Not remotely Byronic

I just wrote and deleted a whole soul-searching entry because, let's face it, this isn't the X Factor. You don't need to hear my woes, especially since any impact they may have would be lost without the backing of Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars." Let's cut instead to the good parts, the "best of" clips, as they justify the harder times I've faced in this city. (Soundtrack - Black Sabbath 'Crazy Train') 

Lydia and I decided back in December that we needed to actually start seeing some of Australia and so booked cheapo flights to Byron Bay, hallowed site of many Gap Year Tragedies. The dates of the trip helpfully landed near enough to Valentine’s Day for us to be able to label our adventure a Valentine’s Boycott (ahh bitterness, hello again old friend).

We took Friday off and jetted up at the crack of dawn to land in the paradise that marks the most Easterly point in Australia, and yet is only an inch or so up the map from Sydney (God this country is big). It was everything that Google images had churned out; white sand, turquoise sea, not a suit in sight... but so much more. The atmosphere was the closest I’ve found, barring the Gili islands off Bali, to that utopian 70s idyll. Everyone was in their happy place, as evidenced by Byron's local hero Tommy Franklin. This is him on a dull day - Byron Bay's Dancing Man

Lyds and I settled ourselves in for three glorious days of beaching and exploring the long stretches of coastland. Oh and not forgetting a little bit of nightlife exploration in which dancing on tables and judging topless men contests are just some of the team building exercises implemented at these reputable venues. Unfortunately in a post-club dash to the sea I suddenly found my progress hampered by an unexpected hole in the ground. The hole cruelly decided to take some layers of skin as ransom, leaving my legs in a none too attractive state. I was more than able to laugh it off at the time but it was a different story when I turned up for our "How to be super-slick in PR" (cue finger banging and glittering smiles) training on Monday morning at work looking like I'd been using my legs to sand wood. 

Thinking 'youthful japes' would be a good cover-up I stammered my way through an obscure story involving a bike accident, hoping this would deter further questioning. When one of my colleagues (yeah, I say that word now) pressed me further though, someone helpfully shouted across the office "Leave her alone, she was in Byron, she was drunk" and that was that…  

Like hunks of floating ship in the freezing waters of the Atlantic, friends from home become a bit like life rafts in Sydney. If we were to continue with this Titanic analogy (for some reason I seem to like bringing it into this blog) then I would cast myself not as dainty Rose or brave Jack, but that desperate man who nearly drowns Rose to save himself. 

Will Innes has become one such victim of my over-excited floundering while he continues his own personal quest on his move out to Oz of "Man vs Scottish Skintone." As a result, we've been trundling around beaches together most weekends. We even found ourselves at the Australian Open Surf Championships in Manly at one point, attempting to fit in with the tormented teeny boppers watching a 15 year old girl band perform (truly the purest form of rock) because we couldn't get in to the stadium sized skate bowl further down the beach. As Innes' radioactive sunburn became only light left in the day  the music got a bit more credible, creating a fantastic backing track to the iconic image of some incredible surfers riding the crests of the evening waves. 

The next night the centre of Sydney once more played host to a fantastic night of art, culture, community and most importantly FREE entertainment with Tropfest. Tropfest is an expose of short films from around Australia broadcast from on three screens mounted around a great stand in the same spot as the Sydney Festival opening night performances. Arriving late, I was astounded by the sight of some 40,000 people, propped up on picnic rugs, their laughing faces lit purely by the images on the screen. Not to sound like a complete raving hippy… but it was quite beautiful! Of course the dream had to be shattered with the subsequent thunderstorm that rained down on the happy crowd, a running theme (har har) for what is Sydney's worst summer in 50 years. 50 years. If this were a Neighbours episode at least 3 of the main characters would've been killed off for just being unexpectedly damp.

The woes to which I made brief mention to earlier are that I've been offered sponsorship to stay on here essentially as long as I like. I know, lucky sod eh? But I'm slightly given over to pining for old Blighty. I'm now faced with the hardest decision I've ever had to make between following my heart home to freunden, or following my head and staying here for the job… Think it'll have to be a coin toss..