While flicking through a friend’s photos on Facebook recently I found myself staring quite intently at one particular image with a weird sense of deja vu. It was of this huge old tree which had grown right in the middle of a decaying temple. Forced its way through solid stone and just sat there looking mighty pleased with itself. I felt like I’d been there, I could even imagine what the place smelt like. But this picture was from Cambodia, where I’ve not (yet) ventured. Something about it gave me itchy feet, I wanted to see this thing for real, even though I felt like I already had.

Then it came it me. I’d spent a good six years of my life falling asleep next to that image. A postcard. A bloody postcard! My brother went off travelling when I was still fairly young (young enough that we he came home from his travels I walked straight past him in the street and didn’t register who he was). Every few months we’d get a voicemail from him, which always lead to my mum effing and blinding that “The ONLY TIME I don’t pick up the phone, it’s always bloody Phillip”, and soon after resulted in her answering the phone even if she was perched on the loo (a habit she’s not broken yet). I seem to remember getting emails from him occasionally, although I might be imagining that… my brother’s really old, I think we were still using carrier pigeons when he travelled.

One time a little package arrived addressed to me. It was battered and covered in customs stickers, and rocked up in about October (not sure whether it was a really late birthday or a really well organised Christmas present). Inside were a few postcards, a little handmade necklace and a gorgeous silk pouch. Some bits came from Vietnam, some from Cambodia, some from Australia. They all smelt very unfamiliar – a musty smell which I now associate with living in dusty hot countries and not bathing for weeks on end (go stick your face in a backpacker’s luggage if you want to know for yourself). I still remember every day looking at that cheesy postcard of Sydney (you know, blue skies, opera house, harbour bridge, I think there were some Olympic Rings in there too) and thinking how awfully far away it seemed. I treasured that photo because I imagined I’d never actually get to see somewhere on the other side of the world. Every time I see the Opera House, I still get goosebumps which cover me from the tips of my toes to the split ends of my hair. I pinch myself on a weekly basis, because it all used to seem so unlikely. 

I’m suffering from a case of the itchy feet at the minute (as usual) – my job is still amazing, I love this city and I love the weather, but I’ve been stationary for a loooong time now. I can’t imagine ever being satisfied with one place for the rest of my life. I start wheezing at the thought of signing a six-month contract, so to sign up for a mortgage or marriage makes me want to run very fast in the direction of the nearest exotic clime and grow some dreads.

I want to do yoga on top of a mountain, I want to swim with turtles (dolphins don’t do it for me), I want to see REAL snow (not the shitty English slush), I want to ride a horse through a desert and hike rain forests in South America. I can think of nothing more appealing that eating questionable food from a street vendor in South East Asia, or partying in a Rio carnival, or watching some obscure band in a grimy Brooklyn basement. It seems like the more I do, and the more people I meet, the longer my bucket list becomes. So, my darling brother, thank you. What may have seemed like a 50c postcard you ironically purchased after a few too many Vodka & Strawberry Milkshakes (really? So disgusting) actually turned out to be pretty significant. Although I did just get bitten by a mosquito, which wouldn’t have happened if I still lived in Peterborough. So you know, you’re not all great.

*Yes, I’m aware I could probably have written this all in an email to my brother, but I’m an over-sharer.

Flash back to around five weeks ago and you’ll find me on my hands and knees with my head in an oven (in the least suicidal way possible), desperately scrubbing at stubborn grease in an attempt to please our obsessive hosts.  Cleaning an oven to their standards involves an array of screwdrivers, and it’s a twice-a-week job. THERE IS MORE TO LIFE THAN CLEANING OVENS. Anyway, in walks aforementioned obsessive host, and fires me.

That’s right. We got fired from VOLUNTEER WORK. I truly believe that says much more about our hosts than it does about us. Although we were hugely grateful for the incredible accommodation, free afternoons and impressive views, we found ourselves frustrated and exasperated on an hourly basis – usually resulting in daily tears on my part. Exhausted from watching me cry all the time and with his brain slowly turning to monotonous-chore-induced mush, Sean eventually lost his temper and politely told our host where she could stick her opinions. She seemed irritated that Sean had mown around the large rocks on the lawn, despite issuing those specific instructions to him just minutes earlier… we considered that she was perhaps suffering from dementia, but in the end decided she just had a nasty case of unpleasantness. And so, without protest, we packed our bags and set out on a hunt to find something more suitable.

We’d always known that farm work was a requirement of the visa, but we were really hoping that we wouldn’t be counting down the days until home time and would instead find ourselves in inspiring and interesting work. Enter farm no. 2, which far exceeds all of our wildest expectations.

Our host is kind, generous, curious and a self-confessed nutcase. Current projects here include drenching and shearing sheep, marking calves, caring for a small army of birds, planting veggies, designing and building a new house, speed weeding (my favourite kind of weeding), developing a website, organising a library, renovating a campervan, mowing lawns, taking photos, and constantly helping out friends and neighbours. Boredom is pretty low down on the agenda.

And so to the animals – as well as owning two large blocks filled with sheep and cattle, the home itself is surrounded by furry creatures. We’re caring for four chickens, twelve newborn chicks, a rooster, ten ducks, five fish, a large male cow, a tiny poddy calf (no mother) and now an incubator full of soon-to-be ducklings.

The animals have little regard for the complex system of fences and gates that divide up the land – if there is a weakness in your fence, a sheep will find it and wander through to the grass-is-always-greener other side. They also don’t care whether this fence backs onto more of your land or someone else’s, so we often get phone calls from the neighbours to inform us that sheep/Baz are eating their flowerbeds. These phone calls are always followed by a hair-raising ride at breakneck speeds in order to catch and herd the culprits back to where they belong. I asked Andrew how he manages to drive so damn fast and keep an eye on the animals at the same time – he replied that he very rarely actually looks where he’s driving – I shouldn’t have asked.

On one of our trips to the largest block to check the sheep, we spied a small furry black lump lying in the shade. Closer inspection revealed it to be a tiny calf, miles away from its mother, malnourished, and in a paddock which the cows had never had access to (how she got herself in there is a bit of a mystery!). She was quickly christened Daisy – original – and has now become my little project. She lets you know if you’re late feeding her by gently head-butting the back door and mooing. She’s shooting up by the day, and is currently all gangly legs and gorgeous eyelashes. I’m a little obsessed. A couple of times this week I’ve accidentally squirted milk up her nose, which always results in a sneezing fit, which usually results in farting fits, which always results in me chuckling to myself for a solid twenty minutes.

Another one of the creatures pottering around the farm is the oversized baby who answers to the name Baz. Our host rescued him when he was of a similar age and malnourished state as Daisy, and hand reared him into the 600kg jet-black bull he is today. Baz still has the nature of a calf – he’ll wander over to investigate whatever projects you’re working on, be it planting vegetables or hanging out laundry, and apparently loves to snuggle. Completely unaware of his own strength, and armed with a rather pointy pair of horns, we had to embark on the unpleasant task of dehorning the poor chap. Our host told us it was just like cutting toenails. What he didn’t tell us is that it’s like cutting toenails WITH A CHAINSAW. Poor Baz kicked and wriggled as his huge horns were chopped off, blood literally spurting out of him in a way I thought only happened in cartoons. Half an hour later, he was staring me in the eye through the kitchen window, his left horn still forlornly spurting blood. I suspect he blames me. I give Baz even more space after that event.

I was always under the impression that roosters crowed at dawn, which is correct, but ours also crows when he’s startled, pleased, hungry, walking, sitting, observing, eating, scratching, raping (he does a lot of this), windswept, cold, hot, restless, or roostering. His body clock is definitely out of whack. I clipped his wings last week to stop him getting into the duck pen and attacking them – ever since then, he puffs himself up and glares whenever I’m in his proximity. I seem to be angering a lot of the animals here…

For those who haven’t already guessed it, I won’t be touching down in the sunny UK in August as planned. Something about this enormous red island has drawn me in and it won’t let me go. I have a face tan for the first time in my life, which on its own is a huge point on the pro-Australia list.

One of the main reasons we’re staying put for longer is a lack of forward planning – we kind of accidentally forgot to save a single cent for travelling (which is what we were here for in the first place). Instead, we set up a home with our fluffy cat and delicious housemate, we observed the erection of an outdoor entertainment centre, I lived my usual rum-fuelled weekend lifestyle while Sean filled our home with gadgets and furnishings. Sydney is an awesome city, full of tiny bars and kind people and parks. After shuttling between houses spread across England for the last eight years, staying in one place and putting my suitcase into retirement is appealing, and Sydney seems like the ideal place to do so.

My mind was pretty much made up – amazing job, lovely home, great weather (sometimes) – but Sean was ready to pack up and get back to his old lifestyle. He knows he could pick up work in pretty much any city and carry on where he left off, which is something I’m massively jealous of. I know that once I’m back I’ll be straight into post-graduation-what-do-I-do-now no man’s land. After hearing the struggles of finding a decent job in the UK, I’m in no rush to leave my beloved position here, where my boss is one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met and all the other employees are twelve-foot tall models.

So how did we decide where to spend the next year of our lives? Easy. Which option made me cry the least? I don’t mean to be such an emotional blackmailer, but the thought of abandoning our travel plans and heading back to England made me burst into big salty face-squishy tears. I’m a brat, and I got my own way. Whoops.

Australia doesn’t make it easy to stay though – unless you can get a company to sponsor you (which is costly, lengthy, and complicated), you have to go and complete three months of “Agricultural labour”. 88 days of weeding, fruit picking, cattle herding, digging, building, or whatever you feel like doing. One thing that’s for certain – it will be poorly paid (or voluntary), it will be rural, and you will get dirty.

The cows on our farm are beautiful – jet black with neat schoolgirl fringes which tickle their long lashes. They are also bold and not too bright. Most mornings we open the door of our small self-contained bungalow to find at least one of these cows has escaped and is investigating the flower beds. I think there is a ringleader with these guys, and I’ve named him Clive. He seems to be the cow who is nominated to test whether or not the electric fence is switched on, and is always first over causing havoc.

The farm dog does NOT like cows, and will quite quickly alert you to their presence with her hysterical barking. She was advertised as a puppy… when we arrived we discovered a ten-month-old pile of fur, muscle and boundless energy who spends 23 hours a day running in frantic circles. Clover steals shoes, carries mice around like trophies and will punch her way through solid wooden doors in order to sit on your lap (she weighs about four stone)

I’m not saying I don’t miss things back home, hell no. I miss my mum’s cooking and the smell of her fresh laundry and playing with her beautiful red hair. I miss my dad’s random hugs and our attempts to cook roast dinners and forcing him to watch my terrible television (which he secretly loves). I miss getting extortionately tipsy and falling down stairs with the girls from uni, baking extravagant cakes for no reason with Helena, and finishing Bryony’s sentences for her on shopping trips. There are a lot of people I miss, but things are better here.

So, one month down and just 8 ½ weeks left to go on this enormous farm with panoramic views over the Coffs Coast.  I won’t promise to write another post while we’re here, because unless you have a particular interest in weeding, there isn’t much more to say.

Note – This is the amalgamation of a dozen other half-blogs/rambles, which is why it’s long. And poor.

Sydney has got an infestation problem. A problem besides the roaches, mosquitos, rats, snakes, spiders, fleas etc. This city is overrun with bearded, sunglassed, shoeless men. Each one is accompanied by a half-fringed, short shorted, John-Lennon sunglassed female counterpart. There are hipsters as far as the eye can see – spilling out of tiny cafes clutching soy chai lattes, nonchalantly lounging in parks with fluffy white dogs, and smoking roll-ups outside bars so small and secret it’s like being on Crystal Maze trying to get in.

For a couple who moved to Australia with every intention of “travelling” – camper van, rucksacks, dirt, tans, dreadlocks (for Sean), beaded necklaces, sand in places, dry/no shampoo – we seem to have stayed in one place for a bloody long time. But we’ve certainly spread ourselves across inner Sydney during our time here, living in several houses and hostels across the city.

We started off in the Cross, which we’ve now learned was probably the worst first impression of Sydney we could have had. Rookie mistake. Onto Surry Hills – the house where we suffered through the worst of summer, leaving the doors open 24/7 and thus having to deal with Surry Hills wanderers nosying into the living room. One guy in particular liked to stick his thumbs in his ears, poke his tongue out and say “naa naa na naa naa”, four-year-old stylee. And let’s not forget the woman who walked her pet pig past the door every so often. Next up was Newtown, the hippy heart of the Inner West. Here we acquired two awesome cats, who regrettably came with REALLY AWESOME INDESTRUCTIBLE FLEAS. Newtown’s great for vintage shopping, beer gardens, and dog spotting (there’s a park which I used to sit in after work just so that I could get cuddles from strangers’ dogs. It was like that beach scene in Marley and Me). But we quickly learned that you don’t need to actually live in Newtown to enjoy these things. In fact, living there involved nightmareish commutes to work, fleas, being directly beneath the flight path (seriously Sydney, why is your airport so close to the damn city centre?!), scary drunk hippies, and taxis which could never find your home so would just leave you stranded in the suburban labyrinth at 5 am. We quite quickly decided that living there just wasn’t worth the cheap rent we were enjoying and started looking elsewhere, apparently kissing goodbye to our $500 deposit which seems to have been sucked into one of those damn low-flying planes.

And so, back to trawling through gumtree classifieds. We viewed a place we loved with great people our age who seemed to enjoy beer and goldfish. We viewed a place which was okay but where we could barely hold a conversation with the existing housemates (although they seemed pretty set on holding intense eye contact. Weird.) We arranged to view a super swanky inner city terrace with a man whose name I don’t remember and a sausage dog named Doug, before deciding that we didn’t really want to live there and just wanted to live with Dougdog. Finally I stumbled across this advert which mentioned a sun room/study, a fluffy cat, and wine. Sold. When do we move in?

Our new house is perfect for us – cosy, central, and fully equipped with cat and exposed brick walls. We can’t get a shower that lasts longer than 4 minutes thanks to an ancient heating system and our back garden is more of a corridor, but it was love at first sight. Our current housemate is a Latvian/Australian/definitelynotaKiwi who seriously lucked out in the chest department and is learning Spanish, which she practices by speaking to the cat. The cat, who answers to about 29 different names including Bubsy, Shwubsy, Schmookie, Cat, Sarah, and Bitch, is as fluffy as she is weird. She’s slowly learning to open doors, although she does politely knock before she breaks into your bedroom. If you get up from your seat or leave clothing on the floor, she will make her bed on them. She enjoys clawing her way backwards and upside down up the stairs, which has to be seen to be believed. She has no fill level and is constantly hungry – not only will she sit and stare intently at you while you eat, but she will place her paws/face on the edge of your plate, she’ll adorably reach her paw up to your fork and steal whatever is on it while you’re distracted by those big innocent eyes, and if you leave your mouth open, yep, she’ll put her face inside and take whatever’s in there too.

I’m not really sure how to round this one off… so… see ya.

I hate to be one of those people, but I have actually been having such a great time that I couldn’t be bothered to tell anyone about it. I wrote one post while travelling through the very vast NSW outback, but that one wandered off into cyber space and probably won’t be seen again.

13^th April: Our first trip properly outside Sydney involved a large blue hire car who answered to the name of Percy, a group full of English people, and me sticking my head out of the window like an excited Labrador. I was under the impression there would be kangaroos and koalas aplenty. There weren’t.

We were attending Triple J’s One Night Stand festival in the very outbacky Dubbo, about seven hours from Sydney. We rented a small cabin, which advertised itself as “log” but was really more plastic, and which got quickly invaded by some overbearing and very drunk Australian campers. They even removed their shoes within minutes of inviting themselves inside and demanded to have photos with all of us. After hot running showers (this was worlds away from Leeds fest!) and steaks cooked on the bbq, we headed down to the festival site and the least thorough bag search ever (“Do you have any drugs or alcohol?” “No.” “Boring.”)

Tears were shed during the Rubens, crazy dance moves were busted during Flume, glow sticks were attached to anything that stood still long enough, vodka bottles appeared from waistbands and bras, and I clambered aboard a man’s shoulders for the first time in my life and didn’t fall down.

There is more to Dubbo than just rundown department stores and hillbillies. Oh yes. There is a ZOO. And what a zoo. This thing is absolutely enormous – it would take a good six hours to walk round it. The idea is to hire bikes or a golf buggy and travel round that way, but, being the day after the festival, the zoo was overrun with hipsters and the bikes were all gone by 10am. Enter Percy. We bullied our way round the zoo in our monster truck/people carrier hybrid. Even when we were without Percy, we shoved children aside without a second thought to get the best views. We all had hangover-fuelled zoo fever, and nothing was keeping us from hippo spotting.

19^th April – Melbourne. After working an easy peasy four day week, I packed my bags and headed off for a crack-of-dawn flight to Melbourne. This was my first trip outside New South Wales, and also my first night without Sean since November. It’s true what they say about Melbourne. It’s very European. In other words, IT’S REALLY FREAKING COLD. Shortly after opening the plane door, our flight attendant turned and grinned evilly at his plane full of underdressed Sydneysiders. The beautiful thing, though, is that Victoria KNOWS it’s cold, and it’s prepared for it. We had coffees on a little cobbled street that was teeming with patio heaters, before checking into our very lovely hostel.

Danielle, who is a bit of a Melbourne pro, presented us with a strict itinerary to ensure we got the best out of the city. Sounds a little overbearing until you look at the list and see that every single thing on it was food. So we had lunch in a huge vegan café, dinner in a heaving dumpling place in china town, breakfast in a café run by beards, lunch in the botanical gardens, dinner in a Vietnamese restaurant, Mexican lunch on the beach, cake snack in St Kilda and bloody marys in a bar run by beards. All of this was interspersed with walking around this bloody beautiful city with wonderful people and glorious (shocker) sunshine. It couldn’t have been planned better. Even our flight home being cancelled worked out nicely, as it meant we got an extra night snuggled up in bed with Sarah watching The Voice.

Our night out on the Saturday felt very much like a night out in Manchester. The club was dark and sweaty and I slipped over in what I hope was beer but could have been just about anything. We danced like crazy people to a sound track of Arctic Monkeys, Foals and Stone Roses and impressed most of the club by knowing every single word to every single song (and happily singing along). I woke up the next morning with a fuzzy head, dirty feet and several stamps on my arm. Just like home.

Other generic fun things: Have I mentioned how much I love my job? I think I probably have. But just in case. I LOVE MY JOB. Shortly after our weekend in Melbourne, I got a text from my boss saying that she was unable to attend an event that evening and was I free to go? Despite being hugely sleep deprived I agreed. Best decision I ever made. Not only did she let me borrow a $500 dress from work, not only was there unlimited free champagne and ice cream, but I found myself standing just inches away from a live Temper Trap performance. SURREAL.

Other fun things from April/May include eating our way round Surry Hills, attending my second pool party where I once again went nowhere near the pool, spending two full days on Bronte beach enjoying a freak Autumnal heatwave, visiting a bar where you have to enter through a 50s style hotdog diner, playing with a small fluffy dog, playing with a small fluffy cat, regrowing my nail varnish collection, getting my hair chopped off, and getting an iphone and going whatsapp/snapchat/instagram crazy.

Things I learned about my friends:

– If you tell Danielle not to cry, she will instantly burst into tears. She stays awake all night if she has more than three redbulls. She also plans her whole life around food.
– Sean will declare himself “King” of any new place we visit (complete with foam sword and fur cape) and refer to everyone else as “minions”.
– Spruce is basically the love child of Karl Pilkington and David Attenborough.
– Sarah hides behind her hands and cries quietly when anyone breaks the speed limit.
– Strangers refer to Avi as “hot doctor” at least twice a day.
– Sarah and Spruce both know all the words to Last Christmas and will sing along enthusiastically, even in April.

So… there was a lot of not-very-interesting information for you… you’re welcome.

We’ve been here for exactly six months today. Six months. Six months to go before we’re illegal immigrants and the government unleash the kangaroos (I like to think that’s what will happen).

This is a little later than planned… I’m sure no one is surprised.

Here’s a little summary of my current job.
I wake at 5.45am, when it is so early that it’s actually cold. I get the bus to the city, mainly with people in gym kits. I arrive at work. No one says good morning. Everyone continues to dice chicken/make toast/count money. I stand at the till. And I stand there. And I stand there. Occasionally, the odd customer will recognise that I am a human and will have a conversation with me. Usually, they just want coffee. It’s not all bad, of course; I get fed, sometimes when it’s quiet the kitchen staff come and stand with me for company, it pays the rent. But really I’m one step up from a McDonalds worker. Not even a step. A tiny little stumble over an ever-so slightly (best call health and safety) raised bit of pavement.

And then, in the space of two days, everything changed.

I got a new job. Sean got a new job. We found a new house. We’re pet owners again!

My new job is worlds away, and I’m actually a little sad that I have to wait five days before I can get stuck in again. Although a lot of the time I’m running to the dry cleaners or steaming dresses or writing address labels, I don’t think I could have found a nicer environment to do it in. My boss is considerate and wants to teach me everything; she values my opinion too, which is so refreshing for someone who’s worked in hospitality forever. Oh, the office is air conditioned too. HOORAH.

Tomorrow we move house again. The new place has cats called Crookshanks and Bellatrix. Well I just about lost my mind when I saw them.

You know when you tell people you’re moving to Sydney, they think of three things. 1) Christmas Day on Bondi Beach eating BBQd turkey. 2) The legendary New Year fireworks over the harbour. 3) Spiders.

Well, let me tell you, I’ve witnessed the first two, and either I’ve picked a bad year to come over here, or people who have raved about them in the past were just seriously inebriated. The third thing is not as common, but just as big as you hear.

I’m not the first of my family to travel; my older brother did Australia nearly ten years ago now, and made the front page of the national paper for his Santa hat/swimming trunk attire on Bondi.  There he was, looking all slim and tanned and drunk, with a turkey in one hand and beer in the other.  Hearing his stories of a crazy party with a small army of backpackers was making me pretty excited for my first Christmas away from home.  Except, someone came along and pooped all over my version of events, and Sydney had a big injection of anti-fun.

Alcohol is now banned in most public places, including Bondi beach.  They had police on patrol, on Christmas day, peering into people’s picnics and scowling if anyone seemed to be having too much fun.  And bikini/santa hat attire? HA. I went in a woolly jumper, boots, and a blanket and spent the whole time wishing I was in front of a nice roaring fire with a Yorkshire pudding.  The beach was deserted- a group of us huddled in a beach hut, ate our sandwiches as fast as possible, necked a bottle of wine, and went home.

Going home is never that straight forward after a bottle of wine though, is it?  Two buses and a train ride later (we do NOT live that far from Bondi), I found myself standing solo, in the dark, in a Wisteria Lane style suburb, while Sean and two adopted Scottish backpackers attempted to Carol sing their way to… what? Money? Food? Beer? All they got was some polite “thank yous” and the clicks of several doors closing.  One household, who didn’t answer the door, were “punished” with some petty crime; I woke up the next day with a crystal swan in my handbag.

Now then, LONDON, I’d like to have a word.  For years and years you’ve tried your hand at pyrotechnics, only to be out-sparkled time and time again by Sydney.  I hate new years, as a rule. I’ve spent it being dragged to family parties, on failed and expensive nights out, or being completely shunned by society altogether and eating twiglets with my dad (actually one of my favourite new years).  So, this year, living in the party capital that is Sydney, I had high hopes.

A plan was set; I was working until 3, so Sean and a small crew of other orphans (that’s what the Aussies call Brits around Christmas time because we have no family, mean) were to set out early in the morning with several boxes of wine and blankets to secure the best spots in the house.  What we failed to account for? Japanese bloody tourists.  THEY CAMPED OUT 45 HOURS BEFORE THE FIREWORKS STARTED.

Plan B: take a bus ride to Balmain, and watch the fireworks from there. No worries.  It was alcohol friendly so we found a lot of like-minded people set up.  Wine, doritos, party mix, sunshine, poker, view of the harbour.  In what I can only assume was an attempt to attract some publicity to the city, Sydney let Kylie have free reign of the celebrations.  I think the results of this are nicely summed up by Sean’s tweet at the time “Sydney just gave Kylie an iPod and told her to make things pink”.  The music was random and disjointed, in stark contrast to London’s cleverly mixed and very London playlist.  The harbour bridge didn’t look anywhere near as impressive from our backwards view, although reports from Circular Quay suggest that the bridge was only used in the finale anyway.  I would’ve thought golden hot-panted Minogue would have gotten the hang of using your best assets, apparently I was mistaken.

To give Sydney its due credit, it has a rather squiffy coastline.  The harbour really does split the city in two, and it’s not a clean line, it’s an “I’m erosion and I’ve had one too many rums and am going to wander inland in any meandering manner I bloody well want to. Fankyou” line.  So about a dozen boats were stationed down the harbour and each one given a matching, perfectly synchronized set of fireworks.  Which meant, from our viewpoint, we had one set immediately behind us, one just in front, plus the harbour, and another boat in the distance.  It was all a little Armageddon. We oohed and aahed, missed the countdown, kissed at midnight +25 seconds, and waved sparklers (I held mine gingerly at arm’s length, still afraid of everything).

The afterparty at ours was a bit of a washout; sun-stroked, inebriated, exhausted from the trek home, we attempted a half-hearted drinking game while my housemate Beckie snoozed on the sofa (she woke up every ten minutes or so to shout “I’m having fun!”) before heading to bed, leaving a scattering of sun burnt backpackers across the living room.

That was a bit of an epic post.  If anyone is still reading, HI MUM.  Tomorrow (maybe not tomorrow, I might go and get drunk tomorrow), I shall come back bearing good news.  A lot of it.  Night chaps.