Freedman Down Under: Sydney to South Hampstead

This is the final instalment of Freedman Down Under... we pick up as Wifey and I cruise across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in glorious sunshine and blue skies, with the words of John Farnham ringing in our ears. The combination of the song, the view and the air conditioning made the hair stand on end.

We swung by the hostel first, to drop off our things, and were delighted to see that they had prepared a simple method of burning off the excess pounds we had piled on in the previous month. 40 degrees in the shade, and no aircon in the room - not even a decent ceiling fan, just some ancient plastic thing that may as well have been a fly taped to a stick for all the air it was pushing. Still, at least we didn't have squeaky prison bunks.

With a few hours left on the clock before returning the car, we headed out for a little orientation drive around the city. Not much to say really; the place is like London and New York combined with some serious tropics and a dash of old-fashioned English seaside sans scum and crap weather. We took in the cheapest pub lunch ever (under £3 for a mahoosive and actually very excellent steak and chips), dropped the car back, then had a leisurely stroll back to the hostel in said 40 degree heat. Mad dogs and Englishmen and all that...

That evening, we contemplated a big meal out but decided it might be nice to actually cook something for ourselves for once. The hostel had a pretty decent kitchen, and a Coles was handily at the top of the road, so we rustled up a spot of spag roo, much to the amusement of some funny Taiwanese kids who had never cooked anything before, and stood nearby gawking, and pointing at onions or garlic, asking "rot is dis?" etc etc. Not that we believe in stereotypes or nuffink.

The following day, our prayers for ANY change in the weather were answered with some grey clouds and light intermittent drizzle. We headed out to Bondi Beach for a nice long jaunt down to Coogee along the fab coastal path. Bondi is nice, but does have the same faded charm as a Brighton or a Scarborough. Obviously the birds and weather are a bit hotter though.

Highlight of the trip, other than a conversation with Wifey which was just a tad Sixth Sense, was the part where we passed some interesting curved rock formations, and I immediately switched into my best Aboriginal voice and told a beautiful made-up story about how back in Dreamtime, Plonka the Whale had chased Fukuit the Shark into the bay, where they threshed about until Fukuit fled and Plonka was beached against these rocks, making the smooth curved indentation. Then we walked around the next corner and found a plaque explaining a bit about the area, and, um, telling pretty much that exact story. I think I might get a spearing on my next trip to Oz...

Stopped off for a fress at Bronte, probably my fave of the beaches, and wound up back at the hostel to freshen up and head out for the evening (after devouring a serious load of fajitas first). Although it was a Sunday, the following day was Australia Day, ie public holiday, so people were out in force. It's hard to describe just how many stunning girls were just parading around the streets of King's Cross, but think Playboy Mansion with clothes on, and you wouldn't be too far off. Wound up at the funky Goldfish bar, where we worked through a few cocktails, including one with marmalade in it, and chatted to a bevy of cuties of course, as well as checking out the cool unisex toilets. Now I know why women always go in pairs, but I am sworn to secrecy.

The following day was characterised by a steady wet mist descending, with the effect that we didn't feel like doing a whole lot. That evening we headed out for a harbour boat trip (for which read piss up and pick up) with a large group of "fellow backpackers". Obviously I am not one, but best to keep up the pretense and slum it from time to time. Keeps one grounded. A dozen cans of Tooheys later, and with a cute strawberry blonde Canadian snuggled under my bright orange umbrella, we dashed through the rain to a crazy grafitti-covered bus, on to a mad club, where pitchers of cocktail were a fiver each. Got through half a dozen jugs of that, threw myself massively into the ambience of Australia Day, especially a spot of the ol' Flo Rida, where I did a full Les Grossman (Tropic Thunder reference!).

Next day a nice early start as we had a 10am checkout to contend with. Wifey was a little woolly-headed but I dragged myself downtown for a little mooch about nonetheless, including visits to the NSW Parliament, some other random historical buildings, and a drop of coffee on the top floor of the NSW Supreme Court, which is actually a skyscraper right next to Hyde Park (kinda mini-Central park), with cracking views across the city despite the weather.

Then off to the airport, with Wifey accidentally-on-purpose losing his Huckleberry Finn hat en route - it had reacted as straw usually does to damp, and smelled like a horse had slept on it. Usual visit to airport lounge, disappointing Qantas red wine selection masked by a G&T and the ubiquitous glass of sparkling, as well as a stack of very good cheese. Back to Melbourne, temperatures down to just high 30s, trek back to collect the car then wind up at Cool Aunt and Uncle's designer pad for leftover roo (we schlepped it from NSW, smashing all the rules about bringing food interstate), which we washed down with some excellent red brought by the Rippa, who stayed for dinner.

After a couple of days in Melbourne, and with another heatwave of 40+ approaching, we hopped in the car down the Great Ocean Road. Very pleasant, and all the more impressive for learning that large chunks of it were built by hand by a private company looking to attract tourists to the region, but as Wifey pointed out, compared to say Route 1 in the USA, this is a Good Ocean Road with occasional Greats. Highlights included the Round The Twist lighthouse and some really excellent quiche at Cape Otway, as well as the obvious lovely scenery. We got to Warrnambool at the end of the road, kipped overnight in a motel, and swung back to Melbourne the next day.

We had some really nice stops along the way - Wifey is learning the Freedman Road Trip methodology, where we potter, meander and mooch our way across various landscapes. One of them was particularly nice - a little cove hidden right down under the cliffs, complete with its own fairytale story about Tom and Eva, the only survivors of a shipwreck. Except there was no happily ever after; Tom, some lowly shiphand, didn't get to snog Eva, some rich kid, after rescuing her. In fact, they never saw each other again once they had recuperated. But then again, from the engravings of the incident, she looked like a minger anyway.

After getting back to Melbourne and having a leisurely weekend of mooching around town, not doing too much, little walks and dips at the beach, bit of fressing here and there, we took in a nice birthday dinner at Chocolate Buddha on Fed Square with Yankanaussie, whilst enjoying the atmosphere of tens of thousands of people packed onto the plaza in the balmy evening sun, enjoying the final of the Australian Open. Then some swift beers down by the riverside, and back home thoroughly contented.

Next day, final full day in Oz, mostly chilling out, then off to Neighbours Night with Wifey, Rippa and The Ringer, who actually works for Neighbours. Met the very sexy but just a tad ditzy Sky Mangel, Eastenders-a-like Steve, and the wonderful Dr Karl Kennedy, who played a set with his band, Waiting Room. Pics to follow.

Sadly that brings us to the end of Freedman Down Under. Suffice to say I cheered myself up over the next 24 hours of travel by downing obscene amounts of excellent food and drink on first Qantas to HK and then BA back to Heathrow, and making use of the lovely Arrivals Lounge for snobs like me back at T5. Then Wifey #3 and his Wifey came to collect, complete with my bright orange BP coat to wear, as it was the same tempreature in fahrenheit in London as it had been in celsius in Melbourne.

Anyway, I am now back in Blighty, and looking forward to catching up with y'all soon...

Freedman Down Under: Perthpective

Okay, due to a bit of a technical hitch, photos are not going to be inserted, but instead I'll throw in some links as I go along, and invite you all to check the little album here. Thanks to Wifey for most of the pics.

Now where were we?! Ah yes, down at the Bros House in Perth. Cue endless Facebook status updates involving words I could shoehorn Perth into, ie Perthpective, Perthetic, Pertheption, suPerthtructures, interperthonal skills and so on. Oh how I laughed.

Anyway, after being fed, watered and cleaned by Momma Bro, including superb home-made schnitzel, we nipped into town for Warren's stag do. Of course it is not right to publicise the details here, but I will say that Wifey and I had managed something like 9 hours of sleep over the previous three days, so were just a tad exhausted. Nothing that a 10 minute dremml on a lav stool in a pub couldn't sort out. Then on to The 'Deen, a crazy pub/bar/club thang with 6 rooms and a courtyard, each with its own bar and different ambience and musical theme. Massive amounts of accessible WA fleisch but it was stinking hot, and as mentioned, we were knackered, and besides, it being a stag do, we knew there was a guarantee of nude lewd behaviour to come... I am saying nothing except I have never seen anyone wear bifocals like THAT before.

Next day was spent napping and fressing, with a stunning home-made curry for Fri night dinner, then an early night and general raiding of the Bros' oversized fridge, then we hopped on a train down to Fremantle to catch the 11.30am last ferry to Rottnest Island. We arrived at the station at 11.28, legged it 400 yards in 2 minutes in the 37 degree heat, and just made it. Turns out eating kangaroo gives you extra special springy-step roo powers.

So Rottnest is just lovely, Caribbean-style white beaches and turquoise seas, and funny little marsupials unique to the island, called quokkas. They're really adorable, but apparently you're not supposed to touch them because we might give them some nasty diseases or vice versa. Instead, people limit their contact to quokka soccer (allegedly). We got there a bit late and also a bit hot to be cycling around the place, so hopped on the island bus, found a beach, and duly had a good shlump and a nice swim. This was followed by a pretty decent fish and chips, some more strolling and shlumping, and a very nice glass of sparkling at a beachside bar, before reboarding the ferry back.

Landing in Fremantle, we headed off for a little wander around town. It's a bit more old-skool than Perth, very quaint, and we wound up at a lovely rooftop bar and restaurant, on the terrace having yet another glass of something good as a sundowner. As this was a taboo-breaking trip, we went a bit nuts on the seafood platter... again, quite tasty, and glad I've tried all these things once, but the part I liked the most was the only kosher white fish on the dish. Washed down with some bloody good chardonnay.

A quick rundown of the treif experience, for those yidden who will never cross the line:

- Oysters are a real delicacy that looks and tastes just like someone brought up a real good one from the back of the throat and flobbed it gently into a large shell full of seawater.

- Crayfish wins third prize in the ugly seafood contest, behind cuttlefish and Moreton Bay bug (more of which anon). It's like a lobster without the amusing whiskers, castanets and French accent. Tastes okay, but proves my longstanding principle that anything you have to use a burglar's tools to get into is just not designed for us to be eating.

- Octopus is like a piece of rubber tyre braised in a fishmonger's mop-bucket. Mussels are not too bad, but I am really bothered by the little orange cube thingy that attaches the bit you eat to the bit you don't.

- Eating prawns made me realise how accurate the (vegetarian!) flavouring of Walkers prawn cocktail flavour actually is... in fact, the real thing has a "delicate" (ie bland) taste, and a weird texture that grew on me a bit, as prawn pops up in SO many things down here.

- Proper shellfish bouillabaisse, replete with scallops, mussels and prawns, jolly nice soup, could take or leave the treif isles flottantes, but no doubt added plenty of stocky goodness. Also this was more of a consommé, whereas the kosher version is a proper thick soup using the flesh of biblically certified fish. Prefer the latter.

Back to the Bros, night's kip, up next day to raid the fridge again, then off to Warren and Amy's wedding, taking the family's spare Beamer. Scorching hot day, pushing 40 in the shade, best men in black suits, Wifey and I just about staying alive in white shirts and cotton/linen trousers, luckily meant a bevy of hot girls in flimsy summer dresses, including the incredible Marie, photos of whom are available on a pay-per-view basis only.

Decent grub, wedding cake, then on with the bride, groom and friends to a nightclub and casino, where a local ditz saw 2 of us more burly lads march in wearing the uniform white shirt and tan trousers, and asked if we were from the police. Needless to say, the response was "every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be watching you". Wasted on her.

Quick shout out to Laura, who is adopting Independent Love Song by Scarlet as her special song. A little excerpt of the lyrics

I'll show you how to take me
Go down go down
And I'll show you how to turn me
Right on right on
And I'll show you how to touch me
Right on right on right on
Right on right on right on
Now it's fine that many men will look my way
And I'll take them home and let them show me the way
And sure I'll like a few but I'll leave the rest to play
I'm doing it a different way
I'm doing it a different way

Hmmm, maybe a little racier than she had in mind. Back home in the Beamer, more sleeping, then off to Margaret River ("the Marge") on Monday morning. Leisurely potter down some pleasant coastline, including some waterside grilled fish at Mandurah, then into wine country.

Through gritted teeth I agree to stay in a youth hostel, albeit just us and a cute Dutch girl in a room, and the place came with volleyball, footy, swimming pool, a pervasive whiff of pot, and proximity to the main drag. Ate at a really fab little place called Ze Arc of Iris, go before it changes hands and goes downhill, or buy the place. Particularly worthy of mention was the slow-cooked Moroccan lamb, like a spicy yet sweet chulent. Naturally we washed this down with a decent bottle of local shiraz cabernet, delightfully named "Skuttlebutt". Seriously Freedmansmum... I've sent a bottle home just to prove it.

Morning, headed off on a wine-tasting extravaganza with a very camp guide who took a bit of a shine to us. To be honest, after full tastings at four wineries, a brewery, a liqueur factory, a cheese shop and a chocolate factory all in one day, broken up by a fat deli lunch with the most extraordinary red pesto, I was anyone's. Particular recommendations are:

- Brookland '02 cab sav merlot, about to run out, so other than down in the Marge, they are now only selling their '04. The '02 was so good I am sending a crate home before they make the switch.

- Flying Fish '07 rosé, actually tastes of toffee apples, would be a totally amazing dessert wine, or to drink by the gallon on a summer's day.

- Windance '04 cab merlot and shiraz... in fact this is a blind recommendation as we didn't get to the winery, but each of these won about a dozen top awards, so I've freighted back some samplers.

We finished the day by driving up to Dunsborough to stay with the lovely Brett, Amy's brother. He has a very cool villa with old-fashioned pool table, close proximity to the beach and of course a stack of wineries. Off to a very good curry dinner with him, cruised through some decent sav blanc on the starters and another red on the mains. Left the rosé in his fridge.

Back on the road the next day, picking up Dutch girl en route, stopping off for more fresh fish in Mandurah, arriving in Perth early arvo (see how native I am?!), one last stop at the Bros, where Momma Bro tried to feed us AGAIN. Then to the airport where Wifey got his first experience of the business lounge. For an equanimous, spirally-dynamised, meditating, backpacking artiste, he seemed to get really stuck into le snobisme of going through those sliding glass doors and riding the escalator up to above the seething masses and into air-conditioned bliss. Certainly made short work of the buffet bar. Washed down with - you guessed it - some decent sparkly.

Next stop, Brisbane...

Freedman Down Under: Outback Sideways

So we pick up the story in Melbourne early on Sunday morning, when Wifey and I are driven to the airport by the Rippa, to board our (shudder) low-cost airline flight to Alice Springs. The night before, we had made a pretty valiant effort to eat our way through the Limor's legendary meat fress, and we were feeling the burn. Meat sweats, bloating, and just not enough of the right kind of fibre to help such a mass of protein on its way. And now a 2 1/2 hour flight with the legal minimum seat pitch and 200 selected local and international hoi polloi in close proximity. Just the thing.

After a flight that was uneventful due to everyone's inability to move from the knees up, we touched down in Alice Springs. First thing we noticed was the greenery - there has been a lot of rainfall recently, so as much as semi-arid territory blooms, this was doing so. One downside to the recent precipitation is the number of flies. We fought through a couple of clouds of the little buggers, picked up our Hioldguy Betz and headed off to the hotel, a pleasant enough affair near the edge of town. More bugs on offer, including these cricket/grasshopper things who spring around your face a lot and then sit dumbly on the pavement waiting to be crunched underfoot.

A little pootle into town reveals a whole load of Aboriginal daywalkers just kind of hanging around the place, intense heat and a bunch more bugs. It being 11am, and with some fairly immovable lumps of meat deep in the recesses of the bowel, we do the only decent thing while I am still in treif mode, and go into the only open restaurant (KFC), where we work our way through the Batsman's Bucket in short order. This is a $25.95 coronary-in-waiting, and with that much grease, it slips down real nice at that time of day. All 16 pieces of chicken, 2 large fries, large bottle of fizz and crate of coleslaw.

We waddle off for a little tour of Alice, starting with an abortive trip to the Cultural Precinct, which turned out to be shut until 8th Jan, so I missed out on my chance to see the fab works of Albert Namatjira and visiting the Aviation Museum. We made the best of the day by going on tours of the Royal Flying Doctor Service and the School of the Air (ie where Outback kids learn via radio and internet). Very cute girl giving the talk at the latter, grew up on a cattle station miles away from everywhere, shows that inbreeding really can work sometimes.

Speaking of which, it turns out the Aboriginals have had a practice stretching back a few thousand years that each person is allocated to one of 6 groups at birth based on a look at genealogy, and can only marry someone from a determined other group, which helps keep the gene pool reasonably open. This is especially important given that numbers have dropped below 300,000, and intermarriage bringing in new bloodstock is not all that common. Jews of Britain, take note.

Still doesn't make many Aboriginals use toilets instead of shitting on pavements, and certainly has not encouraged the use of showers and baths on a semi-frequent basis. Apparently this is because of a cultural aversion to "wasting water". Now camels are known as the great "ships of the desert" and retain vast amounts of water, apparently capable of rehydrating at the rate of 200 litres imbibed in 3 minutes. They also make surprisingly good pie, when braised in stout and served with chips, as Wifey found out down at Bojangles in downtown Alice. Having still not had a good poo since the combination of Limor's and the earlier finger lickin' goodness, I was not in the mood to partake.

Anyway, the following day we headed out into the Macdonnells, a range of mountain ridges that extends for a few hundred kms out of Alice and into the middle of bumblefuck. Given the 100km per day restriction on the car, along with our general laziness, we got as far as Trephina Gorge, in the East Macdonnells, where we took a long hike culminating in a dip in the waterhole at the foot of the gorge. After that, we were quite knackered, what with temperatures already being in the high thirties, and having made a 7am start, quite a feat for the likes of Wifey and me, so we sauntered back via a couple of other nice little stops, complete with me going for a good paddle at Emily Gap - or was it Jessie Gap? All these girly gaps I have been diving into whilst on this trip... wow, that wasn't contrived or lewd at all.

The plan was to have lunch outside, but the flies were just infuriating: Wifey's discovery of his inner guru means that I too must practice equanimity towards all creatures great and small. This doesn't stop me squishing a few of them when he's not looking.

Returning to Alice, we devoured our picnic lunch on the strangely fly-free balcony of our villa (perhaps the trail of scattered, shattered insect corpses of a previous moment of unequanimous behaviour on my part had the desired effect), took a long schluff and dip in the hotel's bougainvillea-draped pool, followed by a mooch into town, where we finally bought some fly nets. Then we took in some dinner at Bojangles again - Bo's Aussie Outback Mixed Grill, which describes itself as a "beaut combination of buffalo medallions, camel kebab, kangaroo fillet, emu sausage and crocodile rissoles served on a bed of garlic mash with chilli quandong sauce". Tasted mostly like chicken, beef, lamb and other things I can get at the Golders Green Deli, hence my belief that this treif "wildcard" experiment is just that...

The following morning, we headed off on the 3 day Rock Tour group trip, for a bargain $295. Firstly, I should mention that we breakfasted on these amazing limited edition Toffee Crunchy Nut Cornflakes - easily better than any of the bushmeat I've had out here. So we got on the minibus and met our guide, Beej, a glorious stereotypical native of The Alice. We then did a tour of hotels and hostels, collecting a Yank, 2 Swiss, a Dutch girl, a Brit girl, 4 Germans, a Turk, a Frenchie, and a family of 5 Swedes. We pottered out to King's Canyon, where we took a lovely hike that included a spectacular emergence into a gorge with a deep waterhole for swimming and general lizard lounging.

Beej turned out to be an excellent guide, and we even converted him to the ways of the flynet, for the first time in his 33 years of living in the Red Centre. Shows how bad it was, or perhaps how many we attracted. He talked about the various aspects of geology, nature and Arrernte (local Aboriginal tribe) mythology that came together to form the canyons and monoliths we saw, and ensured we were well fed on chicken satay and rice in the evening, as we settled down in swags by the campfire.

What with being so very far away from everything, we all lay awake under the big sky, spellbound by just how many stars there turned out to be up there. I snuggled up to Wifey, but he was having none of it.

The next morning, up not long before sunrise for a trip over to the Olgas, which are a variation on the more famous Uluru/Ayers Rock monolith, and in many ways much more spectacular. By the Arrernte name of Kata Tjuta, these strange knobbly heaps contain within some impressive views of more gorges and canyons, complete with some nice wildlife, and with an amazing ability to totally destroy my walking boots.

As we set off on the hike, I began to wish I had laid down some of that funky shoe glue in the welts, but had never got round to it. Gradually the crack between the rubber sole and leather upper started to fill with pebbles, twigs and dust, until like some cartoon hobo, I was walking along with the whole front flapping away. After tripping and swearing my way for a mile or two, I resolved to use the emergency sewing kit to temporarily stitch the top and bottom together, but was not factoring in the drizzling sweat and accompanying thousand flies who wanted a bath.

So I hobbled my way around most of this stunning walk, with the soles completely removed and the uppers of my shoes held together with the remaining shards of insole by my socks being wrapped around the outsides. Meanwhile my sweaty sockless feet absorbed the crunchy, pointy rocks underneath as best as possible, while Wifey helpfully kept telling me to be equanimous.

Later on, we went on a visit to the Uluru cultural centre, learned more about how the Aborigines came over from Indonesia and Papua New Guinea by boat somewhere between 25,000 and 65,000 years ago (and have yet to wash, by all accounts), lost David the German, wound up at the foot of Uluru for a quick look at one of the waterholes that forms by collecting the water run-off from the top of the the rock, where we saw a rare perentie lizard baby. There are apparently only about 50 perenties left in the wild, so this is a real coup.

Then we found David the German, headed to the viewing point to cook up some spag boloroo (yes, that is pasta with minced Skippy) overlooking the rock at sunset. Very nice but we didn't get the really spectacular orange glow of the picture postcard. This didn't stop the archetypal group of Japanese tourists taking a gazillion photos and quaffing a champagne buffet. We entertained ourselves with a brief guitar strum with new group member British Matt, and a little sing-a-long of Waltzing Matilda.

On the coach back to camp, we were treated to Beej being posed the best question of all time from British Laura:

"Did the Aboriginals leave Asia because it was shit?"

Mulling over this profound question, wondering if a T-shirt in one of the Aboriginal languages, saying "We're only here because Asia was shit" would be a best-seller.

Another night under the stars, fit 19 year old German girl insisting on sleeping just nicely in my eyeline, on top of her swag, wearing just a little vest and some snug Hello Kitty knickers... doesn't get much better than that. Up before dawn, down to Uluru again for sunrise breakfast, delightful PB&J sarnies on tasty fruit loaf, with swigs of orange and passion fruit juice. Then a 10km circuit around the rock, where Stephen and I romped home in first place, due to the front-runners mysteriously disappearing.

Eerily reminiscent of Meryl Streep's "uh dingo took mah baaaybeh" moment, British Matt and Yankee Bayo had simply vanished. After half an hour of waiting and driving around looking for them, we were about to write them off, as a 10% attrition rate on these kinds of tour is quite acceptable, when a coach coming in the opposite direction screeched to a halt, and deposited the bedraggled pair. Turns out they had been so engrossed in their debate on the metaphysical qualities of Uluru and the Aboriginal legends of Dreamtime that they failed to notice they had completed the circuit, and just kept on walking.

As this was the end of the tour, everyone was heading on a 6 hour drive back to Alice but Wifey and I were being dropped off at the resort so we could fly straight out to Perth. The loss of two trippers deprived us of nearly an hour of extra dipping in the resort pool, but we got a splash before supping a cool bevy in the hotel bar and heading to the airport for our trip to Perth, thankfully on Qantas. No bizclass section on this flight unfortunately, which meant we only managed Row 4, whilst Row 5 was occupied by a couple whose two young children took turns to crap their nappies every 15 minutes for the whole 2 1/2 hour flight. These were changed in situ so we all got to smell the sweet, musky delights of the underage turd.

We got to Perth, cabbed it to the Bros' surgery, got a lift from there to their rather awesome house, and basically flaked out for the next 24 hours. That brings us up to date. Rottnest Island, downtown Perth and Fremantle to come tomorrow, wedding on Sunday, down to Margaret River on Monday. Wifey promises that photos will be inserted retrospectively this side of Easter.

Freedman Down Under: peachy Melbourne

What can I tell you? Much as it has been a trauma for Wifey #1 to go and live on the other side of the world (I have still not taken the hint perhaps), now I am here, I can see why. Melbourne is one of those places that just works. It has a little of everything you'd want - beaches, weather, lovely people, good fressing, nice architecture, good countryside, culture, and a functioning public transport system.

Much like home, however, it has a losing cricket team; here's a pic from the final day of the Boxing Day Test at the MCG, a real institution like the opening summer test at Lord's - and the first time in a generation that the Baggy Greens (that's the name for the Aussie cricket team, because of the cubscout caps they wear) have lost a Test series at home.



So far, I have been acclimatising, getting to know the city, and of course, eating plenty of hearty meals. I have decided to have a brief rebellious patch on the whole kosher thing, as it's not every day a nice chunk of marinated kangaroo is on offer. Still bizarrely avoiding pork and shellfish though, and this won't last beyond Oz, but it's nice to just kick back and be someone else for a bit. I think the strategy is that I get three wildcards for treif holidays, so I can experience all the stuff you can't get in Solly's before retreating to safe food beginning with K. To be honest, the yokmeat is all ok, but not so amazing that I couldn't live without it.

On that note, I went surfing the other day! Yes, me... drove down to Phillip Island with Wifey, Stitch (limber London linguist Lilo's little sister), and The Bull, stopping off on the way to meet some koalas, kangaroos and other domestic furries. Then got down to Smith's Beach, squeezed into wetsuits and plunged on in. The Bull was pretty good, having done this before (ie actually getting to her feet on the board), whilst Wifey and I managed a couple of bodysurfs and even got onto knees at one point. We went about recreating the dramatic closing sequence of Point Break - I especially enjoyed wiping out on some strategically placed underwater rocks a couple of times. The things we do for our sport, eh?

In the evening, we got back to Melbourne, devoured some more excellent food, and watched Frost/Nixon (very enjoyable), before visiting Stitch and The Bull's sweet townhouse, complete with basement cinema. That's about all I've got for the moment - Stitch is holding back the release of the pic of the four of us holding our boards and looking very professional, pending airbrushing of how skanky she looked, despite flaking out early from the surfing. Some of us have got it, honey, and some of us have not.

The rest of Melbourne in a nutshell (photos to follow): strolls around the botanical gardens with Wifey, beachfront and St Kilda Pier as well as hearty brunch with Bouncer, enormous meat fress at Limor's, pleasant coffee and nosh with Wifey's friends the Golden Couple, London-style sprint to move car and avoid parking ticket, usual collection of jokes about eating babies, helping Wifey with his eviction, and a cracking meal at the cool aunt and uncle's trendy designer house.

That's all for now... in Alice Springs but no time to finish posting properly, except to complain bitterly about having to fly low-cost to get here. Oh, and the fucking flies are everywhere. Why does nobody mention these? Maybe they are just drawn to me. Like flies to... um...