hadn’t planned on doing it as it is RIDICULOUSLY steep and RIDICULOUSLY high, but I realised I couldn’t wimp out of the opportunity. Julia, Gavin (an excitable and somewhat sweaty Englishman) and I made a pact to give up together if one of us couldn’t make it. After that it was 2 hours of climbing hand over hand up the most sheer slope.When Frodo and Sam are half-sobbing and near death as they scramble up the mountain in “The Return of the King,” they weren’t acting. 

There was such camaraderie amongst all of the tortured climbers as all the way up we’d repeatedly bump into each other, collapsed across one rock or another, and gasp out words of encouragement. The penultimate summit revealed that the real summit split into two. The smaller, on the left, steamed as though on the verge of eruption! The one on the right was the ridge of a giant crater. Its sides were made of scree so crumbly that as soon as you had clawed your way a little higher, you would immediately slide back to exactly where you had been. So ruddy disheartening. I can see why Frodo gave up. We all ate our lunches at the top with much cheering and open-mouthed awe at the views below us. Below the scattering of clouds, we could see Lake Taupo in the far distance and a few hidden Emerald Lakes of the purest green. The terrain ebbed and flowed in the most startling array of blues and greens with barely a mark of human habitation visible.

When descending we had to take the route that falling lava would, which basically meant we surfed rocks down the mountain. This proved both hilarious and awful. Nicky even managed an accidental front flip.

There was also a terrifying moment when someone dislodged a boulder at the top. It started erratically pounding down the mountain at such a pace. The people going up and down started yelling “boulder!” and I’m pretty sure I heard a man scream. Even though in reality I’m sure it was about 20 metres away from me, I did a blockbuster style dive out of the way leaving me pretty shaken.

When we finally got to the bottom we were so ridiculously pleased with ourselves, the box of extreme exertion surely ticked. That was until we caught a glimpse of the sign for the road ahead, a 4 hour trek.

I decided to lone wolf it and so carried on into the crater beyond. It was so startlingly red and barren that I was reminded of images of Mars. The path went straight through the centre of its flat expanse with the huge ridge forming a wall around it. Heart-breakingly there were two more hills to climb beyond. My muscles were crying out and it really didn’t help that I had drunk all of my water. A kind Scouse chappy took pity on me and gave me the last of his water. When I caught up with him later I did my best to communicate that I’d thought he’d saved my life.

The second hills’ summit was the most spectacular of all. It afforded a perfect view down to the Emerald Lakes which contrasted so vividly with the rusty red of the rocks that encased them. It was one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen.

Beyond that point the landscape got greener and milder. The path skirted around the last hill, once again showing the beauty of Lake Taupo, and down to a hut where all the trampers sat around laughing and joking about the day. It seems everyone had seen the boulder incident. I chatted with the Scouses at the end and we found ourselves some of the first people down. Lyds and a gorgeous Danish girl, Ann-Sophie, caught up not long afterwards and we agreed that rather than going back to the hostel and crashing we would head straight to the hot water stream just outside Taupo. This awesome natural phenomenon of a cascading waterfall of hot water meeting the meander of a broad, cool river makes the most perfect bathing spot. Locals take beers and spliffs down there and lie in the shallows until the last of the rays of the day sink out of sight. Some of the boys that had finished even earlier came down to join us and we all took turns dunking ourselves in the freezing stream and lying back down in the warm and fresh bliss of the pool. “

Through a mixture of peer pressure and “when in Rome” attitude I also allowed myself to be thrown out of a plane at 12,000ft. I would have been more relaxed at the crucial moment had I not just witnessed the parachute of the guy before me being cut away mid-air...comforting. It was arguably one of the best things I've ever done though and I couldn't wipe the smile off my face for hours afterwards. 

There were so many other adventures and hilarity that when it came to leaving New Zealand and the entire bus crew, who were resolutely sticking around in Queenstown for another fortnight, I was utterly torn and VERY nearly didn't board my flight to Melbourne. I'm so glad I did though as Melbourne was awesome. I dread to say that I actually preferred it to Sydney. The streets were broad and leafy but hid stunningly contemporary back-alleys filled with street art and hidden curiosities. I spent the week chugging coffee, going to zany art exhibitions and discovering a new love for 90s hip-hop. Yes, Matthew, tonight I am going to be "edgy." 

I have now returned to relative normality, if you can call sleeping on your friend's boyfriend's sofa normality, and am trying to squeeze every last ounce of Sydney out of Sydney before I say goodbye to it and some of its fantastic inhabitants for an extremely long time.

I should also say that my blog 'stats' inform me that my biggest readership (upwards of 1) is in Alaska. Thank you Alaska.

*Factually incorrect