Christmas Eve 2006
Adelaide, South Australia
Up in the far north of the state the people of a small, very remote country town had arranged a Christmas treat for the children. At a prearranged time everyone would gather just outside town to wait for a light aircraft to fly overhead, from which Father Christmas would parachute to ground behind some nearby scrub. Of course it wasn't really Father Christmas. It wasn't even a man in a Father Christmas suit, it was just a dummy dressed up.
The idea was that with everyone's attention fixed on the figure floating gently down, a real person wearing an identical Father Christmas suit would be hiding in the scrub, crawling as near as he could to where the dummy would land. Upon the dummy coming to ground he'd jump out with his sack and do the usual 'Ho Ho Ho' thing. Presents would be handed out, the children's party would begin, and everyone would have a memorable day.
With the community duly assembled, the children anxiously scanned the skies for any sign of a plane. They didn't have to wait long. After a few minutes the drone of a propeller gave notice that the event was about to begin; right on time the plane approached, circled the town twice, and discharged its red-suited passenger. The children, seeing Father Christmas exiting the plane, cheered and waved frantically as he began to descend bang on target towards the patch of scrub.
Then came the snag. Almost immediately after he jumped out of the door Father Christmas's parachute became entangled. The stout, bearded bringer of gifts promptly plummeted to his death.
First there was stunned silence. Then, after the enormity of what they'd seen sunk in, a chorus of crying and wailing erupted from the horrified children.
Then, miraculously, a completely unharmed Father Christmas unaccountably leapt out from the bushes with a cheery wave and a 'Ho, Ho, Ho!' Far from making them feel relieved, this traumatised the children even further. Not only had Father Christmas been killed right before their eyes, his ghost was now advancing towards them with a glint in his eye and a determined stride. Screaming in terror, some broke ranks and ran to find somewhere to hide from the apparition. Still, at least they had a memorable day.
Christmas; it's for the kiddies really isn't it?
Although it's Christmas Eve we won't be overdoing the celebrations tonight, or at least I won't. This is because tomorrow morning we (in other words I) drive to the Barossa Valley for a family Christmas at Adam and Barbara's house. There are random breath tests here and I can't afford to be still over the limit, which in South Australia is 0.05. I haven't the faintest idea what that means but I'm told it's quite low.
Following the announcement of Shane Warne's retirement from Test cricket we now learn that Glenn McGrath is to follow suit. The difference with McGrath is that when he goes he'll be retiring from cricket completely. Now this might be of only passing interest to people in the UK, and only to cricket followers at that, but it's difficult to overstate the importance of sport in this country. Most people are mad on it. Successful sportsmen and women are hailed as heroes, whether it's at national level as with McGrath and Warne, or locally if, say, they play for the district Australian Rules team. The sporting pages of the newspapers are packed with news and rumour on just about any game that's played here. Swimming, Australian Rules, football, basketball, cricket, athletics, yachting, rugby and even beach sports are all given prominent coverage. South Australia has them all apart from rugby; oddly neither code is popular here, where cricket and Australian Rules reign supreme.
The reason why sport is so popular has something to do with the climate of course, but I read somewhere that there's more to it than that. A few decades ago the government of the day saw that if Australia's team in any sport was successful it spawned a disproportionately large leap in the nation's spirits. So they embarked on a programme of sporting investment. Today the results are clear for all to see; in almost any game you can think of, Australia punches way above its weight on the international stage. This is reflected in the general 'feel good' atmosphere you can sense everywhere, and helps to foster the intense patriotism you find in most Australians. There might be a lesson there for UK politicians, if they can only avert their eyes from the pound signs associated with the sale of school playing fields.
Wednesday 21 February 2007
Tuesday 20 February 2007
Drought, gambling and a wedding
Monday, 11th December 2006
Central Adelaide
The 42 degree heat of the last couple of days has abated to a more comfortable 30-something. This is good news for the country fire service (CFS), who've recently been on high alert for bush fires. Searing heat, tinder-dry conditions and a hot wind are ideal conditions for even small fires to get out of control very quickly. People in Victoria, Tasmania and Western Australia are already suffering severely due to bush fires as I write. Sadly, loss of life is not unheard of in the bush fire season. Even more sadly, and to my mind somewhat incredibly, it's believed that some of the fires are started on purpose. I try to think why anyone would do that but having no success, I give up and just shake my head in bewilderment.
I admire the CFS very much. Unlike the full time firemen in metropolitan areas such as Adelaide, Sydney, Perth or Melbourne, they're unpaid volunteers. Entirely unpaid. No retaining allowance, no call-out fees, nothing. It's an example of how community spirit can be fostered when conditions are particularly harsh, and I can think of few things harsher than standing in the path of a raging bush fire fifty miles wide. You have to see one to understand the terrible ferocity of these things. They consume everything.
Yesterday being Sunday things were quieter than usual, so I took the opportunity to write some postcards which I posted today on the way to the Adelaide Casino. No I haven't taken up gambling, we went there for lunch with Mrs Jim's parents. It's their preferred eating place when they leave their country farm to visit the city, and we were happy to shout them a meal, as the saying here goes.
Apart from having a more than decent Pullman restaurant the casino is also an interesting place for observers of human behaviour. There are all the usual things that you expect in the way of gaming; roulette tables, card games, dice and the like, but from the casino's perspective the big money lies in pokies. Did I hear someone say WTF are pokies? Let me explain.
In the casino's huge gambling areas row upon row of what we'd call slot machines twinkle seductively. Here they're known as poker machines, or pokies, and they're everywhere. Hardly a pub exists in Adelaide without its pokies because (and I find this a regrettable state of affairs) without them lots of pubs would quickly lose most of their customers. In fact since gambling became legal in South Australia addiction has grown into a serious problem. Mrs Jim once knew a woman who, after a generous divorce settlement, lost everything she had - tens of thousands of dollars - on pokies. It's hard to credit I know, but true nevertheless.
You get a better understanding of how this can come about when you watch people playing the machines. The pokies all have a stool in front of them from which you can order drinks and even food as you play. There are no outside views and the constant artificial lighting makes it easy to lose track of time. Fair enough, there are clocks on the walls but you have to leave your stool to see them. Committed gamblers just won't do that. They don't care what time it is, they just want that elusive win. They wouldn't even bother to glance at their wristwatch, never mind leave their seat to find a wall clock.
Every now and again a jolly electronic tune blares out to tell everyone that some individual has had a substantial win, thereby boosting the other punters' hopes that they too might get lucky. As an added convenience each person has in front of them a large plastic cup, almost bucket sized, which holds their coins until they're forced to either exchange folding money for more metal or go elsewhere.
In short everything is calculated to keep people in front of the machines for as long as possible. That way they'll put as much money as they can afford (or can't, as the case may be) into the slots. Hour after hour people sit on the stools, robotically feeding the pokies and pressing the buttons without ever giving any indication that they're deriving one jot of pleasure from the process. And to think we used to call slot machines amusements; ironic isn’t it?
To me the sight is a little depressing and, although the restaurant was fine and the meal was very enjoyable, I find myself glad to pass through the gambling area and out into the sunshine.
Wednesday, 13th December 2006
North Adelaide
Yesterday we went into the city to meet Claire, the woman who'll be conducting our wedding renewal on Saturday. She seemed lovely and it gave us confidence in her ability to run a good service. After sorting out some details with her we had a look round Rundle Mall, Adelaide's pedestrianised main shopping street. It's a fine place but there's something quite odd for me, an Englishman, about seeing all the shops with their Christmas decorations on display in 34 degree heat and bright sunshine. It's frankly a little surreal.
Something else caught my eye in Rundle Mall, something I found quite literally amazing. It came in the form of a giant Father Christmas sculpture, complete with towers and castellations, made entirely from sand. As we passed by the sculptor was still working on it, watched by a sizeable crowd of shoppers. It was very impressive and I found myself wondering how long such a thing would last in the UK before baseball cap wearing chavs destroyed it with their designer label boots.
Last night our friends Vicki and Ian, at whose house we'll be having the wedding renewal, came round to finalise arrangements. They - or more accurately she - has really pulled out all the stops to make it a truly memorable day. There'll be a string trio playing in their immaculate garden, and even a red carpet on which we'll make our entrance. I wonder whether this last detail is a bit much, but it would be churlish to ask the question aloud so I remain silent.
Thursday, 14th December 2006
North Adelaide.
Rain! At last some rain has fallen, and you can almost hear the parched earth sighing with relief. It was only a light shower by UK standards but it brings precious moisture that will be thirstily absorbed by the local plants and trees. Almost everyone is extremely happy, even the café owners who have temporarily lost a few stay-at-home customers. They know it will be better for them in the long run.
Yet the rain isn't as welcome as you might expect, at least in some quarters. The cereal farmers are well into their harvest and to them, rain right now is very inconvenient indeed. The water company isn't ecstatic either because not enough rain fell to top up the domestic supplies. It just got absorbed into the soil and plant roots. Oh well, you can't please everyone.
Sunday 17th December 2006
Blackwood, just outside Adelaide
Yesterday we had our wedding renewal service. It was a beautiful occasion, held outdoors in the splendid garden of our friends' house. The sun shone from an azure afternoon sky as around 30 family and friends gathered for the event. I found out the reason for the red carpet too; without it the heels of Mrs Jim's shoes would have sunk into the lawn, making our approach towards the celebrant a less than elegant spectacle.
The string trio played wonderfully, the food afterwards was excellent, and most importantly there was plenty of wine and beer. Only one thing didn't go quite to plan; a persistent fly buzzed around my face during the ceremony, causing me to give the 'Aussie salute' more frequently than I'd have liked. Of course the fly won't show up on the home video or photographs so I'll appear to be flapping manically at thin air but that apart, it was wonderfully memorable for all the right reasons.
Everyone here has been incredibly welcoming towards me. I really do feel that I've been accepted as one of the family, and at the same time gained a circle of good friends. I've been asked when we're going to move here permanently so many times I can recite the reply by rote. They're either eager for us to join them here or desperate to know when they should think about selling up and moving to Tasmania to avoid us. I'd like to think it was the former but you never know.
During our stay we've been doing some research into how much things cost. It turns out that even if neither of us has a job when we first move here, my UK pension and the proceeds from our house will keep us housed and fed in relative comfort until we get sorted. This we find very reassuring, as its takes away some of the niggling doubts that always crop up whenever a major life change is imminent. The next stage in the process is to get my provisional resident's visa made permanent. By my calculation this should take place around August 2007, after which the logistics of the UK property market take over.
Sunday, 17th December 2006
North Adelaide
Not far from here is Warrawong wildlife sanctuary, which I learn has been facing the threat of closure until a new owner recently came forward and guaranteed its future. The founder was an interesting character called Dr John Wamsley, who bought some land and fenced out the feral cats which were threatening much of the indigenous wildlife. He also gained a measure of notoriety among cat lovers by then killing any feral cats he found within the fenced area and making himself a hat from their skins, which he constantly wore. A bit eccentric perhaps, but effective.
Warrawong is billed as a 'must see' place owing to the fact that it's one of the few locations where you can see duck-billed platypus. Not when we went you couldn't. This was because the twilight guided walk, on which you're entreated to be as quiet as you can at certain crucial points, included a couple of ignorant oafs from Bolton or somewhere, whose booming voices carried far ahead and ensured that any platypus within miles went scuttling for cover. We did see some of Australia's stranger creatures though; there were potoroo, bettong, bilby (I'm not making any of these names up by the way - they're all small marsupials) and bandicoot, but alas, not the elusive platypus thanks to the loathsome duo.
Why anyone would come half way around the world to behave like a complete prat when you can do it in the comfort and privacy of your own home defeats me. Anyway I'm pleased that Warrawong isn't to close after all, but unless they tighten up the supervision of their guided walks the falling number of visitors will mean it's only a matter of time before it has to.
We had a much better experience at another wildlife park called Urrambirra, a couple of hours drive south from here on the Fleurieu Peninsula. We arrived just in time to see the big saltwater crocodiles being fed, then went on to take advantage of a photo-opportunity with some koalas. Later an echidna nonchalantly waddled by in full daylight, which was surprising as they prefer darkness or the half-light of dusk and dawn in which to do their foraging. In a nearby pen was a rather forlorn-looking wombat, and as we wandered around kangaroos and wallabies would hop up to us and eat the special food bought from the park shop from our hands. None of this is natural behaviour I know, but it does give people the chance to see these fascinating animals at close quarters.
Central Adelaide
The 42 degree heat of the last couple of days has abated to a more comfortable 30-something. This is good news for the country fire service (CFS), who've recently been on high alert for bush fires. Searing heat, tinder-dry conditions and a hot wind are ideal conditions for even small fires to get out of control very quickly. People in Victoria, Tasmania and Western Australia are already suffering severely due to bush fires as I write. Sadly, loss of life is not unheard of in the bush fire season. Even more sadly, and to my mind somewhat incredibly, it's believed that some of the fires are started on purpose. I try to think why anyone would do that but having no success, I give up and just shake my head in bewilderment.
I admire the CFS very much. Unlike the full time firemen in metropolitan areas such as Adelaide, Sydney, Perth or Melbourne, they're unpaid volunteers. Entirely unpaid. No retaining allowance, no call-out fees, nothing. It's an example of how community spirit can be fostered when conditions are particularly harsh, and I can think of few things harsher than standing in the path of a raging bush fire fifty miles wide. You have to see one to understand the terrible ferocity of these things. They consume everything.
Yesterday being Sunday things were quieter than usual, so I took the opportunity to write some postcards which I posted today on the way to the Adelaide Casino. No I haven't taken up gambling, we went there for lunch with Mrs Jim's parents. It's their preferred eating place when they leave their country farm to visit the city, and we were happy to shout them a meal, as the saying here goes.
Apart from having a more than decent Pullman restaurant the casino is also an interesting place for observers of human behaviour. There are all the usual things that you expect in the way of gaming; roulette tables, card games, dice and the like, but from the casino's perspective the big money lies in pokies. Did I hear someone say WTF are pokies? Let me explain.
In the casino's huge gambling areas row upon row of what we'd call slot machines twinkle seductively. Here they're known as poker machines, or pokies, and they're everywhere. Hardly a pub exists in Adelaide without its pokies because (and I find this a regrettable state of affairs) without them lots of pubs would quickly lose most of their customers. In fact since gambling became legal in South Australia addiction has grown into a serious problem. Mrs Jim once knew a woman who, after a generous divorce settlement, lost everything she had - tens of thousands of dollars - on pokies. It's hard to credit I know, but true nevertheless.
You get a better understanding of how this can come about when you watch people playing the machines. The pokies all have a stool in front of them from which you can order drinks and even food as you play. There are no outside views and the constant artificial lighting makes it easy to lose track of time. Fair enough, there are clocks on the walls but you have to leave your stool to see them. Committed gamblers just won't do that. They don't care what time it is, they just want that elusive win. They wouldn't even bother to glance at their wristwatch, never mind leave their seat to find a wall clock.
Every now and again a jolly electronic tune blares out to tell everyone that some individual has had a substantial win, thereby boosting the other punters' hopes that they too might get lucky. As an added convenience each person has in front of them a large plastic cup, almost bucket sized, which holds their coins until they're forced to either exchange folding money for more metal or go elsewhere.
In short everything is calculated to keep people in front of the machines for as long as possible. That way they'll put as much money as they can afford (or can't, as the case may be) into the slots. Hour after hour people sit on the stools, robotically feeding the pokies and pressing the buttons without ever giving any indication that they're deriving one jot of pleasure from the process. And to think we used to call slot machines amusements; ironic isn’t it?
To me the sight is a little depressing and, although the restaurant was fine and the meal was very enjoyable, I find myself glad to pass through the gambling area and out into the sunshine.
Wednesday, 13th December 2006
North Adelaide
Yesterday we went into the city to meet Claire, the woman who'll be conducting our wedding renewal on Saturday. She seemed lovely and it gave us confidence in her ability to run a good service. After sorting out some details with her we had a look round Rundle Mall, Adelaide's pedestrianised main shopping street. It's a fine place but there's something quite odd for me, an Englishman, about seeing all the shops with their Christmas decorations on display in 34 degree heat and bright sunshine. It's frankly a little surreal.
Something else caught my eye in Rundle Mall, something I found quite literally amazing. It came in the form of a giant Father Christmas sculpture, complete with towers and castellations, made entirely from sand. As we passed by the sculptor was still working on it, watched by a sizeable crowd of shoppers. It was very impressive and I found myself wondering how long such a thing would last in the UK before baseball cap wearing chavs destroyed it with their designer label boots.
Last night our friends Vicki and Ian, at whose house we'll be having the wedding renewal, came round to finalise arrangements. They - or more accurately she - has really pulled out all the stops to make it a truly memorable day. There'll be a string trio playing in their immaculate garden, and even a red carpet on which we'll make our entrance. I wonder whether this last detail is a bit much, but it would be churlish to ask the question aloud so I remain silent.
Thursday, 14th December 2006
North Adelaide.
Rain! At last some rain has fallen, and you can almost hear the parched earth sighing with relief. It was only a light shower by UK standards but it brings precious moisture that will be thirstily absorbed by the local plants and trees. Almost everyone is extremely happy, even the café owners who have temporarily lost a few stay-at-home customers. They know it will be better for them in the long run.
Yet the rain isn't as welcome as you might expect, at least in some quarters. The cereal farmers are well into their harvest and to them, rain right now is very inconvenient indeed. The water company isn't ecstatic either because not enough rain fell to top up the domestic supplies. It just got absorbed into the soil and plant roots. Oh well, you can't please everyone.
Sunday 17th December 2006
Blackwood, just outside Adelaide
Yesterday we had our wedding renewal service. It was a beautiful occasion, held outdoors in the splendid garden of our friends' house. The sun shone from an azure afternoon sky as around 30 family and friends gathered for the event. I found out the reason for the red carpet too; without it the heels of Mrs Jim's shoes would have sunk into the lawn, making our approach towards the celebrant a less than elegant spectacle.
The string trio played wonderfully, the food afterwards was excellent, and most importantly there was plenty of wine and beer. Only one thing didn't go quite to plan; a persistent fly buzzed around my face during the ceremony, causing me to give the 'Aussie salute' more frequently than I'd have liked. Of course the fly won't show up on the home video or photographs so I'll appear to be flapping manically at thin air but that apart, it was wonderfully memorable for all the right reasons.
Everyone here has been incredibly welcoming towards me. I really do feel that I've been accepted as one of the family, and at the same time gained a circle of good friends. I've been asked when we're going to move here permanently so many times I can recite the reply by rote. They're either eager for us to join them here or desperate to know when they should think about selling up and moving to Tasmania to avoid us. I'd like to think it was the former but you never know.
During our stay we've been doing some research into how much things cost. It turns out that even if neither of us has a job when we first move here, my UK pension and the proceeds from our house will keep us housed and fed in relative comfort until we get sorted. This we find very reassuring, as its takes away some of the niggling doubts that always crop up whenever a major life change is imminent. The next stage in the process is to get my provisional resident's visa made permanent. By my calculation this should take place around August 2007, after which the logistics of the UK property market take over.
Sunday, 17th December 2006
North Adelaide
Not far from here is Warrawong wildlife sanctuary, which I learn has been facing the threat of closure until a new owner recently came forward and guaranteed its future. The founder was an interesting character called Dr John Wamsley, who bought some land and fenced out the feral cats which were threatening much of the indigenous wildlife. He also gained a measure of notoriety among cat lovers by then killing any feral cats he found within the fenced area and making himself a hat from their skins, which he constantly wore. A bit eccentric perhaps, but effective.
Warrawong is billed as a 'must see' place owing to the fact that it's one of the few locations where you can see duck-billed platypus. Not when we went you couldn't. This was because the twilight guided walk, on which you're entreated to be as quiet as you can at certain crucial points, included a couple of ignorant oafs from Bolton or somewhere, whose booming voices carried far ahead and ensured that any platypus within miles went scuttling for cover. We did see some of Australia's stranger creatures though; there were potoroo, bettong, bilby (I'm not making any of these names up by the way - they're all small marsupials) and bandicoot, but alas, not the elusive platypus thanks to the loathsome duo.
Why anyone would come half way around the world to behave like a complete prat when you can do it in the comfort and privacy of your own home defeats me. Anyway I'm pleased that Warrawong isn't to close after all, but unless they tighten up the supervision of their guided walks the falling number of visitors will mean it's only a matter of time before it has to.
We had a much better experience at another wildlife park called Urrambirra, a couple of hours drive south from here on the Fleurieu Peninsula. We arrived just in time to see the big saltwater crocodiles being fed, then went on to take advantage of a photo-opportunity with some koalas. Later an echidna nonchalantly waddled by in full daylight, which was surprising as they prefer darkness or the half-light of dusk and dawn in which to do their foraging. In a nearby pen was a rather forlorn-looking wombat, and as we wandered around kangaroos and wallabies would hop up to us and eat the special food bought from the park shop from our hands. None of this is natural behaviour I know, but it does give people the chance to see these fascinating animals at close quarters.
Monday 19 February 2007
Part One: the journey
Monday, 4th December 2006: somewhere over mainland Asia.
According to the flight path display on the screen in front of me we’re currently 38,000 feet in the air above the Iranian border, 6 hours into a thirteen hour trip from the UK to Singapore. This is the first leg of our journey to Adelaide, South Australia; it's a real brute of an undertaking, 20 hours in the air and 36 hours in total. We're...
Whoa, let's just hold it there for a moment. I'm getting ahead of myself. Allow me to retrace my steps and start again, this time at the beginning.
In the weeks and months leading up to this trip we'd made every preparation imaginable. Newspapers had been cancelled, neighbours informed of our absence, wedding arrangements delegated to our friends Vicki and Ian in Adelaide, taxi to the airport booked, central heating timer set, etc. etc. By comparison the Normandy landings were planned by the Chuckle Brothers in particularly anarchic mood. In short, we were ready. Nothing could go wrong.
Then this morning, for the first time ever, we overslept. The 6am alarm went unnoticed, as did the 6:30 alarm. The sound of the doorbell when the taxi driver called at 7:00 passed unheeded and the milk lady, so often the cause of premature wakefulness, rattled by with her cheerfully clinking bottles without disturbing us. I'm sure that had we been visited by the Brighouse & Rastrick Band playing 'Knight Templar' in our bedroom we'd have slept on blissfully, even through the particularly haunting principal cornet solo. Eventually we woke at 7:35, over an hour and a half behind schedule.
To say that panic ensued would be truthful but it wouldn't describe fully the mood in Lucky Towers this morning. We were, to put it mildly, worried. You see at this time of year flights to Australia are all packed with ex-pat Aussies going home for Christmas, and British people visiting their migrant families. On top of that there'll be cricket fans going over for the Ashes series, so getting seats on another flight might well prove impossible for the next month. And beside the small matter of two thousand pounds already spent on tickets, what would happen about our wedding? So many negative thoughts, so many possible adverse outcomes. We were in a bit of a state.
Anxiety raising my usually melodic baritone croon by two whole octaves, I yodelled down the telephone for another taxi. Mercifully it came before too long but by that time the rush hour (which, as you know, lasts for much longer than an hour and which makes rushing a physically impossibility) was in full flow. Or not, if you see what I mean. Our anticipated forty minute ride to the airport would now take at least double that. Given that we were already almost two hours late it was going to be tight.
At first all seemed well. The normal roads, often clogged by queues caused by temporary traffic lights and insane bus lane schemes that narrow roads at the precise time when most people want to use them, were relatively clear. However once we hit the M60 our prospects began to look bleak. For much of the time the taxi's wheels barely revolved. The illuminated signs over the carriageway seemed to mock us with their warnings not to exceed 40mph, since for long stretches half that speed was the most we could hope to attain. However after what seemed a lifetime we left the misery of the M60 for the comparative tranquility of the M56. For the first time that morning my jaw, which until then had been permanently clenched in acute tension, relaxed to the point at which coherent speech once more became a possibility.
We made it to the airport just in time. At that point I gave thanks to whichever gods had the job of looking after lazy mongs travelling to Australia by Singapore Airlines that morning. I also awarded myself several Brownie points for having had the foresight to check in on-line the previous day, since by doing so we were able to get the seats we wanted - the ones at the extreme rear of the aircraft, where the fuselage narrows and the lines of three seats reduce to two. No obese people flopping their blubbery bulk over MY armrest this time, thank you very much. Hah!
So here we are back where we started, in mid-air over one of the most blighted lands on earth. In hindsight I could have just written 'we overslept but still made the flight' but that wouldn't really be in the true spirit of blogging, would it?
Tuesday, December 5th 2006: Changi airport, Singapore.
For me Changi airport is memorable for two reasons. First, it's immaculately clean. All the toilets have their own designated cleaner who stands by with a mop, bucket, and other equipment in case anyone has an accident. Whether their services extend to shaking off drips or wiping those important little places is something I've never explored, but I wouldn't bet against it. It's that kind of place.
Secondly Changi is huge, like a self-contained city. So huge in fact that it contains two transit hotels, in which travellers with long gaps between connecting flights can book a room in blocks of six hours. Since you never have to leave the airport complex there's no need for passport control or visas, and as your luggage is transferred to the onward flight by unseen baggage handlers it couldn't be easier. Just book a room and sleep. In our case we have sixteen hours until we leave for Adelaide, so we've booked in for twelve hours.
It's seven o'clock in the morning as we arrive in Singapore but the time difference means that our bodies think it's eleven at night, so after downing a Nytol it's heads down for us in the clean and comfortable air-conditioned room. Fantastic! I can barely countenance the alternative of spending hours slumped in a chair in the airport concourse, but I saw some people doing just that. Perhaps they didn't know about the transit hotels. Perhaps they did know about them but not that pre-booking is almost essential, and so were turned away because the hotels were full. Possibly they don't want to/can't afford the forty-odd pounds charge for a twelve hour stay; whatever the reason, I pity their uncomfortable ordeal but I also confess to feeling just a tiny bit self-satisfied as I drift off to sleep under my crisp sheets.
Our plane to Adelaide leaves just before midnight local time so after a sleep, shower and change of clothes we have plenty of time for duty free shopping. On our next flight the extremely strict restrictions on hand baggage that we have in Europe don't apply, so Mrs Jim can fill her bag with make-up, mascara, and all the other things she couldn't bring from the UK. Her appearance restored, my wife is happy again. Consequently so am I.
We board the aeroplane and get ready to set off but there's a last minute setback; some passengers haven't turned up. That wouldn't normally be a problem but in this case it most certainly is. Why? Because even though the passengers aren't on the plane, their luggage is. You see the difficulty here don't you? Of course you do. The Singaporean authorities do too, and so we wait until the offending luggage has been removed from the hold. The event reminds me of how vigilant everyone in air travel has to be in these troubled times, and I find that thought playing on my mind until we reach cruising height somewhere in the darkness over Indonesia.
A few hours later we cross the Australian coast between Derby and Hedland in Western Australia. There are still another three hours until we arrive in Adelaide, a fact which underlines the sheer vastness of this country. The Great Sandy Desert (full marks to the Aussies for originality in the naming of things by the way) is below us and will be for quite a while yet, so time for me to get some rest. Back soon.
Wednesday 6th December 2006: Adelaide airport, South Australia.
We land at 08:30 and clear passport control without incident. Reclaiming our baggage isn't a drama either, but we're then given three separate grillings by various officials. One even has a sniffer dog. On the way out of the customs hall there are more X-ray machines, with quite a few people being required to open their cases for examination of the contents. I'm wondering why there's a need for such high security on the way into the country, then the penny dropped. They're not looking for bombs or weapons, they're looking for food.
The Australian economy is heavily reliant on agriculture, so much so that they're wary to the point of paranoia about anything being brought in that might damage crops or infect animals. Fruit fly is particularly feared, as it can ravage the grapes that make up Australia's massive wine industry. Hence the tight restrictions on bringing in food; that orange or apple you forgot to get rid of might just end up costing millions of dollars in lost crops if a fruit fly larva were to lie hidden within.
In the taxi my pleasure at having finally arrived in the warmth of Australia is replaced by bewilderment as the radio newsreader repeats the shock result of the second Test. Once again England have crumbled and are now two nil down in the series of five. Worse still it happened right here, in Adelaide. I sink back into my seat and contemplate twenty-four days of relentless Pom-bashing. Great. Just bloody great.
Although it's still early morning we've passed through so many time zones that I'm feeling like a badly hung over Doctor Who and don’t quite know what I should be doing. I'd really like to sleep but I know I have to stay awake as long as possible so that my body clock can get the chance to readjust. So we busy ourselves with tasks like buying essentials and letting Mrs Jim's friends and family know we've arrived. Finally the evening comes, and after a good meal at a local restaurant it's back to the apartment for a few glasses of wine and bed. We're here at last.
Thursday, 7th December - Friday 8th December 2006
Melbourne Street, North Adelaide
At one o'clock on Thursday afternoon I emerge from fourteen hours solid sleep. My limbs feel rigid and semi-paralysed, but an icy shower - the sort that has you gasping for breath and wondering what happened to your wedding tackle - soon brings me round.
We spend the rest of the day recovering from our journey, doing leisurely things like reading, filling in crosswords and relaxing in the sunshine on our balcony overlooking the busy street below. It's tempting to get out and about straight away but past experience tells us that we need to recover first. The lack of activity does have its advantages though; with little of note happening for the moment, now might be a good time to let you know a few things about where we are and why we keep coming here.
Adelaide, the state capital of South Australia, is named after the wife of King William IV. It’s home to about a million people spread over a wide area. Colonel William Light set out his plans for the new city in 1837, and a fine job he made of it too. The comparatively small city centre is laid out grid-like, and is surrounded on all sides by a wide band of trees and parkland. Beyond this buffer of green lie the mostly affluent inner suburbs, which soon give way to mixed residential and industrial property. Further to the north and east are the outer suburbs, the country areas, then bushland and finally the endless desert. To the south and west is the Gulf of St Vincent, which at the moment contains over a dozen sharks within 400 yards of the beach. Spotter planes have seen them come in this close as recently as yesterday, and they report that some are the feared white pointers, or great whites. I don't think I'll be doing much swimming this trip. Through the city centre runs the river Torrens, which has been dammed to form a lake on which pleasure boats called Popeye I, II etc. carry people on picturesque tours with splendid views.
Adelaide is one of the few major Australian cities to be founded entirely by free settlers. There never were any convicts here, which I suppose is good in a way but it robs me of the more obvious ripostes whenever I have to counter the inevitable (but always good-natured) Pommie-baiting.
The time difference between South Australia and the UK is supposed to be nine and a half hours. In practice it never is. This is because when we in the UK set our clocks to GMT, South Australia puts its clocks forward by an hour for the southern hemisphere summer and consequently is ten and a half hours ahead. Similarly when we adjust our clocks to BST, SA puts its clocks back and for the next six months the difference becomes eight and a half hours. It's initially confusing but you get used to it after a while. I believe most Australian states change their clocks except Queensland, who don’t – just to confuse you more.
Still on the subject of time, I mentioned before how big this country is and this is evident from the fact that Australia has three time zones. Where we are it's called Central Time, with the zones on each side of us being Eastern time and Western Time. Those Aussies and their imaginative naming conventions again, eh?
This is not what you’d call a 24-hour party city. In fact it's even been called dull, but I don't agree. I find it utterly charming. There are lots of places to go and things to see, particularly in the city centre and surrounding suburbs. One of these, to the north of the city centre, is where we're staying. Named (again with typical Australian ingenuity) North Adelaide, it has some of the best eating places in the whole country. Even the small informal places are first class for quality and value for money. One of our favourite local places is called The Store, just two or three minutes walk down Melbourne Street from our apartments. It's part restaurant, part bar, part shop and delicatessen, and you can eat superbly for well under the equivalent of ten pounds each. If you like seafood you'd love it here, as everything is freshly caught locally - no need to import the frozen stuff. Kangaroo steak is on many a menu and it's the leanest, tastiest meat I've ever had. I've also eaten crocodile here; it was all right, but nothing special. I'll tell you more about the amazing variety of Adelaide food a little later.
South Australia is the driest state in the driest continent on the planet. At the time of writing they're experiencing the worst drought ever recorded, yet water still flows in the taps. It really does put the UK 'water shortage' into perspective; Britain has more water than it could ever need, it just wastes far too much of it.
It's now Friday afternoon. Outside the sky is cloudless and the mercury is touching 40 degrees Celsius, or 104 degrees Fahrenheit for those who like things in old money. In the shade, that is. We went out earlier to buy a few things and although we weren't in the sun for long we returned feeling limp and wrung out, grateful for our apartment's air conditioning.
Speaking of the apartment, not only is it well kitted out and comfortable but the positioning is nigh on faultless. Here's why:
We're on the first floor. Directly below us is a Chinese restaurant, and next door but one to that is a very large wine shop. Within three minutes walk we have Italian, Himalayan, Mexican, Japanese, Indian, Thai, and Australian restaurants, a bakery, three tea/coffee shops, two pubs, two mini-supermarkets, a newsagents, and an ice cream parlour. Oh, and there's a porn shop discreetly tucked in there too. As I said, all within a three minute walk. If you still want more, during the week once an hour until five o'clock in the afternoon a free - yes, free - air conditioned bus will take you to and from the city centre. After that the free bus no longer runs, but a ticket to the city on the ordinary service costs well under a pound.
Another reason I like Adelaide so much is that it's big enough to be a city but small enough for people to have time for you. There's none of that Sydney or Melbourne-like hustle, with everyone in a terrible rush. For example, shop assistants here smile at you warmly and greet you with a genuine cheerfulness that's totally disarming. I suppose you could say that Adelaide is secure in its own identity and doesn't feel the need to try to copy anywhere else. Perhaps that's also why everyone seems so relaxed, and why you tend to pick up the phrase 'no worries' with disturbing speed.
There is however one thing about Adelaide I don't like, and that's its drivers. The smiling, cheerful people you meet whilst on foot undergo a complete character mutation once behind the wheel. Want to change lanes? Tough, I'm not letting you in. Want to come out of that side street on to the main road? Over my dead body mate.
Driving in South Australia is subtly different from driving in the UK. They still drive on the left which is great, but watch out if you want to park on the 'wrong' side of the road, or in other words, facing the oncoming traffic. It's illegal. And when waiting to turn left or right at city traffic lights and the signal turns green, don't just set off as normal. Be careful first to check if anyone is crossing the road you're turning into, because pedestrians have right of way at these crossings and if you hit someone it's your fault, not theirs. Oh, and if it's you that's on foot in the city then make sure you use the pedestrian crossings. It's illegal not to, although people quite often do.
Other things of interest; if you want to buy beer, don't bother going to a supermarket. They don't sell it. Instead there are 'bottle shops', often great big drive-through affairs where the attendant will sell you a slab of your choice from the cool room and load it into your car boot for you.
It's also worth going on a winery tour, especially if you can get someone else to drive. Most wineries have a shop, or cellar door as they call them, in which you can taste before you buy. And then taste again, and again... For obvious reasons winery tours are very popular, to the extent that a lot of wineries don't allow coach tours because the merry tourists 'taste' more than they buy. You can get some outstanding bargains at wineries, particularly when they're selling 'clean skins' - bottles without labels that they're clearing out. There's no risk because you can taste first, and the quality is often excellent. We once bought a case of a dozen clean skins for fifteen dollars, or about six pounds sterling. Strangely I don't remember a great deal else about that holiday.
That's about all for now, but if I think of anything else you might be interested in I'll write about it as it occurs to me. 'Bye for now.
According to the flight path display on the screen in front of me we’re currently 38,000 feet in the air above the Iranian border, 6 hours into a thirteen hour trip from the UK to Singapore. This is the first leg of our journey to Adelaide, South Australia; it's a real brute of an undertaking, 20 hours in the air and 36 hours in total. We're...
Whoa, let's just hold it there for a moment. I'm getting ahead of myself. Allow me to retrace my steps and start again, this time at the beginning.
In the weeks and months leading up to this trip we'd made every preparation imaginable. Newspapers had been cancelled, neighbours informed of our absence, wedding arrangements delegated to our friends Vicki and Ian in Adelaide, taxi to the airport booked, central heating timer set, etc. etc. By comparison the Normandy landings were planned by the Chuckle Brothers in particularly anarchic mood. In short, we were ready. Nothing could go wrong.
Then this morning, for the first time ever, we overslept. The 6am alarm went unnoticed, as did the 6:30 alarm. The sound of the doorbell when the taxi driver called at 7:00 passed unheeded and the milk lady, so often the cause of premature wakefulness, rattled by with her cheerfully clinking bottles without disturbing us. I'm sure that had we been visited by the Brighouse & Rastrick Band playing 'Knight Templar' in our bedroom we'd have slept on blissfully, even through the particularly haunting principal cornet solo. Eventually we woke at 7:35, over an hour and a half behind schedule.
To say that panic ensued would be truthful but it wouldn't describe fully the mood in Lucky Towers this morning. We were, to put it mildly, worried. You see at this time of year flights to Australia are all packed with ex-pat Aussies going home for Christmas, and British people visiting their migrant families. On top of that there'll be cricket fans going over for the Ashes series, so getting seats on another flight might well prove impossible for the next month. And beside the small matter of two thousand pounds already spent on tickets, what would happen about our wedding? So many negative thoughts, so many possible adverse outcomes. We were in a bit of a state.
Anxiety raising my usually melodic baritone croon by two whole octaves, I yodelled down the telephone for another taxi. Mercifully it came before too long but by that time the rush hour (which, as you know, lasts for much longer than an hour and which makes rushing a physically impossibility) was in full flow. Or not, if you see what I mean. Our anticipated forty minute ride to the airport would now take at least double that. Given that we were already almost two hours late it was going to be tight.
At first all seemed well. The normal roads, often clogged by queues caused by temporary traffic lights and insane bus lane schemes that narrow roads at the precise time when most people want to use them, were relatively clear. However once we hit the M60 our prospects began to look bleak. For much of the time the taxi's wheels barely revolved. The illuminated signs over the carriageway seemed to mock us with their warnings not to exceed 40mph, since for long stretches half that speed was the most we could hope to attain. However after what seemed a lifetime we left the misery of the M60 for the comparative tranquility of the M56. For the first time that morning my jaw, which until then had been permanently clenched in acute tension, relaxed to the point at which coherent speech once more became a possibility.
We made it to the airport just in time. At that point I gave thanks to whichever gods had the job of looking after lazy mongs travelling to Australia by Singapore Airlines that morning. I also awarded myself several Brownie points for having had the foresight to check in on-line the previous day, since by doing so we were able to get the seats we wanted - the ones at the extreme rear of the aircraft, where the fuselage narrows and the lines of three seats reduce to two. No obese people flopping their blubbery bulk over MY armrest this time, thank you very much. Hah!
So here we are back where we started, in mid-air over one of the most blighted lands on earth. In hindsight I could have just written 'we overslept but still made the flight' but that wouldn't really be in the true spirit of blogging, would it?
Tuesday, December 5th 2006: Changi airport, Singapore.
For me Changi airport is memorable for two reasons. First, it's immaculately clean. All the toilets have their own designated cleaner who stands by with a mop, bucket, and other equipment in case anyone has an accident. Whether their services extend to shaking off drips or wiping those important little places is something I've never explored, but I wouldn't bet against it. It's that kind of place.
Secondly Changi is huge, like a self-contained city. So huge in fact that it contains two transit hotels, in which travellers with long gaps between connecting flights can book a room in blocks of six hours. Since you never have to leave the airport complex there's no need for passport control or visas, and as your luggage is transferred to the onward flight by unseen baggage handlers it couldn't be easier. Just book a room and sleep. In our case we have sixteen hours until we leave for Adelaide, so we've booked in for twelve hours.
It's seven o'clock in the morning as we arrive in Singapore but the time difference means that our bodies think it's eleven at night, so after downing a Nytol it's heads down for us in the clean and comfortable air-conditioned room. Fantastic! I can barely countenance the alternative of spending hours slumped in a chair in the airport concourse, but I saw some people doing just that. Perhaps they didn't know about the transit hotels. Perhaps they did know about them but not that pre-booking is almost essential, and so were turned away because the hotels were full. Possibly they don't want to/can't afford the forty-odd pounds charge for a twelve hour stay; whatever the reason, I pity their uncomfortable ordeal but I also confess to feeling just a tiny bit self-satisfied as I drift off to sleep under my crisp sheets.
Our plane to Adelaide leaves just before midnight local time so after a sleep, shower and change of clothes we have plenty of time for duty free shopping. On our next flight the extremely strict restrictions on hand baggage that we have in Europe don't apply, so Mrs Jim can fill her bag with make-up, mascara, and all the other things she couldn't bring from the UK. Her appearance restored, my wife is happy again. Consequently so am I.
We board the aeroplane and get ready to set off but there's a last minute setback; some passengers haven't turned up. That wouldn't normally be a problem but in this case it most certainly is. Why? Because even though the passengers aren't on the plane, their luggage is. You see the difficulty here don't you? Of course you do. The Singaporean authorities do too, and so we wait until the offending luggage has been removed from the hold. The event reminds me of how vigilant everyone in air travel has to be in these troubled times, and I find that thought playing on my mind until we reach cruising height somewhere in the darkness over Indonesia.
A few hours later we cross the Australian coast between Derby and Hedland in Western Australia. There are still another three hours until we arrive in Adelaide, a fact which underlines the sheer vastness of this country. The Great Sandy Desert (full marks to the Aussies for originality in the naming of things by the way) is below us and will be for quite a while yet, so time for me to get some rest. Back soon.
Wednesday 6th December 2006: Adelaide airport, South Australia.
We land at 08:30 and clear passport control without incident. Reclaiming our baggage isn't a drama either, but we're then given three separate grillings by various officials. One even has a sniffer dog. On the way out of the customs hall there are more X-ray machines, with quite a few people being required to open their cases for examination of the contents. I'm wondering why there's a need for such high security on the way into the country, then the penny dropped. They're not looking for bombs or weapons, they're looking for food.
The Australian economy is heavily reliant on agriculture, so much so that they're wary to the point of paranoia about anything being brought in that might damage crops or infect animals. Fruit fly is particularly feared, as it can ravage the grapes that make up Australia's massive wine industry. Hence the tight restrictions on bringing in food; that orange or apple you forgot to get rid of might just end up costing millions of dollars in lost crops if a fruit fly larva were to lie hidden within.
In the taxi my pleasure at having finally arrived in the warmth of Australia is replaced by bewilderment as the radio newsreader repeats the shock result of the second Test. Once again England have crumbled and are now two nil down in the series of five. Worse still it happened right here, in Adelaide. I sink back into my seat and contemplate twenty-four days of relentless Pom-bashing. Great. Just bloody great.
Although it's still early morning we've passed through so many time zones that I'm feeling like a badly hung over Doctor Who and don’t quite know what I should be doing. I'd really like to sleep but I know I have to stay awake as long as possible so that my body clock can get the chance to readjust. So we busy ourselves with tasks like buying essentials and letting Mrs Jim's friends and family know we've arrived. Finally the evening comes, and after a good meal at a local restaurant it's back to the apartment for a few glasses of wine and bed. We're here at last.
Thursday, 7th December - Friday 8th December 2006
Melbourne Street, North Adelaide
At one o'clock on Thursday afternoon I emerge from fourteen hours solid sleep. My limbs feel rigid and semi-paralysed, but an icy shower - the sort that has you gasping for breath and wondering what happened to your wedding tackle - soon brings me round.
We spend the rest of the day recovering from our journey, doing leisurely things like reading, filling in crosswords and relaxing in the sunshine on our balcony overlooking the busy street below. It's tempting to get out and about straight away but past experience tells us that we need to recover first. The lack of activity does have its advantages though; with little of note happening for the moment, now might be a good time to let you know a few things about where we are and why we keep coming here.
Adelaide, the state capital of South Australia, is named after the wife of King William IV. It’s home to about a million people spread over a wide area. Colonel William Light set out his plans for the new city in 1837, and a fine job he made of it too. The comparatively small city centre is laid out grid-like, and is surrounded on all sides by a wide band of trees and parkland. Beyond this buffer of green lie the mostly affluent inner suburbs, which soon give way to mixed residential and industrial property. Further to the north and east are the outer suburbs, the country areas, then bushland and finally the endless desert. To the south and west is the Gulf of St Vincent, which at the moment contains over a dozen sharks within 400 yards of the beach. Spotter planes have seen them come in this close as recently as yesterday, and they report that some are the feared white pointers, or great whites. I don't think I'll be doing much swimming this trip. Through the city centre runs the river Torrens, which has been dammed to form a lake on which pleasure boats called Popeye I, II etc. carry people on picturesque tours with splendid views.
Adelaide is one of the few major Australian cities to be founded entirely by free settlers. There never were any convicts here, which I suppose is good in a way but it robs me of the more obvious ripostes whenever I have to counter the inevitable (but always good-natured) Pommie-baiting.
The time difference between South Australia and the UK is supposed to be nine and a half hours. In practice it never is. This is because when we in the UK set our clocks to GMT, South Australia puts its clocks forward by an hour for the southern hemisphere summer and consequently is ten and a half hours ahead. Similarly when we adjust our clocks to BST, SA puts its clocks back and for the next six months the difference becomes eight and a half hours. It's initially confusing but you get used to it after a while. I believe most Australian states change their clocks except Queensland, who don’t – just to confuse you more.
Still on the subject of time, I mentioned before how big this country is and this is evident from the fact that Australia has three time zones. Where we are it's called Central Time, with the zones on each side of us being Eastern time and Western Time. Those Aussies and their imaginative naming conventions again, eh?
This is not what you’d call a 24-hour party city. In fact it's even been called dull, but I don't agree. I find it utterly charming. There are lots of places to go and things to see, particularly in the city centre and surrounding suburbs. One of these, to the north of the city centre, is where we're staying. Named (again with typical Australian ingenuity) North Adelaide, it has some of the best eating places in the whole country. Even the small informal places are first class for quality and value for money. One of our favourite local places is called The Store, just two or three minutes walk down Melbourne Street from our apartments. It's part restaurant, part bar, part shop and delicatessen, and you can eat superbly for well under the equivalent of ten pounds each. If you like seafood you'd love it here, as everything is freshly caught locally - no need to import the frozen stuff. Kangaroo steak is on many a menu and it's the leanest, tastiest meat I've ever had. I've also eaten crocodile here; it was all right, but nothing special. I'll tell you more about the amazing variety of Adelaide food a little later.
South Australia is the driest state in the driest continent on the planet. At the time of writing they're experiencing the worst drought ever recorded, yet water still flows in the taps. It really does put the UK 'water shortage' into perspective; Britain has more water than it could ever need, it just wastes far too much of it.
It's now Friday afternoon. Outside the sky is cloudless and the mercury is touching 40 degrees Celsius, or 104 degrees Fahrenheit for those who like things in old money. In the shade, that is. We went out earlier to buy a few things and although we weren't in the sun for long we returned feeling limp and wrung out, grateful for our apartment's air conditioning.
Speaking of the apartment, not only is it well kitted out and comfortable but the positioning is nigh on faultless. Here's why:
We're on the first floor. Directly below us is a Chinese restaurant, and next door but one to that is a very large wine shop. Within three minutes walk we have Italian, Himalayan, Mexican, Japanese, Indian, Thai, and Australian restaurants, a bakery, three tea/coffee shops, two pubs, two mini-supermarkets, a newsagents, and an ice cream parlour. Oh, and there's a porn shop discreetly tucked in there too. As I said, all within a three minute walk. If you still want more, during the week once an hour until five o'clock in the afternoon a free - yes, free - air conditioned bus will take you to and from the city centre. After that the free bus no longer runs, but a ticket to the city on the ordinary service costs well under a pound.
Another reason I like Adelaide so much is that it's big enough to be a city but small enough for people to have time for you. There's none of that Sydney or Melbourne-like hustle, with everyone in a terrible rush. For example, shop assistants here smile at you warmly and greet you with a genuine cheerfulness that's totally disarming. I suppose you could say that Adelaide is secure in its own identity and doesn't feel the need to try to copy anywhere else. Perhaps that's also why everyone seems so relaxed, and why you tend to pick up the phrase 'no worries' with disturbing speed.
There is however one thing about Adelaide I don't like, and that's its drivers. The smiling, cheerful people you meet whilst on foot undergo a complete character mutation once behind the wheel. Want to change lanes? Tough, I'm not letting you in. Want to come out of that side street on to the main road? Over my dead body mate.
Driving in South Australia is subtly different from driving in the UK. They still drive on the left which is great, but watch out if you want to park on the 'wrong' side of the road, or in other words, facing the oncoming traffic. It's illegal. And when waiting to turn left or right at city traffic lights and the signal turns green, don't just set off as normal. Be careful first to check if anyone is crossing the road you're turning into, because pedestrians have right of way at these crossings and if you hit someone it's your fault, not theirs. Oh, and if it's you that's on foot in the city then make sure you use the pedestrian crossings. It's illegal not to, although people quite often do.
Other things of interest; if you want to buy beer, don't bother going to a supermarket. They don't sell it. Instead there are 'bottle shops', often great big drive-through affairs where the attendant will sell you a slab of your choice from the cool room and load it into your car boot for you.
It's also worth going on a winery tour, especially if you can get someone else to drive. Most wineries have a shop, or cellar door as they call them, in which you can taste before you buy. And then taste again, and again... For obvious reasons winery tours are very popular, to the extent that a lot of wineries don't allow coach tours because the merry tourists 'taste' more than they buy. You can get some outstanding bargains at wineries, particularly when they're selling 'clean skins' - bottles without labels that they're clearing out. There's no risk because you can taste first, and the quality is often excellent. We once bought a case of a dozen clean skins for fifteen dollars, or about six pounds sterling. Strangely I don't remember a great deal else about that holiday.
That's about all for now, but if I think of anything else you might be interested in I'll write about it as it occurs to me. 'Bye for now.
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