The Balls Are In The Bin

Carry On Glamping

2011-09-30T18:20:00.017+01:00

As promised prior to the Great Food Poisoning Of 2011, I thought I'd tell you about a thoroughly unexpected, yet rather spanking trip that we embarked on back in July.

Tizer was due to break up for her oh-so-long summer hols, and we thought it would be nice to take a little impromptu holiday. We only had a weekend to spare, so we looked at the usual array of options - a city break, a country pub, a seaside B&B, but nothing was really grabbing us. We wanted something that Tizer would get a kick out of for a change and, short of Disney, we were coming up blank.

So I started trawling the old interweb to try and find a break with a difference and, after a day or two, I came up with:

Camping.

I know. Not all that inspiring and certainly not the sort of thing I'd normally opt for. My experiences of camping were hitherto limited entirely to the 1980s, spent either on a rainswept campsite in a two-tone (brown and fawn) frame tent with my parents, or on a rainswept campsite in a sodden canvas Scout tent with five other, faintly smelly, pre-pubescent boys. Nylon sleeping bags, communal showers, grimy toilet blocks and farting competitions (the latter, blessedly, being limited to Scout camp).

But what I'd found looked a whole world away from this. After all, when camping means a pre-erected tent, hardwood floors, real beds, a wood-burning stove and - get this people! - a bona fide flushing loo, the whole affair starts to look mighty tempting. Oh, and before you ask, yes, they even throw in a kitchen sink. To paraphrase M&S - this isn't just camping; this is Feather Down Farm camping.

That's right - Feather Down Farms. Sounds kinda quaint, don't it? Their website is a masterpiece of marketing, selling the whole affair as 'Five-Go-Camping'-meets-Boden, sprinkled liberally with photos of rosy-cheeked children, roaring campfires and cosy, candlelit tent interiors. Feather Down have their luxury, pre-pitched tents - bursting with the afore mentioned facilities - at 20-odd farms across the UK. They supply the tents to the farms and promote them via the website. For their part, the farmers provide somewhere for the tents to be pitched (of course!), prepare and clean them prior to guests' arrival, provide wood for the stove, shower facilities and a little farm shop.

After much mulling, we chose a farm in North Wales called Glanmor Isaf which I was drawn to, I think, because it sounded like something out of 'Ivor the Engine'. With booking and payment all processed online, the deed was soon done and there would be no turning back.

Feather Down promised much, especially in the comfort department. Clearly, their approach is more 'glamping' (glamourous camping, apparently) than camping. That said, we've always been more about fluffy robes, room service and Molton Brown toiletries than wellies, woollens and wet-weather-gear so, despite the promise of at least some home comforts, it wasn't without a little trepidation that we loaded up the car and headed for the border.

Glanmor Isaf, it turns out, is a sheep and cattle farm set against the backdrop of the slopes of Snowdonia leading down to the Menai Straits, and it really is a lovely spot. Very Welsh, I'd say. We arrived late on Friday afternoon, and soon tracked down Owen, part of the Pritchard family who own the farm. He proved to be a truly warm and welcoming host, showing us where the wood was stored and where to chop it (oh yes, you have to chop your own wood here), the immaculately clean showers, well stocked farm shop, chicken coop (with real chickens!) and, finally, to our - quite frankly - magnificent tent. To be fair, the term tent doesn't do these glorious canvas residences justice. Really, I've lived in smaller flats. Wooden floors, a dining table and chairs for six, a great 'kitchen island' complete with sink and - in the centre of the tent - a wonderful, old-worldey, wood burning stove. There's even the ultimate middle-class accessory - a coffee grinder - fixed to the wall. I mean, god forbid we should have to go without our morning cup of java...

Our 'little' tent

There's a double bedroom, a room with a bunk bed and - much to Tizer's delight - a bed in a cupboard, complete with a little heart-shaped cut-out in the door for peeking out of. All very cleverly done and, to be just a teensy bit cynical for a second, all painstakingly well-planned (some, more cynical even than me, might say 'manufactured'). The dining chairs are all carefully mis-matched, faux 50s tins and nick-nacks are dotted around on shelves, and the loo lid appears to have been hewn by a passing backwoodsman from half a pine tree. Hell, there's even a battered old suitcase that's been discarded casually on top of one of the cupboards. But to criticise the place for this would be churlish; the tent, and everything in it, are just wonderful. Especially the flushing toilet, without the promise of which we wouldn't have found ourselves here in the first place.

Now, I'd read on a couple of blogs by past 'Feather Downers' that the stove can be a temperamental little bugger, and the best advice seems to be to get it going as soon as you can, especially if you tend to like your food hot. So, whilst Mrs V and Tizer used the specially provided wheelbarrows to fetch our luggage from the car, I set to with axe in hand at preparing kindling and hacking logs into variously sized chunks of wood. This was great; I was naught but a checked-shirt away from feeling manly.

We'd brought a homemade chilli con carne with us, so getting the stove lit, and doing it relatively quickly, was pretty important if we wanted to eat something other than digestive biscuits (or cold chilli con carne) for dinner. And, of course, there was the not-so-small question of male pride. Lighting fires - along with parallel parking, wiring a plug and carving the Christmas turkey - is one of those basic 'man-skills' that even the most metrosexual of blokes have to be able to perform with aplomb. I couldn't - mustn't - let the family down on this one.

So, just like Owen showed us: vent half open, small pile of kindling in the grate; firelighter on top of that, then a bit more kindling. Now the easy bit - light the firelighter. Kindling catches nicely, so add some bigger bits of wood. All going terribly well so far. There's a bit of heat going now, so let's go for a small log. It burns! Looking good...

And fifteen minutes later, what do you have? Well, as much as I know you're hoping I'll say "a whole lot of smoke and some unburnt wood", I can't. It was a roaring furnace in no time at all! I oozed manfulness. Only the lack of having a spear to hand stopped me from heading out there and then to hunt down a wild boar, burn it to a crisp on my mighty stove and serve it to my grateful and fawning family for supper.

Failing that, of course, chilli would do just fine. And the stove didn't only heat our dinner to perfection, it also warmed the tent to a very satisfying level of snug-comfiness. Tizer soon crawled into her bed-in-a-cupboard, and we were a little worried that the excitement of it all would mean that she'd struggle to get to sleep, but she was away with the fairies in no time. Left to our own devices, and with no TV, DAB or Wifi to speak of, Mrs V and I had a snifter of red wine or three and played Scrabble. Yes, it's that kind of holiday people, and you slip almost effortlessly into it.

Our bed was comfy, though we were glad we'd brought a second duvet. The farm provide duvets and bed linen (although you need to make your own bed folks) but we brought an extra along just in case, and it proved it's worth. After all, this was Britain in July and, despite the trimmings, there's still only a layer of canvas between you and the great outdoors, so it can get chilly.

Tizer was up first the following morning (as she always is when it's not a school day) and order of the day for her was to explore her surroundings and generally bother the neighbours. There are five tents at Glanmor Isaf, three set in the orchard, with a further two in the adjoining field. Only ours and two others were occupied, both by families, both of which had little girls of Tizer's age. She was, needless to say, elated. In no time at all they'd formed a formidable 'band of sisters', all dressed as is de rigueur for this time of the morning at Feather Down, in wellies and pyjamas. They were soon climbing trees, terrorising the chickens and taking turns on the large tyre swing in the centre of the orchard. Meanwhile, my attentions turned once more to my fire-lighting duties...

By repeating the routine of the previous evening we were quickly up to cooking temperature. Breakfast provisions, bought from the farm's little honesty shop, were soon sizzling away very nicely and, whether it was the wood smoke, the great outdoors, or just down to the farm's excellent bacon, sausage and eggs, it was one of the finest cooked breakfast I've ever had.

Owen came by, whilst I was wiping the last of the porky juices from my plate with a hunk of toast, to let us know that he was heading off to bottle-feed the lambs, and if that sounded like Tizer's sort of thing would she care to join him? Well, he didn't have to ask twice, and we - along with our new neighbours - followed him down to where the lambs were kept. Each of the girls was presented with a bottle which they deftly fed to the four hungry lambs who - judging by their size - probably weren't all that far away from a mint-sauce-related demise. Not that I mentioned this to the kids, you understand; thought it might have spoilt the moment just a tad.

The weekend continued in similar idyllic vein. We visited Caernarfon and toured the mightily impressive castle, took a train ride to the top of Snowdon (quite a long trek to see the inside of a cloud, but lovely views on the way up) and lunched in a couple of smashing local pubs whilst sampling the odd pint of Welsh ale. And, it must be said, it was always a delight to return to our little canvas 'des res' of an evening. My only regret was allowing Mrs V, after much pestering, to have a go at lighting the stove. Let's just say that whoever coined the phrase 'there's no smoke without fire', hasn't witnessed my wife trying to light one. The resulting smoke was so thick we could barely see from one side of the tent to the other, and yet the stove remained resolutely cool. She blamed it on a wet log. Read into that what you will.

On the Sunday, Owen offered us the chance to cook a joint of pork - from the farm's own pigs, of course - in the large, wood-burning oven (essentially a pizza oven) sited in the next field. It gets up to a really eyebrow singeing temperature, and cooked the pork in no time, producing some out-of-this-world crackling. The pork itself was stunningly tasty, way superior to your average supermarket fare and testament to why trying out your local farm shop - or farmers' market - is well worth the effort.

Later that evening one of our neighbours lit a campfire and invited Tizer over to toast some marshmallows. Well, I say 'toast'; 'incinerate' is probably closer to what your average five year old will do when they introduce a skewered marshmallow to a fire. Having said that, they happily wolfed down the resulting blackened and crunchy confection without complaint.

Packing up and heading back to civilisation on the Monday morning was a genuinely melancholy affair. Feather Down Farms have cleverly discovered the formula for the almost perfect family weekend away, helped massively in our case, of course, by the hugely hospitable Pritchard family and their beautiful farm. If camping in comfort, living on a gorgeous working farm, chopping wood, lighting fires, collecting eggs, hand-feeding lambs, eating great local food and hanging around in your PJs and wellies sounds like your kind of thing, then this is the holiday for you.

Got Those Campylobacter Blues...

2011-08-20T14:00:00.023+01:00

You know, I was planning on posting something sooner than this; but then, who was I to know I was going to be struck down most cruelly with food poisoning? An unpleasant little bacterium called Campylobacter which I managed to pick up whilst visiting friends down in Wiltshire.

Campylobacter: Bit of a bastard

Not sure exactly what it was I ate. There was quite a lot of eating and drinking going on throughout the weekend. A fantastic steak, a cracking piece of belly pork, some particularly nice smoked salmon, a doner kebab and a fair few pints of some fine local ales. But which could it be? From whence did I become infected? Just how did this cheeky wee bacterium weedle its way into my gut? Alas, I fear we'll never know...

Oh, who am I kidding? It was the kebab wasn't it? 'Twas a filthy, mucky old doner what done me in. No prizes for guessing that I was just a little inebriated when the jolly idea of a pile of fatty mystery meat rammed into a stale pitta crossed my mind. I mean, has any sober man ever truly thought to himself, 'you know, what I need now - what I really fancy more than anything else - is a sweaty kebab from that equally sweaty bloke on the high street who uses the serving tongs to pull out his nasal hairs when he thinks no one's looking'? Well no; of course not. But, like so many bad decisions in life - wearing traffic cones, dancing in public or having sex with ugly women - alcohol makes it seem like the finest idea your addled little brain has ever conjured up.

And, whilst the traffic cones, discotheques and ugly women of North Wiltshire were quite safe from yours truly (trust me, I learnt my lesson in the early 90s), a doner did seem - after some 8 hours or so of drinking - a capital plan. But dear lord, have I paid the price: The headache started late on Tuesday night. The fever, flu-like symptoms and shivers soon afterward. Then, in the early hours of Wednesday morning, whatever was lurking in my lower intestine decided it wanted out - pronto - and (forgive me, here) it had a one way ticket on the gravy train express.

The sickness started later that day and, with next to nothing on my stomach, taught me an interesting lesson in what I like to call 'The Spectrum Of Bile'. It went through various and generally quite disturbing hues and tints until late on Thursday, at which point it settled upon a rather unsettling shade of yellow. This continued, pretty much without let up, for the next 5 days. On the sixth day, I was back to solids, although in very small amounts, but felt this meant I was on the road to recovery. Then, on the Saturday, everything went into rewind - the fever came back, the gravy train started running a twice hourly service and I felt like death.

I tell you - I was proper poorly. Hell, I even went to the doctor so it must have been bad. It was a good two weeks before I felt well enough to venture back into the office again and now - three weeks on - I'm still so weak that I'd probably lose an arm wrestling bout with Tizer. The upside? Well, if a silver lining has to be grasped at, I've lost a stone in weight, which I'm rather pleased about. Oh, and it looks like I might have stopped smoking (haven't had one for 24 days). I was only really a social smoker anyway, but a fortnight of purging my body seems to have relieved me of the urge, strangely enough.

You see, even an old curmudgeon like me can take the positive out of a pretty negative experience. Quite uncharacteristic, actually, which is a bit of a worry. Christ, I hope this doesn't mean I'm growing up; that would never do...

An Apology

2011-08-10T21:38:00.049+01:00

Not sure who I'm apologising to really. No one ever followed my blog, such as it was, so there really wasn't anyone to disappoint. Perhaps I owe an apology to the whole world of 'blog'; littered, as it is, with so many projects started with great intentions that came to nowt after a year or so. They're like diaries, really, which people are equally crap at keeping up to. Unless you're Alistair Campbell, of course (or some similar knob), safe in the knowledge that your inane, daily scribblings are millions in the kitty once your career goes tits up. No fear of that here, I'm afraid; I mean, it's not like I started a war or anything.

So, see this is an apology to the blogosphere for not 'sticking it out' or 'staying the course' or whatever. But, to my credit, here I am giving it another go. Can't promise it'll be a terribly regular affair, but let's see where things lead us.

It looks as though we left you back in November 2008 in Miami Beach. Me, the Senior Vs, Mrs V and Tizer were meant to be chilling for a couple of days before driving up to Orlando for our first family taste of all things Disney. Only trouble was, Tizer had flu - bad flu - and stayed that way for nearly all of the trip. She spent 6 days in a hotel room almost spitting distance from Cinderella's Castle in the Magic Kingdom, but could barely shift herself out of bed. Heart breaking, it was. But, on the seventh day, she recovered and with the best part of a week left of the holiday, we made a pretty good stab of things.

Still, we felt so bad (and had so many gaps in the photo album) that we went back in October '09, just the three of us. This time, no illnesses and a rip-roaring success. We celebrated her fourth birthday there. She had her lunch in the castle with the Princesses. Kind of made up for a lot.

In other travel news, we've pretty much maintained our annual trips to Barbados (in fact, we're off again in about 10 weeks). I turned 40 - most depressing - but it did give us an excuse to visit South Africa. And, trips aside, we moved house (all of three doors away, a real stretch for Pickfords) and moved business premises, but other than that it's pretty much same-old, same-old which, at my time of life, is the way we kind of like things around here, thank you very much.

I'm planning on doing a little report on South Africa with some pics, just for the hell of it. And I'll have to post something on my latest travel find: Feather Down Farms. Tents, but with flushing loos. Marvellous concept!

Here's to the next post. Hopefully.

Hanging In SoBe With The Beautiful People - Or Not

2008-11-15T15:34:00.011Z

Our brief stay in Miami Beach was something of a mixed bag. The upside was that the hotel – The Loews – was wonderful, and the weather hot and sunny. The downside was that Tizer’s fever was showing no sign of improvement. We were forcing - and I mean forcing - Calpol and Ibuprofen down her at regular intervals which was just about keeping her temperature at a bearable (but still very worrying) level.

During one of her brighter moments we all managed to venture poolside for a spot of lunch (a massive and delicious bowl of freshly fried calamari for me) and a couple of fruity, extravagant cocktails. Tizer was fading fast though and Mrs V was starting to look distinctly ropey to boot; I despatched them both back up to the room with orders to get themselves to bed.

At this point, Mum and Dad would quite happily have stayed at the pool bar, I reckon, but I wasn’t having any of that. We were tourists, for crying out loud, and it was our duty to tour! We may well have lost 40% of our party with less than 24 hours of our holiday spent, but this wasn’t going to stop us. Oh no: I was in Miami Beach; I was wearing flip-flops and an overly-loud shirt; I was in possession of a camera with an oversized lens. We were going to hit Ocean Drive, or I’d want to know the reason why!

Ocean Drive, as well as being the title of an insipid song by wishy-washy 90s crooners The Lighthouse Family, is a rather photogenic stretch of sea-front Art Deco hotels and bars that line their way for 15 or so blocks along South Beach. By day it’s a sun drenched Miami-esque scene of pale pink, yellow and green 1930s properties lazing gently in the sub-tropical heat. By night - to all intents - it becomes a seething hive of neon lights, swish motors, strong mojitos and only the most beautiful of the Beautiful People (which is one reason why we only visited during the day).

The relaxed and bohemian atmosphere of SoBe often attracts Santa Claus for a pre-Christmas break

It passes the Mr V Location-That-Does-Exactly-What-It-Says-On-The-Tin Test, in that you’re left in no doubt that this is South Beach (or ‘SoBe’ as the locals call it) with all the trappings you’d expect – nay, demand – from such a stylised slice of beach-front, Miamitastic chic. I like to apply the LTDEWISOTT Test wherever we travel, and only a handful of places actually cut the mustard: Most of New York passes with distinction and Hong Kong is loaded with many perfect examples. However, the Caribbean coast of Mexico, for instance, fails miserably. You could be anywhere – or, at least, anywhere that has blue sky, blue sea, a big swimming pool and loud Americans.

Strolling down Ocean Drive we passed Versace’s gaff – Casa Casuarina – on the steps of which he had a rather ill-advised and somewhat infamous argument with a gun-toting nutter, which he subsequently lost in a quite spectacular - and terminal - fashion back in 1997. I thinks it’s a hugely expensive boutique hotel now, complete with Versace be-decked security guard/male model on the gate. It’s just one example of some cracking Art Deco architecture all along Ocean Drive, most of which set this tourist's camera shutter a-snapping.

After 10 blocks or so mother’s legs were starting to fail her so we returned to the hotel to find my two favourite ladies in bed: my fears regarding Mrs V’s demeanour at lunch were confirmed as she was now competing with Tizer in the ‘how hot can I make my body’ stakes. We had a four hour drive to Orlando to get through the following day and, at this rate, it was going to be pretty hard going for all involved. I left them both to get as much sleep as they could.

Ma, Pa and I dined in the hotel restaurant, leaving the sickly duo to their beds. The food was cracking; I had a spanking piece of blackened snapper, followed by a beautiful Key Lime Pie, which I thought was particularly Floridian of me. A couple of post-dinner snifters was all we had left in us so, with a big drive ahead of us – and hopes of a swift recovery for Tizer and Mrs V – we retired for the night.

On the upside, the paper parts of our driving licenses had arrived via courier that morning so, at the very least, we could hire a car. Small mercies and all that. Let's see how things pan on out from here on..

Up, Up and Away! Or, Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot...

2008-11-13T12:15:00.004Z

Our Floridian jolly was upon us. As the dismal, depressing dark nights started to bite here in Blighty, what better way to raise one's spirits than a trip to sunnier climes and - perhaps - to pay a vist to Messrs. M. Mouse and D. Duck? And, as holidays go, it had been a long time coming...

Imagine the scene: it’s April 2008; Ross and Brand are the darlings of Radio 2; girls are casting off their awful ‘UGG’ boots in favour of flip-flops in anticipation of another balmy British summer; a nice man called Mr. Obama seems to be embarking down a particularly ambitious political path and Usher – featuring Young Jeezy – is riding high in the UK hit parade (apparently).

And, despite a slight slowing of the UK economy (surely just a ‘blip’?), the dear old pound is still looking like mighty good value against the dollar. So, with a fine stash of flying club miles in the coffers after our recent Oz and Caribbean sojourns, what better way to take advantage of the near 2 for 1 exchange rate than to take a trip to the good ol’ US of A? Florida, to be precise, the Sunshine State, Land of the Mouse, and home to more bad shirts and perma-tans than you can shake a cocktail at. We bag 5 lovely Upper Class tickets to fly with Virgin Atlantic to Miami.

Fast forward to November: ‘UGG’ boots are – to the dismay of the country’s podiatrists – back in vogue, Ross and Brand are the anathemas they always deserved to be, the State Of The Nation is gloomier than an ‘Eastenders’ omnibus and Young Jeezy has become a victim of negative equity and is now struggling to keep up with the maintenance payments to his 'bitches' (though I hear that Usher is comfortably riding the downturn out thanks to investing heavily in ‘bling’ and 'hoes').

The credit-crunch has transformed into a full-blown recession and sterling has cast off a quarter of its value in little more than a month, subsequently increasing our forthcoming Stateside hotel bills by 25% (and with Mrs V’s taste in hotels, they weren’t all that cheap to start with).

But do we let this get us down? Do we lay down our arms in the face of recession? Turn heel and run at the sight of this credit-crunch? Well of course we don’t! We're British, for crying out loud, not French! In fact, the worrying slide of the pound actually spurred me to re-check the rates for a couple of our hotels, leading to a rather unexpected saving of some $800. A lesson learnt for future trips there folks, especially if you've reserved a hotel room quite a few months in advance - rates can go down as well as up, as they say...

This was to be a three-generational-trip with the Senior Vs (my parents) joining myself, Mrs V and Tizer. One of the disadvantages of travelling as a relatively large group on a trip like this is the logistics involved in shifting five bodies and all of their corresponding luggage to where they need to be, when they need to be there, a task which has improved very little since the replacement of the unruly hang-glider by the compact-and-bijou-push-chair. In fact, there was one significant occasion during this trip where the inclusion of the unruly hang-glider in our plans would have saved the smallest member of our party from suffering a nasty fall and a bust lip - more grizzly details to follow in due course.

As ever, we had quite a way to go before we could even think about boarding our flight to Miami - we had to get from our village in the wilds of West Yorkshire to Manchester, fly down to Heathrow then transport ourselves from Terminal 5 to the Hilton at Terminal 4 where we were staying for the night. By my reckoning this would involve a people-carrier (with child-seat and trailer), an aeroplane and a bus, all before we’d even left the country. The joys of travelling light, I vaguely recall, are far from exaggerated. It also goes some way to illustrate what us Northern types are willing to put ourselves through to fly with dear with Virgin. Still, beats living in the South and drinking flat beer...

We arrived at Manchester after a trek over the M62 which left Mrs V a little green around the gills to say the least, thanks to our chauffer’s inimitable driving style which involved getting so close to the HGV in front of us that you could literally taste the diesel exhaust fumes. Matters weren't helped by his almost incessant ramblings about his days in the merchant navy, which left us feeling like we were being driven over the Pennines by Uncle Albert out of 'Only Fools And Horses'. My mum and I were in the back and missed a lot of it, but my dad - who'd been sat in the front - was, I believe, rendered partially catatonic by the experience and didn't fully recover until we'd checked in for our BA flight, cleared security and had had a pint of lager thrust at him by his doting son.

It was at this point, as we sipped our overpriced Carlsberg and indulged in a ham and cheese sarnie, that Potential Holiday Calamity No. 1 occurred (the more keen-minded of you will no doubt have spotted that the numbering of said Calamity means there are more to come - and you'd be quite right). Casual as you like, Mrs V asks:

"Do Hertz in the US still expect you to show them the paper part of your driving license?"

Oh bugger - thinks I - I don't like where this is going. "Pretty sure that you do", I reply, the fixed smile on my face belying the fact that my knuckles are whitening around my pint glass. "Do we have a problem?".

For those who might not have rented a car before, the funky little photo cards that most of us now carry around have a paper counterfoil that shows any endorsements on it. Car rental companies generally - and rightly so - like to have a look-see at this before they entrust you with one of their vehicles, just in case you're George Michael or Lord Ahmed, for instance. Mrs V, it transpired, had left ours in the safe at home, and neither my mother nor father had theirs with them, as they weren't expecting to drive.

So, in the customary cool, calm and collected fashion that my family will no doubt tell you is a keynote of my character, I informed my good lady wife in no uncertain terms that we were 'effed'. Absolutely 'effing' 'effed', to be precise. It was too late to go back home and still expect to catch our flight and there was no way on god's clean earth that Hertz were going to let us pick up our car in three days time in Miami Beach without the paper counterfoil, all of which was going to make it pretty darned difficult to get to Orlando and a certain theme park that Tizer was rather looking forward to visiting.

I was, quite rightly, berated by both mother and wife for my reaction. Further words were exchanged and Mrs V retired to a quiet corner to compose her thoughts and stick pins in the doll effigy of me that she carries around with her for occasions such as these, before returning with a plan so cunning in its conception that I was surprised I hadn't thought of it myself: She was going to phone her sister - who had a key to our house - who would retrieve the paper licenses from our safe and pass them to her father. He, in turn, would arrange to meet with one of my more trustworthy employees who would organise for the documents to be despatched via UPS to our hotel in Miami Beach.

Each member of the team was briefed with their duties and made aware of the consequences of failure, then issued with fake identities and suicide pills. We boarded our flight to Heathrow safe in the knowledge that we'd done all that we could.

Our journey to the Hilton at Heathrow's Terminal 4 was blessedly uneventful, and after checking-in to our tiny, overheated and overpriced rooms we settled down to a pretty decent curry in one of the hotel restaurants. Then Mrs V's phone beeped; we exchanged fitful glance across the nan bread. It was from her dad:

"Rendez-vous a success. The package has been delivered". So far so good then.

We hit the sack after dinner, wanting an early start to get the best of the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse the following morning. Our flight time had been changed a month or so ago from 09:20 to 12:30, which we were all pleased as punch about, as it meant we had time for a leisurely breakfast and a glass or two of something fortifying which is, after all, what the Clubhouse is all about. With thoughts of mojitos, Tanqueray Ten and Tonics (the gin of Kings) and the awaiting sun of Miami Beach flitting playfully through my mind, I drifted gently to sleep...

...and was awoken some two hours later to mayhem or, shall we say, Potential Holiday Calamity No. 2: Tizer was ill. Red hot, fry-an-egg-on-her-forehead, screaming abdabs, vomit-in-the-bed ill. She hadn't joined us for dinner, so it wasn't the curry, but she was running a temperature of over 103 and was clearly one very unhappy bunny. We spent a fitful night of cooled flannels, doses of Calpol and mopping up of sick, obviously very worried and concerned for poor little Tizer, but also constantly aware of what this could mean for our flight later that day.

Thankfully, the barrage of drugs we were administering started to bring Tizer's temperature down and, consequently, she started to feel a little better. We all managed a couple more hours of kip before – feeling exceptionally groggy – we showered, dressed, and headed for T3, hoping that we’d seen the worse of her fever.

We'd booked a large chauffeur-driven car with the Hilton’s concierge the night before, and this picked us up promptly enough, dropping us outside Terminal3 just before 9 o' clock. Online check-in had been going through one of its 'off days' (i.e. it was buggered again) so we were a bit concerned that we may have lost our requested seats and/or been split up. Luckily, our seats were more-or-less as we wanted them, opposite each other in the front section a characteristically swish Airbus 340-600.

Onwards to the delightful environs of the Upper Class Wing, where we were swept through the Private Security Channel - compact-and-bijou-push-chair and all - in truly effortless fashion. Then along the Winding Road Of Consumerism, a path lined with perfumes, designer labels and duty free which the expectant traveller must now walk - tempted by the siren-like call of orange-faced women offering samples of eau de bloody awful - before finally approaching the hallowed portals of the Clubhouse.

Mrs V was actually waylaid on the Winding Road Of Consumerism, but only so that we could stock up on what we imagined were going to be some much needed pain-killers for Tizer, who was already starting to falter a bit. Once Mrs V caught up with us, we decided to head straight for a spot of breakfast, and were given a table in one of the booths (which always seem to be marked as 'Reserved', but never really are). Tizer toyed with a bowl of rice-krispies, whilst the rest of us indulged in the (almost) full monty fry-up. Very nice it was too, although would it kill them to stick a spoonful or two of baked beans on the plate? Hmm?

We soon discovered that the flight was delayed by around half an hour - which considering our surroundings was hardly heart-breaking - and I ordered us all a glass of champagne (all except for father, that is, who views drinking before noon as the first step on the road to Sodom and Gomorrah).

Mrs V took Tizer over to the children's area for some light relief which, it transpired, was to be in very sparse supply. Of the half dozen or so toys supplied in the little cubicle set aside for kids in the Clubhouse, every single one of them was broken. Or not working. Or had important pieces/limbs missing. Tizer - like most children - is generally pretty easy to occupy for hours on end with even the most basic of toys, but you really can't get away with fobbing kids off with non-operative crap. They just stare at it for a while, frown, then give it back to you, looking sad, saying, "It's broken", before wandering off to put yoghurt in your DVD player. C'mon Virgin, get some toys that work in there, or I'll send Tizer round to Branson's with a carton of Ribena and a quarter of marshmallows to play with his Bang & Olufsen!

Tizer hangs out in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse

Another glass of champers whiled away the time before our flight was called, then we sauntered up the usual succession of moving walkways to our awaiting plane - Mystic Maiden. We had a couple of minutes wait before boarding, as the crew weren't quite settled (I guess they were caught out by the slight delay), then we were straight on-board and into our allotted suites.

More champagne and a cheery welcome from the crew were liberally doled out, and I quickly retrieved my essential flying kit from my bag: iPod, Bose QC2 noise-cancelling headphones, book. Tizer was definitely feeling on the ropey side, but was doing her best to put a brave face on it. The crew were great with her, getting her settled in and making her feel at home, with a pillow to prop her up and help fill out her seat belt. Mum and dad were equally well looked after and, as the sun had now passed the proverbial yard-arm, father had even treated himself to a Buck's Fizz, the rogue.

Then, as we were heading runwaywards and the crew had taken to their seats, Tizer decided it was the ideal time to vacate hers. With Mrs V in the suite next to her and me opposite, we did our best – without leaving our own seats – to coax her back. My usual tool for this is to throw well aimed M&Ms at Tizer’s seat to lead her toward the safe confines of her seatbelt, but with all the worry over the state of her health, I’d forgotten to pick a bag of them up; a schoolboy error, I know, but even I have my off days. Not to worry, the Flight Service Manager (FSM) quickly spied what was happening, leapt from her seat and firmly (but kindly) deposited Tizer back in hers with the promise of treats to come if she’d just stay put for the next 10 minutes. Which she did – the girl knows a bribe when she hears it and curiosity alone kept her bum in her suite until the seatbelt sign was turned off.

She still wasn’t very well though, bless ‘er, and she was starting to feel a little warm to the touch again, which was a worry. V:Port - Virgin's marvellous on-demand in-flight entertainment system (IFE) was booted up, and we thought it would be ideal for her to put her feet up with a cool drink and watch a cartoon or three. But it was not to be, as suites 2-6A appeared to have a uniform row of blank screens. Being in the D row, I was quite prepared to give up my suite for Tizer, as V:Port was working fine for me; in fact, I'd already trounced those foolish enough to take me on at 'Trivia Challenge' (one of the interactive games that V:Port offers). The crew, however, assured us that they could quite easily fix such a localised problem and disappeared off to press buttons, turn widgets, wave magic wands or whatever it is they do to try and fix their increasingly unreliable IFE.

But it wasn’t all bad news: my drinks order had been taken earlier by a polite and a keen young flight attendent (FA) who had assured me that, yes, a bottle of Tanqueray 10 was on board and - praise be to the lord, allah and vishnu - they saw very little reason why there wouldn’t have been a sufficient supply of limes loaded to sate my need for a 'wedge'. As this is so seldom the case on Virgin flights - and on the sage advice of a fellow V-Flyer earlier that week - I had purloined a lime of my very own from the bar in the Clubhouse, just in case. However, it was to prove surplus to requirements as Keen Young FA brought forth the perfect T10&TWLW (that’s Tanqueray 10 and tonic with lime wedge, by the way). Delicious, so it was, so much so that when Keen Young FA offered me another one, I eagerly accepted.

Lunch orders were taken (still no V:Port opposite us at this point, by the way, though I thought I could now hear some mystic incantations being mumbled beyond the curtain where the IFE gubbins resides) but we were sorely disappointed to see that a couple of the meal options had been taken off the menu. I’d been rather looking forward to Tandoori chicken as a starter, and I also knew that Tizer had her heart set on the sausages and mash. In fact, she’d been practicing ordering since we’d first had sight of the menu online, and she wanted to tell the FA what she wanted for lunch herself; so, we’d had a very carefully enunciated – if somewhat repetitious: “Soup – And – Sausages. PLEASE!” for the past two weeks, more-or-less every time the subject of food was brought up.

It wasn’t to be however, though Tizer was far from being on top of her game by this point. Nevertheless, we were all delighted when Keen Young FA suddenly appeared with a plate of steaming bangers and mash, purloined from PE, especially for our ailing daughter. She barely ate it, which made us feel awful, but she really wasn’t up to solids by this time. Still, a lovely effort on the part of the crew which was much appreciated.

The pleasant male FA who’d been trying to work his magic with V:Port finally came over to us to admit that, despite a call to the engineers back on the ground, a liberal dash of holy water and a sharp kick, he wasn’t going to get the IFE back up and running – or at least not without risking screwing things up for the rest of the plane – and we didn’t really want that on our consciences. He offered Mrs V, Tizer, and the very nice couple in 2 and 3A, DVD players and 10,000 Flying Club miles each in compensation, which was more than acceptable.

I, meanwhile, had tired of displaying my omnipotent prowess of Trivia Challenge (despite a spirited contest with ‘JUDY’ in 38A - which she subsequently lost) and had settled instead for a film: ‘Horton Hears A Who’, an excellent cartoon version of a Dr Seuss classic in which Horton – an elephant – hears a voice emanating from a speck of dust, which turns out to be the home world of millions of ‘Whos’, who Horton has to save. Fantastic film which whilst reinforcing my love of all thinks Suess, did beg the question – just what was the good Dr. smoking when he wrote these books?

Lunch arrived; the soup surpassed my expectations by not merely being warm and gloopy (something I’ve come to expect from Upper Class soup) but also decidedly ‘foisty’, which is what, I guess, one should be prepared for when eating cream of parsnip. Still, they’ve yet to devise a soup which I can’t stomach (the same applies to ice cream – cauliflower flavour anyone? I tried it once in Amsterdam and it was delicious). A cheesy-stuffed chicken breast followed, which was pleasant enough. Cheese and port, however, to be put on permanent hold as Tizer was now running a temperature of 104 and refusing to take any medicine.

She was literally hot to the touch, looking a little like a beetroot and giving us – and, by now, the crew - real reason for concern. She’s a sod when it comes to running a temperature – we’ve been in similar positions with her a number of times (though never before at 38,000 feet) and it seems that even the mildest of bugs sends her internal thermostat on the fritz. Alternate doses of Calpol and Ibuprofen are the order of the day, and they work a treat – as long as she takes the offered medicine and doesn’t spit it out. But we were struggling now, and Pleasant Male FA had now joined us in trying to coerce Tizer to take a spoonful of a her medication. Things were getting serious enough at this point that he and the FSM were discussing whether they could find a nurse or doctor on board to administer an IV analgesic...

Then the FSM – the same who’d offered the earlier treat – had a better idea, and returned with a couple of cuddly toys from the on board Retail Therapy collection. A monkey, or Captain Teddy (a cute teddy bear bedecked resplendently in an airline pilot's uniform) – either one would be Tizer’s if she’d be a good girl and take her medicine. With barely a seconds hesitation, Captain Teddy was chosen and drugs were administered. We laid our hands on some Heroes forms, which we've yet to complete, but if either of the crew in question are ever reading this and recognise themselves – a million thanks to you both. You’re worth your weight in gold and you do VS proud.

The medication had the desired effect on Tizer and we able to make her bed up and let her get some much-needed shut-eye. Pleasant Male FSM approached me soon after to ask if we had a camera to hand. Of course we do, we're tourists, we told him, but why did he want our camera? Well, as we're all aware, flight deck visits are pretty much a thing of the past thanks to current security measures, but it turns out that passengers travelling in airline uniform - Captain Teddy, for instance - could be afforded the privilege of a quick tour. And so, some 10 minutes later, Pleasant Male FSM returned from the flight deck with a camera full of photos of Captain Teddy's trip up front. Very good they were too, and really put a smile on Tizer's face later in the holiday.

After all the stress, I felt a visit to the bar was in order, and dragged my dad along for a snifter or two (be under no illusions, despite his earlier reticence, my father enjoys a drink as much - if not more - than the next man once he warms up). The pleasant couple from 2 and 3A were also at the bar and turned out to be fellow Northerners and, it transpired, fellow Flying Club miles whores to boot. We put a healthy dent in a nice bottle of Viogner Sauvignon and swapped stories of miles earned and reward seats gained over the years.

The arrival of the tea service is probably the only thing that saved me from getting into an unfortunate 'sesh' (never a good idea at 38,000 feet) and we returned to our suites to a pretty nice spread of sarnies and a cream scone, complemented by a surprisingly good of cup of tea. Nice and strong with just a touch of milk - Builder's Tea, as we call it back home. The sarnies were very good (though I swapped the egg with Mrs V for her chicken). Dad wasn't impressed though; as a life long loather of a things fish - bar the stuff they batter and deep fry down our local chippy - he was rather shocked to find that the 'ham and mayo' sandwich he tucked greedily into was in fact smoked salmon and cream cheese. So appalled was he that he entirely lost his appetite for his scone, poor old bugger.

Tizer was starting to stir by this time, and we managed another dose of medicine whilst she was still drowsy enough not to be able to resist. We asked the FSM to ask the Captain if she could sit with Mrs V during landing using a lap-belt, so as not to upset her more than was necessary. The Captain, incidentally, had been good enough to come out and check on a Eliza during the flight. We told her that he was the pilot but she misheard us and is now convinced that planes are flown by pirates. Anyway, he was kind enough to allow the use of the lap-belt, and our steady descent into MIA was all the more restful for it.

Once we'd landed we were quickly onto a stand, and Tizer was swiftly transferred to the compact-and-bijou-push-chair where she promptly fell back to sleep. Thanking all of the crew wholeheartedly for their simply stunning service and help throughout the flight, we took a deep breath and headed for immigration. Now, after hearing various rumours about the sheer hell-on-earth that Miami Airport immigration can be, we were really dreading the prospect of a two or three hour wait - or, worse still - to find ourselves being handled in a similar fashion to dear Dragon Lady recently, especially with an ill child in tow. But guess what? It couldn't have been easier; possibly the best entry into a US airport we've had (and I'm comparing New York, LA and Chicago here). I think we were just lucky, and a sleeping child in a push-chair seemed to open lengths of Tensa tape that weren't being made accessible to everyone. We were through in less than half and hour, I reckon.

Then, of course, we weren't accounting for the appearance of Potential Holiday Calamity No. 3 - where the hell was our pre-booked limo?! Various terse 'phone calls and much pacing of the outside of arrivals later and the driver finally showed up, blaming a lack of parking spaces, believe it or not. But hanging around arrivals in 80 degree heat with a sickly kid for over an hour isn't the biggest bag of laughs, I can tell you.

He led us out to the road, where we were to wait while he collected the car, which is always a bonus if you ask me 'cause it gives me the chance to have a quick ciggie (I know! Awful habit, but I barely smoke anymore, honest). It was sticky, humid and busy and - despite the fact Tizer wasn't exactly having a ball - I rather enjoyed the chance to soak up a bit of the atmosphere. It was about 7 in the evening, so dark already, but still very warm; there was a definite smell of the tropics to the fume-laden air; people in loud shirts were bustling to-and-fro beneath avenues of tall palm trees, and the whole scene gave a real 'sense of place'. No Crockett or Tubbs look-a-likes to be seen, however, which was, I have to say, a little disappointing.

The driver pulled up at the kerb within 5 minutes or so, loaded up the frankly vast SUV with our mountain of luggage, then we were quickly on our way to Loews Hotel in Miami Beach. All the to-ing and fro-ing had woken Tizer by this time, so we checked in as quickly as we could and got straight up to our suite, where she lay on the bathroom floor a promptly threw up. Truly, has there ever been a better start to a holiday?

We managed to get some more Calpol down her - despite the procession of porters and maids who decided this was a great time to descend upon our room - and she slowly started to cool down. We're in a beachfront junior suite which (with the benefit of a tiny bit of hindsight) is very nice indeed. It has a separate living room area with a pull-out sofa bed, which we quickly settled Tizer into; she was shattered - absolutely whacked out, poor thing - and fell swiftly to sleep. It was about 9 in the evening local time, so 2am as far as our bodies were concerned and, quite understandably, we weren't far behind her.

Well, at least the flight's out of the way. Now, surely, things have to start looking up - don't they?

(A lot of the above post is an edited version of my trip report posted on V-Flyer - those nerdy enough to want it in its entirety - with all the lovely airport codes and related chuntering from my fellow V-Flyer types -can view it here )

He's An Ogre!

2008-11-07T10:55:00.011Z

Hello again. 'Tis I, the reluctant blogger, returning to regale you with tales of economic woe, domestic strangeness and a land where grown men dress up as giant mice.

So, the credit crunch has crunched; the downturn has turned (downward); the recession has proceeded. Something to do with those god-damned fools who took out 125% mortgages and a couple of unsecured loans before maxing-out their twelve credit cards on package holidays and personalised number plates, without ever realising they were spending considerably more than they earned. Then, of course, there's a second bunch of god-damned fools - the banks - who lent it all to them in the first place and who are now whingeing, cap-in-hand to the Government, because - rather unsurprisingly - the first set of fools can't afford to pay them back.

Apparently, it's left the nation's stout financial institutions a little strapped for cash, so to speak, and they're wondering - if it wouldn't be too much bother - whether the taxpayer would be so kind as to lend them a few billion quid to tide them over until - ooh, I don't know - about 2025? C'mon, you know they're good for it.

But what do I know, mere mortal that I am? The one thing that the Government is determined to drill into our tiny little brains is that this is a 'global problem' and in no way should we even think about blaming Brown, Darling or anyone else involved in the shower-of-shit that's been purporting to run this country for the last 11 years for what is, essentailly, a worldwide recession. They were just innocent bystanders, clueless and powerless to do anything about the gathering storm clouds heading our way from the West. Which is, of course, mostly bollocks.

Yes, a lot of this has been borne out of the States where - almost unbelievably - the banks seem to have been even more stupid and more greedy than those in the UK. But British banks and the UK Government hardly have the cleanest of hands in all of this. Just this week, one of the leading lights of soon-to-be-gobbled-up HBOS admitted that lending at the bank had been completely out of control for the past five years. And as for Brown and his 'No More Boom And Bust' crap, I can only assume he'll now be changing his mantra to a simpler and much more realistic 'No More Boom' instead.

Anyone with even half an eye on history knows that we're never far from the potential of a recession; it's the nature of beast that is free market economics and there's not a great deal you can do about it. One thing you can do, is to put a little dosh aside whilst the going is good. Save for a rainy day, so to speak. This, rather regrettably, seems to be a concept that Gordon Brown - in all his Old Labour Glory - was unable to get his head around. Like the dour socialist he undoubtebly is, he reaped the benefit of the good times, raised taxes left, right and centre and then went on a spending spree, chucking billions at the black hole of the nation's inefficient public services with n'er a thought for keeping something back for the kitty just in case the good times turned bad.

Now that the bad times are truly upon us, he's spending more than ever! And because of his rather ironic lack of prudence over the last decade, he's having to borrow even more to fund his latest spree! The world has, I believe, gone quite mad.

Plans for The Great Bank Bail-Out were first announced a couple of weeks ago. Tizer and I watched the press conference on 'BBC Breakfast News with Bill Turnbull' - surely one of our finest institutions (Turnbull, that is, not the BBC). Our Great Leader and Alistair Darling - the poor sap charged with clearing up his po-faced boss' mess - strode manfully to their respecitve lecterns to inform us that they were going to hurl countless billions of pounds of our money at banks which, through a mixture of greed and stupidity, had all but run their businesses into the ground. Bizarrely, Brown looked more relaxed than he had done in months; true to his political roots, he's rarely happier than when he's giving vast amounts of other peoples' money away.

As a mere three year old, Tizer isn't normally the biggest fan of 'BBC Breakfast News with Bill Turnbull' or, for that matter, press conferences in general but, for once, she seemed strangely transfixed by the events playing out on TV.

"Daddy", she said, eyeing the spectre of Brown on the screen before her.

"Yes darling?", replied I.

"That's Shrek", she said, pointing towards the grim visage of the PM. But she was still a little confused: "Where's Donkey?", she asked. At this moment the camera moved from Brown to dear Mr. Darling and a delighted smile spread across my daughter's face.

"There's Donkey", she said, satisfied that Shrek's sidekick was now present and correct. As the saying goes, 'out of the mouths of babes'...

Casting the doom and gloom of living in Brown's Britain aside, we're in the final throes of preparing for our jolly holiday to Florida. We're flying off to Miami next week for some much needed warmth and sunshine, and, perhaps, a little respite for the stresses and strains of global economic meltdown. Banks collapsing? Businesses going to wall? Unemployment on the rise? Screw that! We're going to Disney World!

Is Tizer delighted? Well, does a one-legged duck swim in cirlces? Do sharks shit in the sea? Do Brand and Ross wish they'd kept there big, over-paid gobs shut? Of course she's delighted - we're going to Disney, people! And she's all the more made up because my Mum and Dad - a.k.a. Grammy and Grandad - will be coming along for the ride.

We're flying to Miami rather than taking the more traditional route straight to Orlando because (a) I've always fancied visiting Miami and (b) the flights to Orlando - even in Business Class - can be a bit like boarding the Chav Express, or so I hear. So we'll be spending a couple of days in Miami Beach before grabbing ourselves a big ol' SUV and driving on up to the Land of the Mouse.

Against my better judgement, we're actually spending five nights in a Disney hotel, something I swore I'd never do, but which my Dad reckons could be a giggle, which is strange in itself, as Father isn't really prone to all that much giggling. Mind you, with a three year old in tow, it does make access to the parks - Magic Kingdom, Epcot and so on - much easier and means less time on the road, so there's a certain amount of method to the madness. The next five nights, rest assured dear reader, will be spent in the much more refined surroundings of the Ritz-Carlton Orlando, which will probably be a little more atuned to my tastes.

Mrs V already has the suitcases down from the loft and I give until Sunday before I'm restricted to threadbare underwear only - my less embarassing under garments having been consigned to the cases. Travelling long-haul as a family of three can be stressful enough, although with previous trips to the US, Hong Kong and Australia under our belts we're getting quite good at it now. Doing it with three generations of Family V, however, is going to be a different kettle of fish altogether (my father sees air travel - even in the pointy bit - as something to be bitterly endured rather than relished or enjoyed, and this can sometimes make him a slightly testy travelling companion).

Tizer: In training for Disney at our village fair

Still, we're all terribly excited - even the 'grown ups'. My trusty Mac will be coming along for the ride, and I'm going to make a most valiant effort to keep this 'ere blog updated with musings and photos as we go along. Assuming I have the energy. I mean, 10 days in Orlando? Here's hoping we all make it through unscathed.

Come Back Betty - All Is Forgiven!

2008-09-08T21:00:00.014+01:00

Where does all the time go? Where?? Answers on a postcard to the usual address please.

I ask this question for two reasons: firstly, because I've been AWOL from my small but perfectly formed blog for far too long (you may beg to differ, dear reader) and, secondly, because we parcelled daughter-dear, Tizer, off to her first day at school today.

"Too soon!" I hear you cry, and you'd be quite right - she's not even reached the ripe old age of 3 yet - but we're not talking about sending her to board at a grey and foreboding convent school clinging grimly to a windswept moor somewhere with nought but an oversize trunk containing countless pairs of woolly tights and a term's supply of ginger beer to keep her company. Of course not. That's what we have in store for her next year, unless she bucks her ideas up... For now, for two days a week, she'll be attending her nice new nursery school, and very giddy she is about it too.

We took her out of the day nursery she's been going to for the last year or so at the beginning of the summer, as she was clearly starting to out-grow the increasingly poor childcare she was being provided with courtesy of our local council. It started off OK, and was pretty much ideal for her when she joined just after her first birthday.

However, thanks to the locale of Mrs V's career choice - she works for the local education department - it meant she was based in the centre of one of the largest council estates and most deprived areas in Northern Europe, and we thought it was probably best that she moved on before she started swearing as much as some of her fellow students. No really, you'd be shocked at what some of them can come out with (I was). And when they installed smoking shelters for the four year-olds, that really was the final straw.

So, this morning dawned bright and breezy as a recumbent Tizer was roused from her beauty sleep earlier than she's used to - which didn't go down especially well - then neatly tugged and pulled into her first ever school uniform. Cue emotional parents and a rather non-plussed toddler holding determinedly to Betty, her erstwhile forgotten doll who all of a sudden appeared to be playing centre-stage in bolstering Tizer's confidence today.

As it was her first day, both Mrs V and I wanted to escort her and help her settle in, and I think we were all pretty nervous on the drive over. Will she fit in? Will she make friends? Will there be tears? If there are tears, will the other parents think that I'm soft for blubbing uncontrollably or will I be able to pass it off as 'something in my eye'?

As it was, she was fine (and so was I, mercifully). She was shown where her coat hook and the box that all the children put their hats in are (which, considering the price of the damned things, should have its own security guard and attack dog). She quite quickly settled herself down with another little girl who introduced herself as Neve. Rather disturbingly, Neve clearly had a stinking cold as was evidenced by the three inch, bright green snot slug making it's way across her top lip, so we'll all be coughs and sniffles around ours within the week I should imagine.

This has been one of my bug-bears (pun intended) since Tizer first started day-nursery. Never, in all my years, have I had so many colds, sore throats, coughs and stomach bugs since daughter-dear started mixing regularly with other peoples' diseased children: Kiddie Bugs. They're different to normal viruses, and much more contagious.

There's clearly some sort of morphing process that goes on with your everyday virus once a child under 5 gets hold of it that makes it more virulent and last much longer than it really should. For adults anyway. Kids spend two days apparently oblivious to the fact that they have a quart of luminous green mucous, like the discharge from that slimey character out of Ghostbusters, sliding relentlessly from their nose and down their top lips. Then - after a couple of days, three at most - it clears up. The last time I got a virus off Tizer, it lasted 3 months! Three stinking months! Where's the fairness in that?

Anyway, all went well with Tizer's first day. The only casualty appears to have been poor old Betty, who seems to have gone Missing In Action, hardly an auspicious start to her school career. We keep asking Tizer where Betty is, and she obligingly tells us, "Betty in tree", so it looks like a search party may have to be formed tomorrow to scour the grounds for a small, damp and rather cold plastic doll. On the upside, she did come home with her hat, which was my main concern (did I mention just how much they charge for a two-year old's school hat? Someone really is making an obscene profit down at the local school outfitters).

Day 2 tomorrow and, with everyone hoping that Betty can be found safe and sound, we're looking forward to another successful day. If things go well, she'll progress to the 'Pre-Prep' part of the school in January (thankfully they wear much the same uniform - and hats!). Then proper Prep School and so on until she takes her A Levels sometime in 2024, assuming we can keep up to the cost of uniform and fees. It doesn't bear thinking about does it? As the song goes, 'one day at a time, sweet Jesus' - or Mohammed, or Vishnu - we atheists aren't all that picky, as long as everything is going our way...

The Rearing Of The Stripy Stick!

2008-07-23T10:44:00.023+01:00

Of course, the other thing I promised to 'enthral' you with, dear reader, is the fascinating tale of our famous village maypole. At some 90 feet it's one of the tallest in the country and the only one to be lowered, redecorated, and raised - amidst much festival and celebration - every three years. This year was one such year.

Mrs V and I, for our sins (which are many fold), are heavily involved with all things stripy stick, ably aided and abetted by a small band of - let's be fair - fellow oddballs who forgoe regular meals, a social life or time with their family to ensure the continuance of a centuries old tradition in organizing all things maypole related. There's an awful lot of work involved and - it must be said - a particularly large proportion of it falls upon Mrs V and myself, so we found ourselves having to 'hit the ground running' when we got back from Barbados in early May to discover that plans and preparations well behind schedule.

The garlands - seen here in pride of place, half way up the stripy stick - are hand-sewn by a small group of ladies from the village, ably led by Mrs V. She sewed the majority of the cloth rosettes - a thousand of which adorn each garland - and then had to put all four garlands together in just three weeks. It was then my job to organise the afore mentioned fellow oddballs, friends and families to help carry them, door-to-door, around the village. This is (a) all part of our great stripy stick 'tradtion' and (more importantly) (b) a fantastic way to raise much needed cash. On top of garland duties, a stage had to be built from scratch on which our Maypole Queen and local dignitaries could watch the village school children perform maypole dancing. My father (also foolish enough to be on the Trust) stepped into the breach and turned out a stage fit for the RSC to strut their stuff on, bless 'im. It was a very, very busy few weeks.

The stripy stick is lowered at Easter (as noted in my last post, I think you'll find) and raised again on Spring Bank Holiday. We have a parade through the village - led by the Maypole Queen - followed by traditional maypole dancing. Then, to end the day's festivities, some loon climbs 90 feet up the newly raised pole to spin the weather vane on top. Why? Well, because it's there, I suppose, though you'll see Leeds United win the Premiership or Gordon Brown manage a natural smile before you'll catch me attempting it.

It's a strange but wonderful old tradition which we're pretty darned proud of preserving. I could rattle on far too long about the problems we when the village considered abandonning the tradition due to 'health and safety concerns', how we've had to work our arses off since then to get much needed support from the villagers (and cash from the their pockets) and the sleepless nights we've endured since getting involved over 6 years ago, but I think it's probably all a little dry and arcane for this blog - after all, we like to keep things light and airy around here.

However, I'm posting the following photos to try offer something of the flavour of our big day, which really went surprising well. I think it will also give you an idea of what can happen in a small northern village when too many like-minded people spend just a little too much time together in a pub...

The newly painted stripy stick is carried by men of the parish - stout and true - to its home in the centre of the village

The 90 foot stripy stick is slowly hoisted into place

The stripy stick stands, once more, resplendent in the centre of the village

Brave? Stupid? Who cares, as long as it's not me?

Woah! We're Going To Barbados

2008-07-06T15:50:00.004+01:00

Or rather, we've been to Barbados. Such is the nature of this blog that most events which find their way on here are at least a couple of months old. What can I say? I'm a busy guy and typing nonsense into the virtual vacuum that is t'internet sometimes has to wait. I'm sorry. Really; I am.

So, where to start? Well, after a snowy early Easter and the lowering of the stripy stick, our long awaited Caribbean jolly was almost upon us. 'Twas late April, and really bloody cold to boot. Which reminds me of a joke:

Antarctica. A polar bear and her offspring rest atop the pack-ice.

Baby Polar Bear to Mummy Polar Bear: Mummy, am I a real polar bear?

Mummy Polar Bear: Well of course you are dear.

Baby Polar Bear: Are you sure?

Mummy Polar Bear: Yes dear, I'm sure.

Baby Polar Bear: A real polar bear with sharp claws and teeth?

Mummy Polar Bear: Yes dear.

Baby Polar Bear: A real polar bear, with a thick, thick fur coat?

Mummy Polar Bear: Yes dear, a real polar bear with sharp claws and teeth and a thick, thick fur coat. Why do you ask?

Baby Polar Bear: 'Cause I'm fucking freezing!

So, as I was saying, it'd been a pretty nippy March and April - with snow at Easter - which hadn't really done very much to raise our spirits. I say snow, but it wasn't much; an inch or two that had more or less melted by lunch time. We don't get snow like we used to, do we? When I was a young 'un I remember great swathes of the stuff drifting up against our front door, all but barricading us in the house. It would come down by stealth over night and by morning would be several feet deep in places. As a child, I'd look out of the window with eager eyes, and everything was white and shapeless; shrubs, hedges and garden walls would be nothing but lumps and bumps running either side of where the road used to be. The odd, deluded soul who was foolhardy enough to try and get anywhere in their car would be stuck, axle deep, mere yards from their own drive.

Snowflakes the size of beer mats would swarm soundlessly from a leaden sky which was positively bloated with more of the stuff still to come. When I opened the door (trying my best to clear the foot of snow that fell onto the doormat when I did) the cold would hit my lungs like needles and a strange, cotton-wool silence would wrap itself around my already numb and reddening ears. My first step outside would reveal the true depth of snowfall - generally about 6 inches above the top of my wellies. I'd zip my Lord Anthony parka into periscope/snood mode and set out - much in the manner of a latter-day Captain Oates - across the frozen wastes of Northern England. Unlike Oates, my goal wasn't the relatively safe yet elusive haven of an ice-bound supply ship - oh no. My mission was, if anything, even more hopeless. I was hiking neck deep through this winter wonderland to the bus stop; I had the school bus to catch.

You see, no amount of remonstration with my mother could convince her that the school bus - being a tad deficient when it came to skis or packs of flying reindeer - wasn't going to make it through the Alaskanesque wilderness outside. "Go to the bus stop and wait", she'd say, "you don't want to be the one who misses it if it does come". It was always thus. If we awoke one morning to a midnight-black sky shot with lightning, unearthly fires burning all around and the spectre of the four horsemen of the apocalypse galloping relentlessly toward us, she'd still insist I went for the school bus, just in case. "It may well be Armageddon, but you've got double history this morning and you know it's not your strongest subject".

I'd arrive at the bus stop looking like a particularly ill-prepared Inuit, the faux-fur trim of my parka hood sparkling with ice, the handle of my Adidas school bag clasped in my frost-bitten hand. I wouldn't be alone; mine wasn't the only sadistic mother in our village who gave neither bye nor leave to the auspices of Social Services. There'd be two or three other hardy souls there too, all in varying states of hypothermia. We'd wouldn't speak - it was too cold and we already knew what each of the others were thinking, how they were suffering. We experienced among us the kind of stoic fraternity that it normally takes polar explorers months to acquire. And so, we would huddle together like penguins against the cruel arctic wind and hope that when we went, it would be to a better, warmer place.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Soon, the bus was a full twenty minutes late. If we waited just another ten minutes we could go home and tell our parents that the bus - as expected - hadn't shown up (for some reason half an hour was the allotted time that one had to wait for the school bus before it could be declared a 'no show'). Then, in the distance, a noise. A low rumbling - dampened and muffled by the snow - slowly, determinedly getting closer.

Shit. The bus!

"Leg it!" one of my companions would cry, and we'd charge across the road as fast as our stiff, blue legs could carry us, into the park, darting quickly behind a protective screen of trees. Crouching waist deep in snow, panting great plumes of warm air, we'd watch the bus - empty except for the driver - plod inexorably past us and head onwards, relentlessly toward school with its absent cargo.

I don't know where they got the school bus drivers from back in the early 80s, but they had levels of grit and determination unsurpassed by anything short of a full SAS squad on amphetamines. Thankfully, our bravura display of quick thinking under extreme circumstances meant we go now home and inform our mothers that the bus, as expected, hadn't shown up and could we please - for the love of god - go out sledging with the other kids whose mothers had, quite rightly, rejected the Victorian model of parenting in favour of something kinder and less likely to involve the loss of body parts?

But I digress (in quite spectacular style). Barbados. Yes, after putting up with the cold, the frost and week after week of overcast skies, we were finally packing our bags (or, at least - in true V Family tradition - Mrs V was finally packing the bags). It was time to ready ourselves for wall-to-wall sunshine, mid-80s temperatures, temperate easterly tradewinds and lazy days on the beach.

We'd be meeting my parents out there too, which Tizer was looking forward to tremendously. They'd already been out there for a fortnight and she'd missed them terribly. She hadn't really been able to understand why, when we went round to mum and dads' house to feed their fat, spoilt cats, her doting grandparents weren't there to give her chocolate, those cheesy twist things she likes so much, and various other treats that usually mean she won't eat her dinner when we gets home. She'd walk up and down their hall, opening and closing doors, shouting "Ganma! Gandad!" and generally scaring the shit out of the cats. Then, defeated and crestfallen, she'd toddle up to us and ask, "Where's my Gandad?". After two weeks of answering "In Barbados", she finally realised that 'Daydos' was the place to be, and she was exceptionally excited to find out that we'd soon be on our way.

And so, we loaded the car (well, dad's car, actually; he's old enough to be in the 2% of people who can still afford a large 4x4 vehicle in today's less-than-rosy, over-taxed economic climate) and began our long journey to the Caribbean, via Manchester Airport and Gatwick Airport, with a night at the Hilton at the latter. It wouldn't be until the following morning that we'd be boarding our Virgin Atlantic 747 to Barbados, but it's a trip we've done numerous times before and we're more than happy to put up with the connecting flights and nights at airport hotels if it means we can go in the pointy bit of a top-notch scheduled airline rather than play sardines with the hoi-polloi on some dreadful charter airline out of Manchester. Trust me, I've tried both, and - as is so often the case in matters of this type - the more expensive (and time-consuming) option is preferable in so many ways.

As ever, details of our flight over to Barbados can be found in my gripping trip report, once again hosted by those lovely folk at V-Nerd (which saves an awful lot of cutting a pasting on my part, I can assure you).

Mrs V & Tizer in the pointy bit

Twenty-four hours after our epic journey commenced, we were walking through the hallowed portals of the Treasure Beach Hotel, nestled as it is on Paynes Bay on the beautiful west coast of Barbados. This was our fourth time to the Treasure Beach (and our seventh to Barbados) and we were welcomed back like old friends, which is always a lovely touch. After quickly signing the requisite bits of paper at reception, we strolled through the restaurant and into the gardens to find my mum and dad sunning themselves in the mid-afternoon sun like a pair of aged iguanas. Tizer spied my mum first of all, hesitated (mum was brown enough to be mistaken for one of the locals by this point), then charged headlong toward her shouting "GAN-MAAA!!", managing to scare the bejesus out of the local birdlife, which promptly took to wing, and causing a few of the oldies around the pool to clutch at their liver-spotted chests in shock. Fair brought a tear to this hardened old blogger's eye, so it did.

Treasure Beach is an all suite hotel, with just 30 odd suites set in a horseshoe around a little, kindney shaped pool and a beautifully tended tropical garden which opens up onto Paynes Bay beach and the azure of the Caribbean Sea. Our suite was number 25 which is, in my humblest of opinions, the best of the lot. It's on the ground floor (the hotel has a very wise policy of only allocating ground floor suites to families with small children) and at the very end of the 'horseshoe', so that we can walk straight off our veranda and within 15 steps be on the beach. It doesn't, if you don't mind me saying, get much better.

Small but perfectly formed: Treasure Beach Hotel

The suites are quite simple, with a small living room leading off to a pleasantly furnished bedroom and well proportioned bathroom. Best of all is the airconditioning system, which cools the room down to such an extent you could chill your beer in it, and comes is handy for the first few days until you acclimatise to the tropical heat.

The staff at TB are a lovely bunch, once you get used to Barbados Time. For the unitiated, Barbados Time is similar to the mañana concept in Spain; literally meaning 'tomorrow', the notion of mañana generally means 'anytime in the future' and is employed by everyone from waiters to builders to explain when a certain service or product might be delivered. Well, Barbados Time is just like the mañana concept, but without the same sense of urgency. But it's not all that bad, and once you accept that you're living in a country which is both very hot and very beautiful, you quickly understand the necessity for a slower, more laid back pace of life.

Tizer's favourite member of staff is a brilliant young chap called Darwin, who manages to combine his intended role of waiter with that of children's entertainer, valet and island guide. She loves him, not least of all because he taught her to 'knock' last year. The 'knock', as far as I can can deduce, usually comes after a 'high five' and involves knocking fists together with your compatriot in place, I suppose, of a good, firm handshake. Christ, how white do I sound? Anyway, Tizer picked this up beautifully last year (which wasn't bad considering she was only 18 months old).

Darwin serves up another sumptuous al fresco lunch

Another star of Treasure Beach is Keiva, who works on reception (and who, I'm pretty sure, has got a 'thing' going with Darwin). She's also wonderful with Tizer, and is the ultimate 'fixer' for all things holiday related, from booking hire cars and restaurants, to organising our star of a babysitter, Sonia. Oz, who works the bar most nights and knows how to make a rum and coke without actually involving too much coke, is another outstanding gent, as is John, the restaurant manager, who thinks I look like Martin O'Leary. Not all that flattering, really, but he always looks after us so I can forgive him.

Finally, there's Hamish Watson, the manager at Treasure Beach and a vetran of hotel managment in both Barbados and Antigua. Hamish, like the hotel itself, is very much of the old school when it comes to the hospitality industry. He's a white Antiguan (I think. Well, he's definitelty white, it's the Antiguan bit I'm not certain of) and he exudes a level of charm and professionalism so sadly lacking in many hotels today. He also has the added benefit of displaying many of the attributes of the perfect Bond Villain. Almost completely bald, what little hair he has is as white as the pristine tunic style shirts he wears, with the eppilettes on each shoulder starched and ironed to horizontal perfection. His benevolence belies an underlying level of menace. Upon meeting him you are under very little illusion that should you cross him by - say - uncovering and then attempting to scupper his plans for world domination, it will very unlikely that you'll be allowed to live to regret it.

We have a theory that the small, kidney shaped swimming pool is actually fitted with trap doors, carefully concealed below the water level which, at the flick of a switch, can be opened to allow schools of ravenous pirhana to swarm in and devour whichever poor, unsuspecting miscreant has been lured there by Hamish.

"You have failed me, Number 5, but please - don't be so nervous. I am an understanding and forgiving man. Now, come, join me for a refreshing swim - I just need to make a quick telephone call then I'll be with you presently. Go ahead without me, Darwin will fetch you a towel". Cue the relieved Number 5 thanking Hamish for being so understanding, assuring him he'll never fail him again, and then taking to the cooling water, only to disappear seconds later in a thrashing, crimson foam...

And of course, there's the swimming pool itself which I'm pretty sure slides back on some kind of complicated hydraulic system to reveal a cavernous base for Hamish's evil forces. Beneath it, men in shiny blue overalls, wearing military helmets and carring stumpy sub-machine guns run to-and-fro across metal walkways, whilst a vaguely East European voice anounces "T minus 15, and counting. All systems are running at optimum effeciency" over an echoey tannoy. As I say, lovely bloke Hamish, you just want to make sure you stay the right side of him else you might find a scorpian in your bed.

Me, Tizer and Dad take time to reflect (see what I did there?)

We did our best to stay awake as long as we could after arriving at the hotel. The problem with these trans-Atlantic flights is that your body is 5 hours ahead of local time, which means that come 8 o'clock you actually feel like it's 1 in the morning, so you start feeling pretty ropey come dinner time. However, we've learnt - through bitter experience - that to go to bed at this time is folly indeed; you can't really sleep for much more than 8 hours or so and will no doubt wake up feeling all bright eyed a bushy tailed at four the following morning, which is annoying. So, you stick it out, order a Banks (the Beer of Barbados) and try and rustle up an appetite for something solid, which I always find a little difficult. I managed through until about half past nine, having - perhaps - had a little more to drink throughout the day than the dear Mrs V, who was able to join mum and dad for a spot of dinner whilst I retired to my bed.

Still, I felt pretty chipper the following morn and, with nothing more that 2 weeks of rest and relaxation in the Caribbean sun ahead of me, set my stall for the forthcoming fortnight by installing my sun lounger on the beach and turning to the first page of my novel. At around 11 each morning guests are presented with chilled fruit kebabs - which are so refreshing and truly delicious - followed by a cold towel infused with eucalyptus. I say cold, they're usually frozen solid which makes them ideal for folding into a hat which not only looks pretty dandy, but also keeps your head nice and cool. Mrs V seems to think this makes me look 'very English'; accordingly, I modestly take her comment as a compliment and tip my towel-hat to an appropriately jaunty angle.

Suite No. 25, or Chez Family V for our fortnight in Barbados

But it's not all lying around in the sun eating chilled tropical fruit and wearing spiffing hats, you know. Oh no! Remember, we have a two year old, and she's not as keen as we are at lying around doing bollock-all all day. Not when there's a pool, a beach and the sea to be played with, in and on. Thankfully, this is where spending the first half of our holiday with my parents comes in. By some fortunate happenstance, they do make awfully good babysitters and - considering they were sunning themselves out here for the past two weeks whilst we were avoiding hypothermia at home and feeding their obese cats - it's the least they can do to help out. They do, of course, adore Tizer and the feeling is doubtlessly mutual.

Another beautiful West Coast sunset

To be fair, we always share Tizer-watching duties and a good splash in the pool or a sandcastle building session is all part of a perfect lazy, hazy day at Treasure Beach. As the sun starts to slip toward the sea and we crack open a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, the most stressful part of the day is working out where we'd like to go for dinner. Some nights we'd be mega-lazy and eat at the hotel restaurant (which was much improved this time on previous years). Other nights we set out a little earlier than usual so that Tizer can join us at one of the more child-friendly restaurants scattered up the coast. The Lone Star is one such spot (and also a boutique hotel) that caters very well to families, groups or couples and is a big fave of ours with consistently good grub from a truly eclectic menu. Choose from fine-dining staples such as braised lamb shanks and fillet steaks, or try something a little quirkier like crispy aromatic duck with pancakes or homemade shepherd's pie. They've got a great wine list too.

Every couple of nights we'd book the wonderful Sonia to babysit and head out to one of the other outstanding restaurants on the west coast. The big daddy of them all, of course, is The Cliff, rated as one of the best up-market eateries in the world. Now, it ain't cheap, you understand (you're looking at about a hundred quid a head with cocktails and wine) but it is sooo worth it. I love the place; we've been for the past three years now and we'll be back again on our next vist to Barbados (hopefully next spring). This year I had - in order of consumption - a perfect lemon martini, pan-seared scallops, fillet steak with a roquefort sauce and a white chocolate cheescake which was as light as a goose-down pillow, but with slightly more calories. There was a particularly good bottle of Riesling and another of Shiraz somewhere in there as well. Perfection (at a price) but perfection nonetheless.

Another 'must do' for us each year is to take to the water on one of the many organised catamaran sailing trips that ply their way up and down the coast. After trying most of them over the years, we now settle on Cool Runnings, which is really the best of an already very good bunch. Their four hour cruise takes you out for some snorkelling - firstly with the local turtles then over a shipwreck - before laying anchor and serving up a spot of lunch, which usually comprises of jerk chicken, local fish (sometimes flying fish, or dorado or kingfish - all delicious) and loads of pasta and salads. Then they usually set sail out to sea to catch a some waves whilst we indulge oursleves in a few rum punches at the complimentary bar. What surprises me most is that we've been some 10 or 11 times now and still haven't seen anyone throw up. Not that that's what we go for, you understand. Mind you, I have seen some pretty ill looking people who've taken the first chance to jump ship as soon as we got near enough to a beach, poor wretches. I am of the belief that rum stregthens the constitution on such occasions and take it medicinally and with great vigour.

On board Cool Runnings (Mrs V bottom right at bar - what a surprise!)

My mum and dad buggered off home after our first week and left us to our own devices, which is just as well. You can have too much of a good thing and all that. We spent our second week in much the same manner as the first: days on the beach, in the sea or the pool, evenings watching the sunset with a glass (or three) of wine and nights out at one restaurant or another before coming back to prop the hotel bar up with our fellow guests who were all - almost without exception - a delight. Many of them we know from previous holidays, Treasure Beach being the kind of place that attracts a fair number of 'returnees' each year. This year there was a very pleasant couple from Cheshire who turned out to be a good laugh (us Northerners must stick together, you know) and another delightful couple called Butch and Lee who are from South Carolina, drink mint juleps and say 'y'all' a lot. Butch never stopped smiling - I mean NEVER stopped. I wasn't sure whether this was because he's just a genuinely happy guy or if he was the victim of botched cosmetic surgery. It's often so hard to tell with Americans.

Then there's Gladys, without whom a holiday to Treasure Beach just woudn't be complete. She's a 78 year old widow, with no family to speak of, so spends three months in the spring and and a month or so at Christmas at the hotel. She flies British Airways, First Class, both ways (we must be talking the best part of 9 grand for a return ticket!), always stays in the same suite toward the back of the property, and spends the majority of her time moaning about the food, the staff, the weather and how much everything costs. She's bloody brilliant! And she drinks like a trooper as well, easily putting Mrs V and I to shame. Various middle aged local chaps show up every now and then and whisk her off to one of the nightclubs in the capital, Bridgetown. Very occasionally she makes it back for around midnight (as opposed to her usual three in the morning), when we're normally starting to think about turning in for the night. She then insists we stay up with her for another rum and coke or three, which inevitably ends in a thick head the following morning. She's a wonderful old bird - the hotel should pay her to stay there as a permanent fixture if you ask me.

Tizer loved her (based on the strange attraction children have for people who clearly don't like children) and called her Gadlys. The old girl quite warmed to her in the end, and rather enjoyed her toddling up to say "Morning Gadlys!" at breakfast each day. She pays full board and so eats in the hotel resaurant nearly every night. There's always great sport to be had in asking her how dinner was when we meet up at the bar later. The soup? "It was cold and didn't taste of anything". The fish? "Very dry". The steak? "Well, I could hardly cut it, it was that tough".

"I've spoken to Hamish about the quality of the food, but he never seems to listen to me" she told me over drinks one evening. Oh, he's listening, Gladys, never fear; he's just biding his time until you next enter the pool alone...

Then, one morning, we awoke to discover the awful truth: It was the last day of our holiday and it was time - as Andy Pandy always sang - to go home. You know you've had a truly great time when the prospect of leaving all but brings a tear to your eye. Wherever I go on holiday, it takes a good few days for me to start to chill properly, it's true, but once I get into that laid back Caribbean groove, I'm so relaxed I'm almost horizontal. Two weeks just isn't enough. In fact, two weeks is about the time I need before I really start to enjoy the island, the people, the food and all the lovely things that Treasure Beach has to offer. Especially afternoon tea. That's one thing I always miss when we come home from Treasure Beach. Afternoon tea. 4 o' clock on the dot, afternoon tea seems to be immune to the effects of Barbados Time. A nice cup or two of Twinings English Breakfast, a dainty finger sandwich and a couple of cream scones, all consumed in the late afternoon sun, sat on the lawn in the dappled shade the mahogony tree, at dear old Treasure Beach. Can one really ask for more? God, is it surprising that I hate going home to the United Kindom of Chav?

Nevertheless, our trip home was fun, as all travel should be (especially when you're paying as much for it as we do). Details of the trip back can be found, as ever, in the capable hands of my friends at V-Nerd.

Take one toddler, add some chocolate, blend with a Caribbean sunset and sprinkle with apple juice

I'm now trawling t'internet to try and find the best deal to get us back to Treasure Beach next spring. Rising fuel costs aren't exactly helping when it comes to finding a decently priced seat in the pointy bit of a plane, but we'll get there, never fear. It's just too good a holiday to give up on. Tizer can once again exchange 'knocks' with Darwin, my good lady and I can help Gadlys plod her way through the hotel bar's stock of Mount Gay rum and my mum and dad can continue to show what great grandparents they are by looking after our dear daughter for a week.

And maybe next year we'll get that extra special welcome I've long been hoping for: We arrive at Treasure Beach reception to find a large leather chair behind the front desk, its back facing us as we approach. Then - the chair spins slowly and dramatically around to reveal Hamish, absent mindedly stroking the white Persian cat sat upon his lap. "Good evening Mr V", he intones, casually. "We've been expecting you".

Mr V is Back, Back, Back!

2008-06-27T10:44:00.010+01:00

Huzzah! I'm back with you after a rather lengthy hiatus from all things blog. I have endured the frigid wastes of England in winter, witnessed (of all things) a White Easter, played a significant part in both lowering and subsequently raising a 90 foot maypole, lazed in the tropical heat of a Caribbean sojourn, succumbed to a skin complaint that has left me looking like the elephant man and put me on antibiotics for the next three months and, most recently, tolerated the combined forces of some of Mother Nature's fiercest pollen-emitting spawn.

But now, dear reader, I return to regale you with the musings of a rather deluded blogger who's still naïve enough to think that there really are any dear readers out there, so here goes:

We had two thoroughly dull months after getting back from Australia, which were spent mostly whining about the weather, catching cold-after-cold-after-cold and generally bleating about how much nicer it was Down Under. Remember when you came back from that crazy two-week holiday to Ibiza when you were seventeen? You know the one, where you became best mates with some really cool kids from Manchester with whom you exchanged addresses and were going to keep in touch with - like - forever (but never did); where all the bar staff knew your name and were genuinely 'sad' to see you fly home. And when you got home you and your friend (who you'd bonded with considerably whilst you were away together) decided that enough was enough, you were both getting off this treadmill, sticking two fingers up at 'the man' and heading back out there as soon as you got the cash together. You'd get a job in a bar, rent a flat together, and sleep with all the package-holiday-tottie that the tour operators could throw at you.

Then, after a week back at work and a dose of antibiotics for the chest infection you developed shortly after your return (probably brought on by the 40-a-day Malboro habit you had whilst away), you realised it was a pretty crap idea, got your head down and started saving for next year's holiday to Zante. Ring any bells?

Well, we experienced a slightly more middle-aged version of this on our return from Oz: Why on earth were we sticking it out in this ill-governed, wet, dangerous country of ours, over-taxed and down at heel as it is, over-run with ugly teenagers in nylon tracksuits and East European immigrants? Why the hell don't we just pack up and ship out, start a new life in a sunny, happy, safe and optimistic country? Now, whilst most (if not all) of the afore mentioned rant is an absolutely valid reason to get the f*ck out of this diseased isle of ours it isn't, of course, all that easy. I have a business; we currently own two houses (we rather wished we didn't, but have you seen the state of the property market at the moment?); we have parents who - if it weren't for Tizer - may very well wish us all the best and send us on our way, but we do have Tizer and Tizer deserves to grow up around her grandparents and her grandparents deserve to grow old around her. So, once again, reality hits (or at least relentlessly tugs at your trouser leg) and you get back into the groove - or the rut, depending on how you look at it.

It's still massively tempting though. The weather, the food, the people, the lifestyle; Australia truly is a fantastic country. I think that the main reason more people don't try and start new lives down there is the same as us - that it's one hell of a long way and, unless you can take your friends and family with you, you have to accept that you're not going to see a great deal of them anymore if you go. Ah well, maybe we'll bide our time and look at one of our other favourite spots - south-west Ireland. Again, nice people, good food and - lest it go unnoticed - some bloody cracking pubs. The weather is far from ideal come winter, but at least you're close to home.

Anyway, less of such musings. That was then, this is now, and we've had a rather jolly first half to the year all told. We had a fantastic two weeks in Barbados at the end of April - I'll pop some photos and stuff on here in my next post - after which I'll have to give you a blow-by-blow account of our great Maypole Festival. Blimey!

'Happy' New Year

2008-01-01T15:09:00.026Z

To paraphrase the laconic brilliance of a certain donkey called Eeyore: Happy New Year. If that's what is. Which I doubt.

Yes - we're back in dear old Blighty, in all it's cold, grey, damp and dowdy splendour. The trip back from Australia? Well, let's start by saying this: it's a bloody long way. Mind you, at least we were comfortable for the majority of the flight, which is more than can be said for those poor blighters in economy. Christ, 24 hours in one of those seats is enough to make you come limping off the plane like a Victorian orphan with rickets.

So how is it, I hear you ask, flying half-way around the world in a day? Well, not too bad really. A bit tiring. The following is a tidied-up version if a post I made on that noteworthy website, V-Flyer (if you're really sad, you can see it with all the ratings and related replies here). And it goes a little something like this...

A month of almost unbroken sunshine is something truly special, especially in December and particularly if you’re British. It wasn’t so much that it was hard to believe that our four weeks of honeymoonin’ were coming to end; it was just soul-wrenchingly depressing to contemplate the fact that not only were we going home, but we were returning to cold, grey, wet and miserable England at the bleakest of bleak mid-winters.

But what a month we’d had! Hong Kong and the incomparable Four Seasons; the sights and sounds of Sydney; sailing from Port Douglas over the Coral Sea in an authentic Chinese junk; eating stunning Italian food, drinking outstanding local wines and batting kamikaze flies from our faces in Melbourne.

For now though, we were sat in the late morning sun at a street-side café in the beautiful little town of Avalon. As we’d had to vacate the Beach Retreat at 11 (ish), we decided to partake in a spot of lazy brunch before heading for the airport. Freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee brewed from beans roasted on the premises, organic back bacon and the creamiest of free-range scrambled eggs. Boy, was I looking forward to getting home and tucking into a McMuffin? (Answer: No. Not one little bit).

After brunch we dawdled up and down the main drag in Avalon looking for, and failing to find, an elusive last minute gift. When you’re hoping to stumble on that one curious knick-knack, object d’art, or coffee-table-talking-piece to encapsulate your travelling experience, you quickly realise that a boomerang, a ‘genuine’ bush ranger’s hat or a cuddly cross-eyed koala toy just ain’t going to cut it.

Giftless, and with pretty low spirits at the prospect of leaving Avalon, Sydney and the Southern Hemisphere in general, we loaded ourselves into our hire car, set Nora Neverlost for Sydney Airport (yeah, that’s right, we named our Satnav) and started to make our way south down the coast. Around each bend we caught glimpses of yet another golden sandy beach, and every glimpse was like a dagger to my heart. I checked the weather back home on my ‘phone – 4 degrees and sleet. I glanced out of the window; sunny; warm; not a cloud in the perfectly azure-blue sky. Everyone was wearing shorts and flip-flops. Everyone looked happy. Damn them.

As we approached the city the beaches fell away and we suddenly found ourselves under Sydney. Nora had sent us through the Harbour tunnel, rather than over the bridge as she had the previous week, and now we found ourselves driving in and out of various other tunnels which, I guess, run under the central business district. One thing Nora really should have twigged to, however, is her absolute reliance on satellites and the rather simple reality that tunnels and satellite communications aren’t the best of friends. So, whilst travelling along a four-lane highway with multiple intersections and large trucks at either side of us the best she could offer was, “At your next opportunity, turn around”, over and over again. Yeah, we'd love to lady, but we do have a plane to catch.

Our love affair with Nora over, we hit the 'off' switch on the Satnav and, by following a mystic route laid out for us - possibly by an Aborigine shaman - involving a system of little pictures of aeroplanes on the road signs, soon found ourselves at the airport. We dumped the car with those nice people from Hertz - although not before doing our best to clear the detritus of crisps, muffin crumbs and god knows what else from in and around Tizer’s car-seat – and very quickly found ourselves at a pleasantly queue-free Upper Class check-in. Trust me, it's the only way to fly when you've got a two-and-a-half year old and the best part of 12,000 miles ahead of you.

We’d checked in online check-in the night before and secured our preferred seats, and the very cheery agent confirmed that all was well and we just needed to check our luggage and Tizer's push-chair. Her reaction to the sight of her push-chair being packed up and man-handled onto the conveyer elicited a high pitched “Nooooo – miiiiiiiine!”, with small toddler fingers at full stretch grasping for a wheel, a strap, anything. The check-in agent quickly pointed out that they had courtesy push-chairs and one was swiftly brought over for us. Tizer, placated, placed Betty – her stained, battle-scarred doll and constant companion, with one permanently shut eye and an interesting aroma about her – into the push-chair and wheeled her merrily off in the direction of security.

A similar experience faced us once we got to a very quiet security area, when one of the staff tried to take Tizer’s recently acquired packet of crisps from her, insisting they had to go through the X-Ray. This was rectified when another kindly and much more grandfatherly member of staff intervened and let her walk through with her crisps, craftily swiping them off her then handing them straight back before she even knew they were gone as she went through the metal detector. Hell, she even offered him one after that, though he wisely declined, noting perhaps that most of them had by this time clearly been sucked clean of salt and returned - still damp - to the packet.

We made our way to the Air New Zealand lounge that's available to Virgin's Upper Class passengers and which, for all we saw of it, was very nice. I literally had just enough time to make myself a G & T before the flight was called. We hadn’t even realised we’d been cutting it that fine, to be fair, so necking my drink we went straight back down to the gate to meet our lovely, shiny Airbus 340-600.

Maybe we’d flown too much in the previous four weeks. Maybe it was the fact that our holiday was all but at an end. Maybe it was the prospect of one hell of a long flight ahead of us, but as we eased our way via priority boarding down the tunnel toward the open door of the plane, Mrs V and I actually looked at each other, wrinkled our noses and said, “Eugh; plane smell”. I know – sacrilege.

Perhaps we were just feeling a tad jaded with all the travel, but the familiar smell of plane air-conditioning, aviation fuel and hundreds of gently warming economy meals was a stark reminder that we had 24 hours of this, followed by another flight to Manchester and a trip on the M62 before this particular journey could be deemed as ‘over’.

So, a deep breath and Tizer – who clearly isn’t burdened by the same world weary woes as a pair of thirty-something travellers – charged headlong onto the plane with us following obediently behind her.

Tizer once was wedged into her seat belt with the help of a couple of pillows and we began a particularly long taxi out to the runway. This really didn’t suit our darling daughter, who seemed to have made the decision that if we weren’t actually in the air, there was no way on god’s clean earth she was going to keep her seat belt on.

She quickly discovered that, for all the pillows to prop her up and special covers to stop her unfastening her seat-belt, the easiest way to get out of it was to simply stand up. There was no screaming, crying, or throwing of tantrums, you understand; she was just a bit bored and wanted to have a look around the cabin. She even smiled and waved at one or two of her fellow passengers which, whilst not exactly in line with current CAA regulations on the use of seat belts, was certainly very neighbourly of her.

Regrettably, this continued shortly after take off, and it was only a spot of quick thinking on my part and the resultant appearance of a large bag of M&Ms that remedied the situation. The downside was that, strapped as I was into the seat opposite, I couldn’t actually reach her, so had to resort to throwing the M&Ms at her. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t expecting her to catch them in her mouth (although that would have been cool, wouldn’t it?), but thankfully every third or fourth chocolate morsel I threw her way did land on her seat, which allowed us to coax her into sitting down and getting her back into the seat belt again.

Once the seat belt sign was finally turned off, Tizer wasted no time in retrieving the sweets that had failed to make it to her seat, despite her mother’s best efforts to stop her from eating them off the floor. I don’t know; the cabin may be ‘Upper Class’, the child – sometimes – is most definitely not.

I ordered my usual Tanqueray No. 10 and tonic with wedge of lime and ice, and was bitterly disappointed to get a Bombay Sapphire, a wafer-thin sliver of lemon and single shard of ice. On further investigation it turned out there was no Tanqueray on board, but when I went up to the bar to sort things for myself there was a profusion of lime and enough ice to sink the Titanic. For reference, the lime is the green coloured fruit, whilst the lemon is yellow. Are these the same crew who are expected to use a defibrillator on me should I collapse from a heart-attack? It worries me…

Mrs V ordered and received the same drink but – you’ll be unsurprised to hear – made considerably less fuss than I did. For dinner, I ordered some kind of duck salad followed by salmon; Mrs V went for the salmon too, but chose the soup option for her starter. I think I managed to find an episode of the Simpsons that I’d only seen seven times or so whilst waiting for dinner to appear and, to show there were no hard feelings, I gallantly accepted another sub-standard G & T.

The food was good, with the salmon coming out tops for once (past attempts by Virgin have ended up tasting rather like fish-flavoured cotton wool). The duck was fine, a bit too cold in a straight-out-of-the-fridge kind of way, which may have been the reason for its lacking much flavour. Mrs V also marked the salmon very highly and declared the soup as most palatable. I finished off with a lovely plate of cheese and some brown sticky stuff that later turned out to be quince jelly and was rather good.

Wine wise we both went white for a change and I think we plumped for a Sauvignon Blanc. Whatever it was, it was very good. I watched Shrek 3 throughout, which really ought to be the last of the franchise if anyone involved wants to retain a few shreds of artistic integrity. And bear in mind, I was watching this after a glass of champagne, three G & Ts and half a bottle of wine, so by all rights I should have been laughing my chuffing bits off. I know, Jonathan Woss is safe in his ‘Film’ role.

Tizer and I had our customary wander down the back of the plane to check out the unfortunate wretches in economy. Poor souls. If you transported cattle like that for 24 hours you’d have the animal rights people on your back. Returning with daughter dear I beckoned Mrs V to join me at the bar (oh yes, they have bars at 35,000 feet you know) and we indulged in another glass of that nice white before falling into conversation with an Aussie chap who I recall being called Craig, but my wife swears his name was Greg, so, in the interests of fairness and to avoid an argument, we now call him Graig.

I didn’t want to sleep on this leg and since Shrek was so bad and the bottle of wine in front of me – the contents of which were swiftly disappearing – was so good, I decided to stick around with Graig for a while. And, when a delightful young member of the crew was good enough to offer us another bottle – well – who were we to argue with her? She was also kind enough to nip into Economy and nick a few bags of pretzels, bless ‘er, with which Graig was terribly impressed.

After what felt like half an hour or so, Mrs V reappeared to inform me that Tizer was sound asleep and, more disturbingly, to ask me if I was aware that I’d been drinking at the bar for over two hours. Really? Well, that would certainly explain the profusion of empty bottles, as well as the inflated sense of well-being and self-importance. Had, I enquired, she met my good friend Graig?

She stomped back to her seat muttering dark mutterings under her breath, but even I was becoming aware of how much I was sinking. It was alright for Graig, he was only going as far as Hong Kong – I had another 12 hour flight ahead of me, and it was highly unlikely that I was going to be able to keep this pace of drinking up for that long unless someone was going to provide me with a liver transplant somewhere over Iran.

We finished the bottle, of course, it would have been rude not to, but caution, as they say, being the better part of valour, I bid Graig the kind of farewell one usually reserves for old school-chums or rich relatives, and wound my weary way back to my seat and a bit of mind-numbing telly.

I must have been at the bar a hell of a long time, 'cause my episode of King Of Queens was rudely interrupted by an announcement that we'd soon be landing in Hong Kong. Tizer was good enough to wake up at this time, but didn't seem to have the fight in her - or perhaps the appetite for M&Ms - to act up over the seatbelt again and we had a quiet descent and landing at Hong Kong Airport.

Feeling the effects of my 'sesh' with Graig, I dutifully followed my wife and child off the plane and up to a lady who kindly stuck a sticker on my shirt (this, I later discovered, was to identify me as a transfer passenger). We then, rather confusingly, had to go through security screening before being allowed to carry on to the Clubhouse. I was pretty much on automatic pilot by this time and was more than happy to keep my head down and follow the crowd.

We made our way to the Virgin Clubhouse (another perk of flying Upper Class) and resisted the temptation to hang our jackets in the cloakroom, this being the spot where they spent their 3 day holiday whilst we were in Sydney. We found a seat near the TV and Mrs V managed to snag a shower for her and Tizer, but I, to my shame, needed to nip down to duty free for some cigs. To be fair, I really shouldn't have been allowed to wander around a large foreign airport alone as I really was feeling rather peculiar, but throwing caution to the wind I risked life and limb on a far from stable escalator, located and bought said cancer sticks then - and this is the really stupid bit - thought it might be a nice idea to go and smoke one of them.

There's a 'smoking room' at Hong Kong Airport (more of a hut than a room) which is the sort of place they should send people who have tried nicotine gum, patches, tablets and injections to stop smoking, but still find themselves on 80 Lambert & Butler a day. Five minutes in there should put you off smoking for life. And yet, in my somewhat tired and emotional state, this is where I ventured. To my credit, I did manage three of four drags on my cigarette before the smoking hut started to revolve, first clockwise then - sickeningly - counter-clockwise, with a bit of a wobble on it.

As none of my fellow smokers seemed to have noticed this, I realised that in my slightly sozzled state - and not having had a cig for the best part of a day - that it must be me. I quickly exited the hut with as much dignity as I could muster, then realised that trying to walk back to the Clubhouse through a revolving, topsy-turvy airport would either get me arrested, booted off the next leg of the flight, or both. So I leant casually against a wall a pretended to text a dear friend (possibly Graig?) until the airport slowed to a bearable shimmy, then slowly, delicately, made my way back to the Clubhouse.

Which was just as well, because people were starting to file out to board our Heathrow bound plane when I got there, and my rather relieved looking lady wife turned me around and guided me back to our gate.

Settling back into our freshly cleaned suites I quickly realised that this leg was going to be a lot quieter, so spying some empty suites I quickly snaffled three or four bottles of water. If past experience was anything to go by, I was going to need them, and my mouth was already starting to feel like it had recently been exhumed from Oliver Reed's grave.

It doesn't happen very often when I fly, but I actually fell asleep before take-off, and I didn't wake up until the seat-belt sign went off. I changed into my PJs, intent on getting a decent sleep. Tizer was already in the land of nod and I wouldn't be far behind her. Mrs V was dragged away for a manicure with the inflight beauty therapist (yes, they have those as well) and I suddenly realised that the smell of dinner from the galley was starting to make me peckish.

Having really enjoyed the cheese earlier, I thought this would make an ideal late supper, so explaining to a crew member that I wanted to get off to sleep soon, she rushed me out a plate of delicious cheese before doing the main meals round. OK, and a glass of port - I was eating cheese and biscuits, people, you have to have port!

I put the cheese away rather sharply, and catching the eye of the FA again, she was good enough to bring some more and this time fetched me an entire basket of biscuits. And one last glass of port, but I promise, that was it!

Having eaten enough cheese to ensure me dreams of opiate-induced clarity, I settled down to sleep in my lovely bed (yes, that's right, we have beds in Upper Class too). I woke after about three hours due to the cabin temperature doing an impression of the surface of Venus. I downed one of the bottles of water from my secret stash, through my duvet off and slowly managed to get off to sleep again.

I woke up about three hours or so out of Heathrow and, with Mrs V and Tizer still asleep, went to the bar and treated myself to a breakfast of orange juice and after dinner chocolates. I know, I'm a pleb. I had time to change into some clean(ish) clothes and make myself beautiful again away from the rush, as most of the cabin were still away with the fairies, then I settled down to play a few games on Mac.

The breakfast round proper came around, and I managed a danish and a coffee, not being the biggest fan of bacon, eggs et al at such an early hour. Then the cabin was being cleared and we were slowly beginning our descent toward Heathrow.

After bouncing through dark clouds for most of our approach we finally broke free and the smudged and dirty lights of a cold and foreboding London could be seen from the window. God, it was depressing, and we were still probably a good couple of thousand feet above it.

Landing was uneventful, getting the doors open took an eternity and waiting at the gate for the push-chair seemed to take as long as the flight itself. The gentleman delivering the push chairs and prams seemed to be suffering from TB or - at the very least - consumption, which I dearly hoped he would be good enough keep to himself. Oh, and not only was the lift out of order, but the escalator was turned off too so we all hand to carry Tizer, her pram and all our hand luggage up two flights of stairs. Welcome back to Britain...

We managed a very quick sausage sandwich in Virgin's 'Revivals' lounge where the staff, as ever, were absolutely delightful. Aware that things were getting tight for our BA flight up to Manchester and that we still had to negotiate getting to the other side of Heathrow, we scadoodled as fast as we could toward Terminal 1.

Things were going well until we got to the lifts that go up to departures, where we had to wait for 15 minutes whilst an East European family completely commandeered them to transport their 8 children and luggage, which comprised of various dirty cardboard boxes tied up with string. Finally we made it to BA check-in, where three check-in staff had a ten minute conversation on the best way to handle the push-chair. Then, once they'd agreed that it could go via Outsize Baggage - and this is my favourite bit - they were good enough to tell us that we'd missed our flight by five minutes.

There was no fight left in me, and we were very fortunate in that they got us the last three seats on the next flight at no extra charge. Back at Manchester our "Welcome Home!' experience was completed by Virgin sending a Volvo estate instead of the people carrier with child seat we'd been promised, but we were past caring by this time and managed, with the help of a truly pleasant and apologetic driver, to squeeze ourselves in.

And there endeth the 'trip report'. Once we were home we reunited Tizer with her grandparents who were waiting for us at our house. She was excessively pleased to see them, bless her. I guess a month is a long time when you're only two.

After a cup of tea and a natter with the parents we hit the sack and slept the sleep of the dead for 4 or 5 hours. The thing about jet-lag is that you can't allow yourself to get too much sleep in the day else you'll never get back onto local time. We also needed to be as refreshed as possible as this was, lest we forget, New Year's Eve. To be fair, as far as our body clocks were concerned it was the early hours of New Year's Day, but we weren't going to let that spoil us having a few drinks with family and friends.

It was tiring, but we managed to get our sorry arses to the pub, sink a few pints, tell a few holiday stories and see the New Year in. We were home and back in bed for about half midnight, I think, then we slept for 12 hours straight. I'm still tired now, to be honest, and I think it will take a few more nights to start feeling normal again.

Oh, I almost forgot. I'm cold. Chilled to the bone cold; colder than I've ever been in my life. I can't see how I'll ever be warm again. Unless we went on holiday somewhere nice and hot. Australia, perhaps? Now, there's an idea...

From Mellow... to Mayhem!

2007-12-30T05:23:00.004Z

It's Sunday morning, and we're going home today. Avalon Beach Retreat is a maelstrom of cases, bags, clothes, towels, shoes, and collection of tangled cables and miscellaneous chargers for cameras, DVD players and Mac. I've packed my hand luggage - which is the only thing that Mrs V insists that I do - so, in the interests of family harmony, I'm now keeping out of the way, tapping diligently at my keyboard.

We've got until 11 o' clock to vacate the house and - as it's now 5 past - I think we're a little behind schedule. Quelle surprise. Still, there's no sign of the landlord yet, so let's keep our heads and concentrate on the task at hand which is, I suppose, updating you on our exploits yesterday.

You'll be far from shocked to hear that, with the weather getting hotter by the day, there was nought for us to do but to hit the beach again. It was our last full day so we managed a relatively early start and installed ourselves on Palm Beach. It was pretty busy, it being a Saturday, but there was a very pleasant cosmopolitan atmosphere with a mix of young families, couples and groups of (well behaved) teenagers. I think I went on enough in my Boxing Day post about the stark differences between a day at the beach Oz style and its dirtier, louder and altogether less appealing alternative back home, so I won't labour the point much further, suffice to say that it was a nice, safe, chav-free environment that suited us just fine.

Tizer and I decided to dig a hole - well, I suppose it was mostly at my insistence rather than her's - but as my pit deepened she seemed suitably impressed and installed herself in it with glee. To be fair, this caused something of a sand-slide back into the hole, which I did my best to stem by digging around her, but I felt I was almost certainly fighting a losing battle.

We lunched on hot-dogs bought from 'Summer Bay' Surf Lifesaving Club. The sign outside actually said 'Summer Bay' - I assume it makes it easier for them when they're filming. The number of people all but queuing up to take photos of themselves in front of the sign astounded me. You will, no doubt, be proud to hear that I managed to resist the temptation myself.

After lunch all that was left to do was to make the most of our very last afternoon in Australia. It could have been a rather depressing and melancholy moment, but with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky, a gentle sea-breeze keeping us cool, children playing in the surf and Tizer destroying all the hard work I'd put into digging my hole, it would have seemed churlish to feel down. It's a truly beautiful spot, and so typically Aussie; I couldn't think of a better place to while away the last hours of our honeymoon.

Our last glimpse of beautiful Palm Beach

Come late afternoon we accepted that it was time to quit. We had the delightful Monica coming to sit for Tizer so that Mrs V and I could have our last night out together, so we needed to head back to get ready. We'd booked a table at Barrenjoey House, the restaurant we ate at on Christmas Eve, and if the delicious fish and mojitos we'd enjoyed on that occasion were anything to go by, we were in for a cracking dining experience to end our jolly hol.

Grown-ups showered and dressed in their finest (well, the finest we had left at this late stage in our trip) and Tizer bathed and pyjama-ed, Monica showed up bang on time. Tizer was very happy to see her again, charging towards her open arms shouting "Mony!". She's clearly made an impression, this lady. We'd booked ourselves a taxi to get us back up to Palm Beach and, as the house is set quite a way back from the main road and behind another bungalow, we went out onto the street to meet it. The allotted time for the cab came - and passed. We gave it 10 minutes, quarter of an hour, 20 minutes, then realised the awful truth: Taxis are a law unto themselves the world over and their reliability will only ever be surpassed by their cleanliness. It wasn't coming, and we were going to have to make alternate plans.

So, we headed back into Avalon and found ourselves at a little cafe/bistro type place on the corner of the crossroads in the centre of town. I ordered scallops and then salmon, as did Mrs V and, it must be said in all fairness, that this was the most appalling meal we'd had during our entire trip. Hell, this was possibly one of the worse meals we'd had in our adult lives - barring the odd and always unfortunate venture into a McDonalds (which in itself is something I choose to do about as readily as having root canal work). Over-cooked, over-garlicy rubbish. The wine was OK, but it wasn't particularly cold, and I'm really not the world's biggest fan of room temperature Sauvignon Blanc. This would have been a crying shame at the best of times, but on our last night it was a horrible disappointment.

We left, without bothering to be offended by desert or coffee and ensuring that we didn't leave a tip, and made our rather dejected way to the tapas restaurant that we'd had such a starkly contrasting evening in only two nights previous. Whilst we were in no mood for anymore food, we did have the energy for a mojito or two and that - combined with another pleasant chat with Charley and the barman - restored our faith in Avalon once again. By the time we made our way home to relieve Monica (who no doubt, by now, had taught Tizer the full Spanish text of 'Hamlet) we were feeling a little more chipper. After all, one has to be philosophical about these things, and one bad meal out of 60-odd can't really be sniffed at, can it? Just a shame it was our last night, that's all.

Tizer was away with the fairies and Monica was, once again, watching Spanish TV when we got back. We had a lovely long chat with her about Chile - which sounds like a fascinating country to visit - and she even gave is the card of a friend who runs a travel agency out there. So - watch this space for an upcoming Chilean blog, perhaps...

Well, still no sign of the landlord and his cleaning team, but by the looks of things we're very nearly packed (I say 'we', but as I've already pointed out, my input has been minimal to say the least). And so, it looks like it's home time, dear reader. The next blog I post will be from a much colder place on the other side of the planet, and the next proper bed I'll sleep in will be my own - in about 40 hours time. So long, Australia, and thanks for the time of our lives.

And relax...

2007-12-29T19:02:00.001Z

With only two full days of our month long Hong Kong and Oz odyssey left to enjoy, we decided to take things easy, relax, laze, chill and make the most of the truly wonderful weather before returning the leaden skies and frigid drizzle of Blighty.

The grandest plan we had for the day was to head back up to Palm Beach and hire a boat (we'd seen a large sign alongside a jetty saying 'Boats For Hire' and had a sneeking suspicion that this might be the place to go), but when we got up there the salty sea-dog boat-hiring-fella regretted to inform us that he was boooked out for the day, so that was the end of that.

Instead, we bought some sarnies from a little waterside caff, then set up our deckchairs facing Pittwater to munch on them pensively whilst watching the seaplanes come and go. I mentioned the seaplanes in my post yesterday and, for those who've never seen one before, they're a wonderfully novel spectacle, very much redolent of 1930's 'noirish' thrillers. Once the planes land they plough their way over the water to tie up at the jetty; when the doors open you almost expect men in trilbies and sharp suits accompanied by women wearing even sharper suits and brandishing cigarette holders to step out.

They seem to come in and out every half hour or so, and watching them take off is great. Firstly, they plod out into the centre of Pittwater to get a decent run up. Then they slam the throttles on full, seemingly oblivious to the small sailing-dinghies and waterskiers in their path, and charge over the water towards the headland, finally taking to the air and ascending fast to avoid the lighthouse (but only just, by me reckoning). I like seaplanes; it's official. Everytime one came into land I delighted Mrs V (or, at least, I like to think I did) by shouting "The plane, boss, the plane!", although even I have to admit to tiring of it after a few hours.

Mrs V took Tizer off to do a little beachcombing and I settled back with a beer and my book - which has been barely touched this holiday due to our pretty frantic schedule. And for an hour, nothing disturbed me but a couple of seaplanes and a handful of rather persistent ants that insisted on biting at my feet, a hardship which I felt - under the circumstances, I could more-or-less live with.

The rest of the afternoon was spent being generally idle, so it only makes sense that by the time we got back to the house we were, of course, absolutely knackered (ain't it always the way?). We'd been on the go, pretty frenetically, for the best part of four weeks now, and I think this was the night where it all caught up with us. So, what else could we do but put Tizer to bed (she was out for the count too), order a curry from the place in Avalon, crack open a few beers and veg out on the sofa in front of a DVD.

Curry - average, but nice and spicy; beer - ice cold and Australian; DVD - 'Finding Nemo', which you can't really beat if you need to turn your brain off for a while. Actually, we've seen it a few times before, but we were struck on this occasion by the dentist's neice - the one for whom Nemo is intended as a gift - and her "Wake up little fishy!! Why won't you wake up?!" line. It reminded us of a certain, little someone in our life, but we couldn't quite recall who... If you haven't seen the film, do so soon. You'll like it.

"You know we belong together...

2007-12-28T12:46:00.045Z

... you and I for ever and ever. No matter where you are, you're my guiding star". The lonely, the sad and the displaced amongst you will, no doubt, recognise the opening lines to the soap-opera behemoth that is 'Home and Away', the setting for which we found ourselves in today.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, Palm Beach - the uber-affluent little town at the end of the Barrenjoey Peninsula where we dined on fish and mojitos on Christmas Eve - doubles as the fictional Summer Bay, home to the strangely popular tale of everyday Aussie folk. This far up the peninsula there's only a couple of hundred yards between the Pacific and Pittwater - a long swathe of golden sand being pounded by the ocean on the one side and a smaller beach facing calm water, yachts and seaplanes on the other. The beaches run parallel then culminate in a great hunk of rock which opens up like a hammer-head, about a quarter of a mile wide and a couple of hundred feet high, with a splendid 19th century lighthouse on top. And it was to this lighthouse that we were to venture today.

So, after an early lunch at a smashing street cafe in Avalon, we drove up to Palm Beach. The guidebook instructed us to park at the beach car park, about half a mile from the headland, and to prepare ourselves for a "400 meter beach walk, followed by a 600 meter hard climb". Hard climb, you say? In 80 degree heat, you say? Oh joy. Actually, it wasn't too bad, and it was slightly overcast which helped to keep the worse of the heat at bay. They were right about the hard climb though, and it was all the worse for Mrs V who elected to have Tizer on her back in the funky little 'toddler sling' we bought just for such an occasion.

It was quite a slow slog over some pretty rough ground and I started to wish that I'd brought some sturdier footwear with me. It was about this time that a teenage girl in flip-flops went striding past me (but not before casting me a worried kind of look the likes of which I'm pretty sure paramedics are trained not to use when dealing with patients suffering heart attacks) so I re-doubled my efforts, managing to stay a few steps behind her in an attempt to show what a fine state of health I was really in.

Finally reaching the top I quietly congratulated myself at being able to keep up with a skinny girl in flip-flops and awaited the rest of my little family, who had managed to lag behind somewhat. It wasn't long before Mrs V hove into view around the last bend in the path with Tizer clinging to her back like a shaved baby gorilla. I couldn't work out whether the look on my darling wife's face was that of grim determination to reach the top, pride at my ability to scale the headland so quickly or - possibly - something else. Hard to say really.

We all sank a considerable amount of luke-warm Evian in an attempt to re-hydrate then walked the last bit of track to the lighthouse and some wonderful panoramic views of the ocean, mainland New South Wales and the peninsula behind us. From this vantage point it felt more like being on an island than anything else, almost surround by water as we were. There was a refreshing and much appreciated breeze whipping around the top of the headland, so we lingered for a while to make the most of the view and recover our strength a bit.

The walk back down was hard on the knees, but was much less strenuous than the ascent. It was also great fun to pass red-faced tubs-of-lard on their way up, sweating, panting and asking desperately, "Are we far from the top?".

"Ooh, you've got quite a way to go - you're not even half way yet" I replied, with sadistic relish.

We were soon back at sea level again and, with understandable relief, Mrs V released Tizer from the sling so that she could toddle along the beach by herself. Time was against us - we actually had a babysitter booked so that Mrs V and I could go out for a meal together - but we still hadn't been on 'Summer Bay' beach, so we scooted over to the Pacific side of the peninsula for a stroll down the sand. It's a gorgeous beach, you can see why they like to put it on the telly five nights a week.

Tizer went for a paddle, but clearly wasn't aware that the 'surf was up' and got a drenching, the poor mite. Still, unlike Queensland, there are no box jellyfish in the sea around Sydney, so the worse she got was wet, rather than - well - dead.

Back at the car, there was a slightly unpleasant scene to be endured as we de-sanded a wet two year old who'd just half-walked, half-crawled across 400 yards of beach, but once she'd been stripped to her nappy and hosed down from a standpipe in the car park she quielty settled into her seat for the relatively short drive back to Avalon.

Our babysitter for the evening was Monica, who hails from Chile, and is an absolute delight. Tizer has been fortunate enough, over the past couple of years, to travel quite extensively and has had baby sitters from London to San Francisco and Las Vegas to Barbados, not to mention the spots we've already visited in Hong Kong and Oz so far on this trip, so she's pretty much used to the whole, varied experience. But Monica is head and shoulders above the rest and Tizer took to her instantly. She has a grown up daughter of her own and is much more the 'motherly' type than some other sitters we've had, and once she'd settled down with Tizer to read a bedtime book, our dear daughter barely lifted her head to say 'goodbye' as Mrs V and I headed into town.

We'd booked a table at a tapas restaurant in Avalon and, it must be said, this place was really quite a find. During the day Avalon is very much a streetside Cafe Society kind of town, with a slightly limited selection of places to dine out on an evening short of an Italian, a curry restaurant and - our choice this evening - The Different Drummer, all but hidden away above the shops on the old Barrenjoey Road. Everything was spot-on, from a smashing mojito at the quirky bar, to the wonderful service from the barman, our waitress and Charley, the thoroughly pleasant manager of the joint. And the food is top notch too, a really nice selection of well-cooked, tasty tapasy things: deep fried risotto balls, marinated lamb, spicy beef skewers and some particularly good patatas bravas. And we had a great bottle (or two?) of Rioja to go with it too.

The only downside was the flying cockroach that tried to get itself entangled in Mrs V's hair part way through the meal. I'm sure by now, dear reader, you're already aware of her absolute fear and loathing of these creatures, so I won't go into too many details of her reaction other than to say, it wasn't great. Charley the manager came over to apologise profusely, but we explained there really was no need; if you sit on a first floor balcony, in Australia, in the middle of summer, these things will happen from time-to-time. It really wasn't a reflection on the restaurant.

As Oz has the same (if not stricter) laws banning smoking indoors, we excused ourselves after finishing our tapas to go outside for a filthy ciggy. Charley looked around the - by now - mostly empty restaurant (which was understandable, it was pretty late on a mid-week night - either that or Mrs V's acrobatic display with the roach had scared 'em off). He told us to sit back down and brought us over an ash tray. What a nice fella. I know smoking is a dirty, smelly, unhealthy habit and I'm not promoting it in any way, I'm just pointing out that it was a nice touch on Charley's behalf and finished a wonderful evening off very nicely.

We returned to the house to find Monica watching a Spanish channel on TV (which makes sense - she is Chilean) and a peacefully sleeping Tizer in her room. Monica had had a lovely time with her, apparently, and was more than happy for us to re-book her for Saturday - our last night in Oz. We thanked her and sent her on her way then - mercifully - took to our bed rather than put me through the humiliation of another game of pool, thank god.

This morning Tizer got up and came into our room, as she often does, and we heard her singing one of her favourite ditties, 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'. But there was something wrong - the words (such as she knows them) didn't sound right. Then Mrs V spotted it: "She's singing it in Spanish," she gasped. Clever girl, our Monica...

Boxing Day Beach Bums

2007-12-27T19:36:00.014Z

Well, Christmas Day may not have brought is the blistering sunshine we'd hoped for, but today certainly made up for it. As the tabloids like to say when the temperature in Britain tops 80 degrees for more than two days in a row - 'Phew, What A Scorcher!' We were, perhaps, a little fuzzy-headed from the gluttony and alcohol abuse of the previous day, but were raring to go once we'd glanced outside at a blue and cloudless sky and realised that this was, most resolutely, beach weather!

So, we loaded towels, deck chairs (pilfered from the veranda), buckets, spades, a gallon of suncream and a handful of beers into the car and head off to find a nice beach somewhere (we're on a peninsula, remember, so you're never too far from the sea). But first we needed a picnic; it being Boxing Day we really should have been ramming the picked-over leftovers of the previous day's turkey between two slices of bread, but we'd gone traditional yesterday and needed something a little different today. We opted, instead, for a trip into Avalon where we bought some quiche, pastries, fruit and smoothies. Then we headed off in search of a beach.

We carried on along Avalon main street, which climbs up and over the spine of the peninsula, winding it's way up the wooded hillside past some pretty pricey looking real estate. Then, over the crest of the hill you're presented with stunning views of Pittwater (the calm, non-ocean side), dotted with yachts and motor boats and water-skiers. Driving down towards the water we found a beach-side car park at a place called Clareville, which looked pretty much what we were after. A long crescent of golden sand backed by a wide stretch of grass which seperated some even more expensive looking houses from the beach. It was pretty busy but we found ourselves a decent spot, set up our deck chairs and presented Tizer with her bucket and spade.

The vast majority of folk sharing the beach with us appeared to be local familes, and there was a really pleasant, sunny, 'British Bank Holiday' vibe to the place. I say 'British Bank Holiday' vibe - of course said vibe is based purely on distant, childhood memories of '70s beach holidays: the sun shining high in the sky, we'd play cricket on the beach, eat sandwiches with real sand in them (we didn't mind) and lap at fast-melting ice-cream cones with strawberry sauce and hundrends-and-thousands on top. Then we'd load ourselves into the car and drive home along free-flowing open roads, ultimately falling asleep on the back seat. If we were lucky, the next thing we'd know would be waking in our bed the following morning, our father having carried us in from the car without ever disturbing our slumber.

The cruel reality of Bank Holidays nowadays is, of course, starkly different where - on the off chance that it isn't sleeting - a trip to the beach involves dodging crowds of teenagers smashed on White Lightning, avoiding used condoms left partially buried in the sand and eating mystery meat products from condemnable fast-food stalls before spending the following three days stuck in a traffic jam, choking on the fumes of thousands of slowly overheating people carriers.

Thankfully, Clareville Beach was very much the model of my childhood holidays circa 1977. Children paddling in the sea, grandads snoozing on deck-chairs, picnics being picked at, sandcastles being built (then flattened). There was a compelling game of cricket in the offing which was steadily proving rather enthralling to watch. A family group of 12 or so were playing in the 'no team' tradtion of beach cricket whereby once the batsman's out he immediately becomes a fielder and one of the other fielders goes into bat in his place. One dad was acting as both captain and umpire, organising his fielders, deciding who came into bat next and passing final judgement on some pretty athletic appeals of 'Owzat?!?'. Sorry to go on, but it would never happen like this in England. We'd 'muck about', or cheat, or argue, or just get too damned drunk to play properly. This was proof postive that the Aussies take their cricket seriously and end up having a much better time for it. It probably also goes to explain why us Brits are so crap at sport by comparison.

I happily munched on my quiche, sipped my ice-cold beer, and thoroughly enjoyed the game. Some of them were very good, especially the younger lads - I swear I spotted a googly being bowled at one point. Mrs V and Tizer went for a paddle and left me in my deck-chair to soak up the sun, watch the cricket and generally wonder why everything is shit in Britain.

As the afternoon wore on the locals started to wander back to the beach houses behind us and spark up their barbecues, so we decided to pack up, head back to Avalon and do the same. Trekking back up the beach towards the car park, a deck-chair under each arm, the tightness of the day's sun, sand and sea on my forehead and the back of my neck, it struck me how much the whole experience took me back to the beach holidays we had in Cornwall when I was a kid. How come they can still maintain this care-free, family oriented lifestyle in Australia, whilst back home we're blighted with tracksuited, foul-mouthed chavs, cut-price Stella in plastic glasses, stereos pumping out distorted bass from the open windows of a pimped-up cars and an all pervading sense that something might 'kick-off' at any moment? It's all rather depressing when you think about it. So let's move on.

Back at the Beach Retreat, we showered, cracked open a bottle of white, swept up the day's cockroach carcasses and whacked some tucker on the barbie. Fair dinkum, if I didn't feel like a real Aussie! We flamed the steaks we'd picked up from the butchers in Avalon on Christmas Eve, along with a nice bit of pork and some corn. Mrs V - aware of her mysterious appeal to mosquitos - didn't want to eat outside, which seemed a shame, but we still had a slap-up meat-fest indoors with yet another outstanding bottle of local Shiraz. The evening was only really marred after Tizer was put to bed and I managed, once more, to play pool like a one-armed monkey, with Mrs V beating me back-to-back at another four or five games.

A splendid day, the likes of which you don't get all that many of in life. Tomorrow, we're going to visit a lighthouse and hangout with the guys from the Surf Club at Summer Bay.

So, Here It Is. Merry Christmas.

2007-12-26T07:58:00.009Z

Seasons Greetings to you, one and all! Christmas Day is finally upon us, all the way down here in Oz, and what a wonderful day it's been.

It all started last night, really. Tizer was tucked up dreaming of whether reindeer really can fly, we were playing pool and sinking a little too much Shiraz again. Now, it had been our intention to get an early night in anticipation of Santa's arrival, but before we knew it midnight was upon us and it was suddenly Christmas Day! Emboldened by a mixture of Christmas spirit and red wine it seemed like rather a fun idea to text and 'phone all and sundry to wish them all the best that the season has to offer. Of course, it was only lunchtime on Christmas Eve back home, which I think confused one or two people, us included.

I'd downloaded some Christmassy tunes onto Mac, so we stuck these on (Fairlytale of New York, Merry Christmas Everybody and - of course - Merry Christmas Everyone from the one and only 'Shakey') and opened another bottle of wine. All very jolly, but for some reason I seemed to have forgotten how to play pool and Mrs V was trouncing me at game after game. Enough was enough, and bed was a-calling.

We awoke on Christmas morn proper to find Tizer still asleep - at 2 years old she's not yet quite giddy enough to wake us up at some god-awful hour telling us that Santa's been, though I'm sure she'll start with vigour next year. It was warm and sunny, odd for Christmas but far from unpleasant. We roused the recumbent Tizer who quietly accepted a round of toast, before starting to eye the handful of presents Santa Claus had left for her (clever bloke that Santa, finding us half way around the world like that).

In the interests of keeping the weight of our luggage down on our numerous flights, we'd had to put some thought into what presents we could get for Tizer that wouldn't involve us spending a small fortune on excess baggage charges. In fact, Mrs V and I had employed the same train of thought in our presents to each other, and it proved an interesting exercise in relative frugality at a time of year that's normally about over-spend and excess.

All the way from the North Pole, Santa brought Tizer a funky little electronic keyboard, an inflatable kangaroo called Karl, a couple of DVDs and a ballon-animal-making kit. See, all fiendishly lightweight, especially the inflatable items. She was delighted with her haul, bless her, hammering tunelessly at the keyboard and demanding that her mother make dog after mis-shapen dog with the modelling ballons, while all the time clutching Karl jealously under her arm.

Tizer warns Karl that this is going to hurt him an awful lot more than her...

I gave Mrs V a couple of games for her Nintendo DS which, whilst not particularly imaginative presents, were well received and appreciated. Mrs. V, clever girl that she is, got me tickets to see Micheal McIntyre (very funny stand-up) in February, which clearly showed that she'd employed much more thought than me. Wonderful idea though, really looking forward to it.

I played with Tizer whilst Mrs V prepped the turkey and slammed it in the oven, and we spent a thoroughly pleasant family Christmas morning together. Things were spoilt a little by Mrs V's insistence on beating me stupid at a couple of games of pool (I have no idea why on earth I'm suddenly playing so badly), but the emergence of a chilled bottle of white helped to ease my bruised ego.

Weather-wise, whilst dry and warm, it wasn't the wall-to-wall blazing sun, Christmas dinner on the beach affair we'd hoped for. Not that we minded - it was in low 70's, slightly cloudy, bit breezy. Had to be a hell of a lot better than what they were suffering with back home. Speaking of which, I got a 'phone call early in the afternoon from Ian, one of our chums back home. It was the early hours of Christmas morning for them, and as he was clearly blathered and I'd barely touched a drop, it was a strange old conversation and yet again one of those moments where you realise how far away from the UK you really are.

We'd planned for the turkey to be ready mid to late-afternoonish, so decided to go out for a walk to get our appetites up. Well, once out on the street, you could definitely tell it was Christmas Day: kids on new bikes, kids on new skateboards, kids on new roller blades and - this being Oz - hoards of kids with shiny new surfboards tucked under their arms heading for the beach. We followed them down that way, watched a few of them surf, then had a little stroll around the park behind the beach and checked out the kids flying their new kites. I'm sure Australian parents in other parts of the country still buy their children Playstations and X-Boxes for Christmas, but they sure as hell don't in Avalon. It was all very quaint and old-fashioned, and I rather liked it.

Returning to the Beach Retreat for our Christmas dinner we found the familiar scent of turkey and t'all t'trimmings (as we say in Yorkshire) wafting appetisingly around the house. And it was delicious. For Mrs V and I this our first such dinner together, without parents, great aunts etc. We even had a cracker each, which my mum had insisted on us taking away with us. And yes, we wore the hats. Equally cracking was the Penfolds Cabernet Sauvignon Bin something-or-other that we drank with dinner - it was a pricey wee number (and would have been even more so back home), but sooo worth it. It was getting dusk outside as we tucked into our Christmas pudding, and just to confuse ourselves I put BBC Radio 2 on over the internet. Well, it was 5am Christmas morning in Radio 2 Land and Roger Royal was playing 'Walking in the Air' as the UK woke up to a day we were already more than half way through. Bizarre; it felt a bit like having two Christmases...

After eating, rather than passing out on the sofa in front of the Bond movie (de rigeuer for many at this time of year) we called on my parents via the webcam. Once again, it being Christmas morning for them, it was like Christmas Day Part 2 for us. Later on my Aunty, cousin and her little boy showed up, all gathered around the webcam and we were able to raise a glass together with a toast to the season (and all that). Terribly clever this technology.

Once Tizer was in bed we cracked open another couple of superb reds, played a little more pool and generally had a truly wonderful night together, the sort of thing we'd never manage to do at Christmas at home. Before we retired we set the Mac up in the garden outside, poured another large glass of wine, lit a cig and called my parents on the webcam again. They'd just finished their lunch and joined us in a glass of wine, chatting away for a good hour or so until we pointed out that it was well into Boxing Day for us and we really should get some sleep.

But not before there was crash of shrubbery and swaying of branches in one of the trees which overhangs the garden. What the devil was it! Maybe the spider we found the other day was just a baby and now the big mamma spider was coming to get us! Peering tentatively up into the tree we saw - well - an animal. I guess there aren't too many times in one's life when one can see a hairy, four-legged, bright-eyed creature, about the size of a small dog, staring at you out of tree without actually being able to say "Oh, look, there's a...". But that's Australia for you. We had to check on the internet and discovered that our garden is home to a potaroo, a marsupial quite common to these parts. So we've called him Paul and have taken some photos of him. Here he is now:

Leaving Paul to his own devices, we carried on for another half hour chatting to my parents, then bid them ta-ta and squeezed in another game of pool before bed (and yes, I lost. Again). A cracking day, and possibly the longest Christmas Day I've ever had. Just a shame we can't do it like this every year.

'Twas The Night Before Chirstmas...

2007-12-24T19:28:00.014Z

...and all through the house, nothing much was moving, mainly due to the large quantities of industrial strength bug spray that we've used liberally both inside and out earlier this afternoon.

Four cans of the stuff we've gone through, and it's mighty powerful. The indoor spray is to be used around the edges of walls, windows and doors and certainly has a pretty impressive effect on the cockroaches. Out they shoot from whichever nook or cranny they're hiding in, desperate to get away from the relentless campaign of gassing. Little do they know that it's already too late, and they seldom get more than two or three yards before they feel honour-bound to flip themselves onto their back and die slow, agonising and wiggly-legged deaths. Serves 'em right, little bastards.

They've been driving Mrs V to distraction, and whilst we spent most of the day out-and-about, her mood has suggested that the roaches have never been far from her mind. The outdoor spray - which I was in charge of, being the man of the house - is sprayed in a perimeter around the property. A proverbial line in the sand, so the instructions on the tin suggest, that will ne'er be crossed by any creepy-crawly - unless it's a particularly suicidal one. And it really seems to work too. A bug came tootling across my 'ring of steel' (as I'm now calling it), made it about a foot over, then quietly pitched over on it's back and died. Result.

You also need to spray around doors, windows and under window sills. This is fun. One sweep of the spray beneath the sill and all manner of wildlife falls out; roaches, beetles and some pretty sinister looking spiders (having referred back to our landlord's copy of 'The Ladybird Book of Spiders That Can Make You Poorly' I feel I may have taken out one or two funnel-webs, which is scary).

Now, don't get me wrong - I'm very much the animal lover and find the diverse wildlife out here fascinating - but it's just not all that pleasant sharing your 'home' with a bunch of roaches. Perhaps there's a bug spray out there that only targets cockroaches, but if there is, this one ain't it. It decimates entirely, and whilst I feel genuinely bad for the spiders and ladybirds, if it can put a smile on Mrs V's face in time for Chirstmas morning then it's a price worth paying. Sorry.

We went on a shopping trip into town this morning, not just to buy several gallons of industrial strength roach spray, but also to pick up everything for our Chirstmas lunch tomorrow. Months back, when we first started planning this trip, we had pretty grand aspirations of doing the whole 'Christmas-on-the-beach' thing so beloved of ex-pats, but as the big day has got closer - and after speaking to quite a few locals on the subject - most people still seem to opt for turkey with all the trimmings. We've turned our back on most things 'Xmas' this year, so we decided we'd go for it - on the condition that we could actually find a turkey in Australia on Christmas Eve.

Which we did; big bugger of a thing from a cracking family butchers on the main street of Avalon. We also treated ourselves to a couple of steaks the size of toilet seats to chuck on the barbie later in the week. Then onward to a couple of different green grocers (more of those gigantic, fresh veggies) and a rather nice deli. All sorted, we dropped our perishables off, launched an attack on the indigenous wildlife that Chemical Ali would have been proud of, then, having rendered our home-away-from-home uninhabitable for the next few hours, headed on up the peninsula for a drive.

I say peninsula, for that's exactly what it is. The Barrenjoey Peninsula to be precise, with the South Pacific to the east and a calm patch of water called Pittwater to the west. We had our hearts set on a pint or two, but having passed a couple of pubs that actually had queues outside - the likes of which I haven't seen since the opening weekend of 'Star Wars' - we realised that the Aussies take Christmas Eve way too seriously and decided to carry on driving up to the end of the peninsula, which culminates in a little town called Palm Beach. Otherwise known - to retired widows, students and the terminally unemployed - as Summer Bay, setting of the soap 'Home and Away'.

Unlike it's alternate soap opera persona, Palm Beach is swish, with luxurious looking villas climbing up the wooded hillsides all staring out across the turquoise sea. This is Serious Money territory, appparetly, with the likes of Nicole Kidman et al having holiday homes here. Very beautiful it is too. We happened across a rather attractive bar/restaurant called Barrenjoey House and, remembering the queues coming out of the pubs further down the coast, decided that this was a much better spot to stop for a drink and - perhaps - a bite to eat.

I ordered what turned out to be, quite frankly, an absolutely outstanding mojito, a few sips of which convinced me that we should check out the food to see if it was anywhere near as good. And it was. We all had fish goujons (made out of a fish I've never heard of and can't remember the name of) with chips and home-made tartare sauce. Bloody marvellous it was, so I had another mojito to celebrate. Not a bad way to spend Christmas Eve, when you consider the mayhem of cramming oneself into an overly busy, overheated pub back home.

After dinner we took a wander on the beach, then headed back home to put Tizer to bed, sweep up the cockroach carcasses, open a bottle of wine and play a few games of pool. All terribly civilised.

Right - must be off. Santa is due and, apparently, he knows if you're sleeping and he knows if you're awake. So, I've decided I better be good, for goodness sake. G'night...

Onward To Avalon!

2007-12-23T16:46:00.008Z

Something that should be shouted from atop a mighty steed, don't you think? Or have I been watching Ivanhoe to much again...?

So. This is it. Our last lot of digs. The last week of our month long Hong Kong and Oz Odyssey. I'd like to come out with the standard line and say "it's flown by" and in a way that could be true, but the feeling I'm left with - approaching Christmas as we are - is how long we've been away and how far from home we are. Not in a homesick way, you understand - Chirst no - I mean, the sun keeps shining, the food is great, the people a delight etc., etc., and I'd much rather be here than freezing my arse off in Blighty. But now that we're onto the final stretch it's given us pause for thought and reflection, and it has - thus far - been a bloody great trip and one that will stay fondly in our memories for many, many years to come.

Anyway, less of this pondersome meloncholia, we've still got a quarter of our honeymoon to get through yet; let us not fritter it away in such a fashion. We're in Avalon, a bohemian little seaside town an hour or so north of Sydney, renting a wonderful house just a minute's stroll from a beautiful, golden, sandy beach. And this is where we'll be celebrating Christmas too; the trimmings are on the tree, courtesy of our landlord. I don't imagine it took him too long, the tree being all of 10 inches high, but it's the thought that counts and the tree - along with the tinsel around our front door - have added a strangley festive air to proceedings. Well, it is about 80 degrees outside, there were a pair of kookaburras on the lawn this evening and we're thinking of having a barbeque tomorrow (what, with it being Christmas Eve) so it's all a little confusing a present. Mind you - you certainly won't be hearing any complaints from me.

Our flight up from Melbourne was a blessedly short one, and nowhere near as god-damned awful as our journey down from Cairns. Melbourne airport, when not being shutdown by thunderstorms, is actually rather a neat and efficient place, and we were checked in, bags dropped and enjoying a doughnut and a coffee airside without so much of a hiccough (yes, that's how you spell it). The doughnut must get a special mention, incidentally, for it was purchased from the King of Doughnut Purveyors - Krispy Kreme. Oh yes. Seldom will a finer doughnut pass your lips, unless it's one of those proper ring types that are deep fried at the seaside, then put in a paper bag which instantly goes translucent from the fat, before receiving a diabetic's-death-sentence in sugar. If Homer were here, I think I know what he'd say (that's Simpson, by the way, not the Greek poet who was, apparently, much more partial to a waffle).

Tizer eshewed the offer of a doughnut, instead opting for a sausage roll. Now, this is something I was only vaguely aware of before we came to Oz, but apparently the Antipodean idea of a sausage roll varies slighty from our own. The variety we came across were all from a company called 'Four'n'Twenty' (something of an Australian institution, apparently), and they came warmed, in a little plastic wrapper. Now, doubtless, they have in common with the British sausage roll a pretty high proportion of mulched up pigs' eyeballs and testicles in them, but beyond that they're a different beast all together. They seem to mix sausage meat with minced beef (or possibly lamb) and herbs and spices to achieve something altogether more palatable. Hell, they're actually quite nice. In fact they tasted rather like a Cornish Pasty to me, but without the lumps. Tizer certainly approved, but then she'll eat almost anything as long as it's warm and used to have a face and four legs.

We boarded our flight with a surprising lack of hassle considering our previous experience with Qantas Economy so far on this trip. We'd been allocated seats about two-thirds of the way down the plane this time, and I was rather glad this was our last flight with Qantas, as I'm pretty sure we'd have ended up being allocated seats in the rear toilets before too long. This was to be - thank whatever deity you like - a quick flight; just a one hour hop back up to Sydney. The main bonus as far as I was concerned was that it meant that we didn't have to endure another 'meal service', just a 'snack' apparently, so I was rather glad for this small mercy.

The crew - all male, all over 40, all sporting shortly cropped grey hair - made Graham Norton look like the kind of tatooed bruiser who'd beat you up for looking at his pint a bit funny. Apparently, there are some mean and nasty people out there who claim that Qantas is an acronym for something other than Queensland and Northern Territories Air Service, and these guys certainly lived up to it.

As I say, there was - mercifully - only a snack service on this flight, so once the crew had doled out some sad looking sarnies, a choccie biccie and a searingly hot coffee which, by now - some 12 hours later - is probably still too hot to approach without wearing an asbestos suit, they came round with a selection of fruit.

"Orange? Banana, madam? Would you care for an apple, sir? You know what they say - it'll keep the doctor away. Mind you, if you had my doctor you wouldn't want him to stray too far." Cue theatrical wink.

"John! John!! This gentleman asked for a vegetarian sandwich. Have we got any loaded? No? Sorry sir, they haven't loaded a vegetarian option. What's that John love? Oh, we have now, have we? Sorry about that sir, you just can't get the staff nowadays, one vegetarian sandwich coming right up". Then, whispered: "It's his age you know, such a shame...". Cue theatrical wink.

I loved 'em. They really made the flight much more entertaining. Certainly better than the piss-poor in flight 'movie' which seemed to comprise of one long, interminable Qantas advert.

Disembarking at Sydney airport was delightfully smooth and uneventful. We even managed to collect our luggage without being accused of master-minding a major drug-smuggling cartel, which was an improvement on our last visit. We picked our car up from Hertz - a beast of a thing, a Ford Explorer, I think - which has without doubt done nothing for our carbon footprint, darn it. Never mind, I'll plant a shrub when we get home.

The drive up to Avalon was great - we got to go over the Harbour Bridge, which I was pleased as punch about. We then meandered up the coast, in brilliant summer sunshine, past beachside towns filled, predominently, by surfer-types and their surfer-type-friends. All terribly Australian. And, realising we were no longer hotel guests and would soon have a kitchen again for the first time in three weeks, we stopped off at a supermarket to stock up on provisions.

Although it was a relatively humble shop in a little town (amusingly called Dee Why), it just went to prove that Melbourne's Victoria Market wasn't a one off when it came to fresh food. More huge 'caps', gorgeous leafy salads, fat, ripe tomatoes, fresh ginger, bak choi, and all of it - I mean all of it - Australian grown. Makes you sick doesn't it? Especially when you consider that Tesco at home sell mange-tout from Kenya, spring onions from Egypt and leeks - LEEKS for crying out loud! - from Spain! I swear, if Britain ever became the victim of some kind of world-wide import embargo we'd all starve to death in a month.

Having stocked up on oodles of lovely, fresh local produce we drove the last half hour up to Avalon and the bungalow (or 'Beach Retreat' as the landlord calls it) that we'll be calling home for the next week. It's a wonderful property, it really is. It has three bedrooms and a massive central living and dining area with - get this - a pool table! It's also got a pretty decent kitchen for a rented property. We have our own private garden, a little veranda complete with 'barbie' and deck chairs, and a climbing frame for Tizer to try and injure herself on. All part of living the Australian Dream...

There is, however, one part of living the Australian Dream that has caught us (or at least Mrs. V) at little unawares. The bugs. Or, to be specific, the cockroaches. Apparently it was unseasonably wet last week, which has caused the roaches to up-sticks and move into somewhere a little drier then their usual abode, namely Avalon Beach Retreat. I'm not keen on cockroaches, but Mrs. V really, truly, cannot abide them. They're not small ones, either. A good two inches long, some of 'em, and mighty fast they are too.

Then there was the surprise that awaited us upon our return tonight. After enjoying a thoroughly tasty pizza and a bottle of local red in a litte Italian place in the town, we took a gentle stroll back to our Retreat. We unlocked and opened the door, stepped inside and turned the lights on. This startled a couple of roaches which went scuttling across the floor before I quickly despatched them with the aid of my already trusty, long handled broom. Then we noticed something else lurking beneath the dining table. Something bigger and rounder than a roach. Something about the size a of large bloke's hand. Something with eight, thick, hairy legs.

"Oh my god," cried Mrs. V, her voice a frantic, hoarse whisper, "It's a spider!". Now, if there's one thing that my dear lady wife hates more than cockroaches, it's spiders, and this was one huge f**king spider. And whereas they don't normally bother me all that much at home, I was aware that this particular, monstrous arachnid probably deserved just a little more respect than the poor, scared creatures that scuttle across our lounge floor from time-to-time.

Thankfully, our landlord has been kind enough to leave a selection of books for guests (one can hardly call a handful of paperbacks and a few guidebooks a library) and one of these books just happens to be on Australian spiders. Admittedly, as literature goes it seems to be aimed at the under 12s market, but when you're living in a country where certain arachnids are capable of killing you within 10 minutes from a single bite - and this bugger looked like he could probably gnaw your leg off to boot - beggars certainly can't afford to be choosers, so it seemed prudent to check out whether or not we had a potential killer on our hands.

Our eight-legged friend, it transpired, was a Huntsman spider - one of the biggest spiders in Oz. Poisonous? Yes; deadly? Apparently not. It would only bite 'if threatened' and whilst it would hurt like buggery, you'd be pretty unlucky if it it killed you. This made me feel slightly better, but not by much. So, approaching him with long-handled broom in hand and hoping that the reassuring smile on my face would convince him that I didn't pose any kind of threat, I tentatively gave him a gentle prod toward the open door. Unfortunately, rather than heading outside with friendly tip of his hat and a cheery 'Ta-ta' as I'd hoped, he scuttled up the leg of one of the benches which sit either side of the dining table and glowered at me.

Spurred on by the sound of my brave wife whimpering some 30 feet away at the opposite end of the house and encouraged by her helpful advice of "Get it out!" I gave it another nudge with the broom. This time it decided enough was enough and made a dash for the open utility room door, the floor of which was - regrettably - strewn with three weeks worth of dirty laundry awaiting the refreshing delights of the washing machine. And it was into this pile of clothes that he disappeared.

There was nothing else for it; I started tentatively lifting shirts, socks and items of underwear with all the extreme caution and trepidation you would expect of a man looking for a poisonous spider the size of a side plate in pile of dirty clothes. And there he was! I gently picked up a T-shirt about two-thirds of the way down and found him quietly sitting on top of a beach towel. A plan quickly formulated in my mind, and hoping beyond hope that my nerve would hold I delicately gathered the edges of the towel around the spider, creating something that looked rather like a giant fluffy wanton (with venomous arachnid filling).

Holding my fluffy wanton at arms length and heeding my good lady wife's sterling advice of "Don't drop it!", I tiptoed out of the utility room, across the living room and stepped out onto the lawn. Inverting the towel, I let it fall open and the spider plopped gently onto the grass. Emboldened by the whole experience I even instructed Mrs. V to fetch the camera so I could take a photo, which she duly did, no doubt mightily impressed and a little light-headed after witnessing her man's astounding spider taming prowess. I managed to get a half decent photo of our friendly neighbourhood spider before we watched him scamper off over the grass into the humid night, the theme from 'Born Free' playing gently in my mind.

After which we necked an awfully good bottle of Shiraz, played a game or two of pool and brained a couple of errant cockroaches before retiring to bed (or, in my case, to Mac).

Tomorrow, dear reader, is Christmas Eve and we're going shopping for a turkey (and maybe some bug spray)!

Red Wine Hangover

2007-12-22T22:04:00.026Z

That's right. Red wine hangover. Each hangover has it's own special signature. For me, the lager hangover is a predominantly nauseous one, offering a churning stomach and the distinct impression that a large marsupial has shat in ones mouth. The whisky hangover is a doozie, especially if - like me - you're partial to the peaty smokiness of Laphroaig. The self same taste of burnt peat, so invigorating whilst you're sipping a dram or seven beside a crackling open fire, returns the following morning, bringing with it a cotton-wool head and dicky tummy, leaving you feeling that your tongue was used to clean out the grate of said fire while you were asleep.

But the red wine hangover is a specialist. The red wine hangover concentrates almost entirely on the head, giving a headache of such proportions that the sufferer may be forgiven for believing they're experiencing a full blown embolism. And this is what the dear Mrs V and I woke with this morning; a pulsating, behind the temples affair that took a couple of co-codamol (the pain killer of kings) a few litres of Melbourne's finest tap water and a walk through the chill drizzle that had blessed us once again, before it would even consider receding.

'Why were you suffering so?' I hear your cry. Well, that rather nice looking Italian I told you about yesterday turned out to be an absolute gem of a place. Il Solito Posto is a restaurant of two halves, so to speak, one - a classy trattoria; the other - a basement bistro. Being the plebs we are we opted, of course, for the bistro (to be fair, we tried to book at the trattoria but couldn't get in).

It's a delight of a place, down some stone steps to the basement which is all dark wood bar, cramped tables and blackboard menus on the walls. It's one of those cracking spots where all you can see of the outside world is peoples' feet going to-and-fro on the pavement above. All terribly evocative, just a shame you can't smoke inside in Victoria, that would have completed the atmosphere to perfection. I briefly thought they could do with some pictures of Mussolini on the walls, but that would probably be overkill.

As I say, the menu was purely blackboard and nothing more really other than soups, pasta and salad. Perfect. A delightful waitress talked us through the options; it was all in Italian, which seems a tad over-the-top when you're 10000 miles away from Italy and the staff have to take the time out to translate for the clientele, but it all added to the 'atmos'. We both opted for a simple pasta dish (her tomato, me seafood) before being hit by the wine list. I say list - it basically looked like half a ream of copier paper clipped to a clipboard. But boy, did this place know its wines! Quickly and correctly identifying the look of confusion on our faces, the waitress asked us about the kind of wines we liked, contrasted them with what we were eating, then brought three bottles over to let us have a taster. Bloody marvellous! You don't get this down TGI Friday's, I can tell you.

We settled on a wine (after much complimentary tasting, of course) and devoured our fresh, simple and exceedingly tasty bowls of pasta with gusto, along with another great rocket, pear and parmesan salad. Then we asked our waitress what she had by way of a decent local Shiraz. Out came three more bottles to help us settle on one that suited our base English palates and we finally decided on a corker, the name of which entirely - and perhaps understandably - escapes me. It was so nice, we had another bottle. Then - I think - we moved onto ordering by the glass. I mean, you don't want to over-do it, do you...?

We finally paid up, tipped in the manner of pissed tourists (heavily) and swerved and wobbled our way the two blocks to our hotel. Emboldened by our love of all things alcoholic, we headed to the Martini bar within the Westin and compounded our boozy/foodie evening with a couple of extravagantly named (and priced) cocktails, which was a fine idea on top of a gut load of wine, or at least it was if you like feeling ill.

Anyhoo, heads were understandably thick this morning, but a dawdle in the drizzle seemed to have cleared things up sufficiently, so we extended our dawdle a mile northwards of our hotel to the Queen Victoria Market. I love markets, and this one is outstanding - and huge. It's housed in a number of vast shed-like structure, each one selling a different range of food or goods. There's one for meat, one for fish, one for deli produce, and a huge area is given over to fruit and veg, the size, freshness and variety of which you will never - and I mean never - see the like of in Britain. Bell peppers the size of a baby's head (they call then capsicums or 'caps' in a typically Oz shortening), massive red onions, and salads that - when put on display across the market stalls - look as extensive, green and lush as a rainforest canopy.

Then there's the sheds full of tat (there's no other way of describing it I'm afraid). But it's thoroughly entertaining tat, from 'Simpsons' towels to bush ranger's hats, scented candles to DVDs, and smoking paraphernalia to the perennial cuddly koalas. Great fun, and as the weather was - well - pissing it down outside it was the perfect place to spend the rest of the morning (and some of the afternoon).

Stepping back onto the street during a lull in the rain, we only managed to get a couple of blocks before the weather worsened and finally led us to take a trip on Melbourne's famous City Circle Tram. One was passing, so it seemed a shame not to.

Not only is this route plied by some wonderful old vintage trams, it's also free and seemed like the ideal place, at the very least, to shelter from the rain for a while. As it's name suggests, it follows a circular track all the way around the city and even has a (albeit recorded) commentary pointing out interesting sights and buildings along the way. Tizer thought it was great and that, combined with the rather incessant rain outside, made us go round twice. We're crazy like that.

Lunch, in stark comparison to the fantastic meal last night, was at an 'Irish' pub call Bridie O'Reilly's, the food in which was - in no uncertain terms - an affront to humanity. They should have some kind of roving UN Ambassador to deliver us from this kind of thing. Everything that came out of the kitchen looked like a fried lump of fat and, in Mrs V's case, that's exactly what it was. She sent her first 'steak' back, but when it's replacement arrived it looked even worse, so we quit. It wasn't even worth complaining; we tipped like sober and rather miffed tourists (not at all) and ventured back out into the rain.

The crap food had taken the edge off the day a little, and the red wine hangover - supplemented by a pint of piss-poor Guinness - was starting to creep back, so we returned to the hotel for a Westin Sit Down in the Westin Bar and enjoyed a Westin lager or two. The hangover has been banished once again and we're now looking forward to a 'night in', with a few more drinks and a bite to eat in the (really very good) hotel restaurant.

We're moving on again tomorrow - the last leg of our trip already! - flying to Sydney, then driving north for an hour or so to Avalon where we're renting a house in which to spend Christmas. Yes Christmas, bet you'd forgotten about all that malarky, hadn't you? We certainly had...

Flying South

2007-12-21T19:50:00.012Z

It was time to say 'ta-ta' to Thala and set off airport-wards for our flight down to Melbourne and, as per for the forecast, cooler climes. A shame really, I think we were getting rather used to the heat, the cane toads (massive, they are, and they were everywhere around the hotel), the beautiful lorikeets, the endless Coral Sea vistas and the laid-back tropical atmosphere.

We'd spent our last full day in Port Douglas firmly ensconced at the hotel. A rest day is what we'd promised ourselves and a rest day is what we had. A late start, a light breakfast, then some quality time by the pool which we had entirely to ourselves for most of the day. Mrs V and I took it in turns to take Tizer in the pool, interspersed by catching up on a book, sipping on a cool beer and generally wondering why we hadn't booked to stay here for another week.

We also discovered, later that afternoon, that Thala has wireless (and free) internet access. I bring this up now as our one travelling companion I haven't had rise to mention much of yet is my trusty MacBook Pro, who I like to call Mac. And before you say anything, it took me all of 5 minutes to come up with that name.

Mac has been an essential piece of kit so far on this trip, allowing me to email hotels, check-in for flights, keep up (almost) with this blog and - thanks to its groovy little integral webcam - say 'hi' to Ma and Pa back home. As all of this has been dependent on wireless internet access, we've been quite fortunate so far as the hotels in Hong Kong and Sydney both had oodles of it, all for nowt. Thala, on the other hand, had a PC for guest use in the reception but nothing at all of the wireless variety - at least not according to the bumpf in the room. So, for the past four or five days we'd been pretty much incommunicado.

This particular lazy afternoon by the pool, I decided to boot old Mac up just to let him know he hadn't been forgotten when - hey presto! Bars and bars of lovely, free, wireless internet! Wish I'd known a bit sooner, mind. Then again, perhaps it was good to 'get-away-from-it-all' for a few days. Either way, we celebrated by giving Mum and Dad a tinkle. It was half 5ish in Queensland, so half 7ish in the morn back home. It being a Wednesday, my parents would probably be up and about, which they were. Tizer, as ever, was delighted to see them and tried to give the screen a hug, and I gave them a roaming, internet tour of Thala, such as the wireless connection would let me. One of the waitresses even came over to say 'Hello' in a delightfully thick Aussie accent which can only have added to the whole feel of the piece, so to speak.

We dined in the hotel that night, with a blissfully sleeping daughter by our side. Beautiful food, surroundings, wine - really couldn't fault it. We even managed a couple of after-dinner G & Ts and a chat with a pleasant English couple who'd got married at Thala the week before. Then to bed, ready for an early start the following day.

I was genuinely sad to be leaving Thala; it felt as if we'd just got into the pace of things in time to leave, which is always a shame. But the nature of our trip meant that it was time to move on, and another delightful Qantas Economy flight lay ahead of us. Oh happy day. Over three hours of it this time, which I really wasn't looking forward to. We'd tried to upgrade the night before, but we'd got such cheapy tickets that it was going to cost somewhere in the region of 900 quid, and even a inveterate Business Class Snob like me couldn't bring himself to hack that up for a relatively short flight.

But first, having driven south toward Cairns once again, we had to drop the hire-car off. And it looked like rain. Now, I know from experience that different countries and even different car hire firms have different rules when dropping your car off. For Avis, at Cairns airport, the system seems to involve a woman in very comfortable shoes ("What is a protective dyke? Is it a woman in comfortable shoes saying 'Don't go near there'!") accosting you as soon as you step out of the car. She looked to me as if she'd been living in the outback for the previous three weeks or so - wide brimmed ranger's hat, multi-pocketed shorts for keeping knives in, wrap-around mirror shades, and she rather looked like she could do with a shave. Probably smoked roll-ups and had a sexually non-descript friend call Val. Anyway, without a 'Hi', 'Hello' or 'How are ya?' she pointed accusingly at a scratch on the rear bumper of the car and told us, abruptly, "That wasn't there when you picked it up".

"Well of course it was", I replied, hoping it was true, whilst attempting to man-handle a two year old, a push-chair, three cases and hand luggage from the car in tropical heat, at the same time as trying to spy a luggage trolley. And all the while watching the ever blackening sky which appeared hell bent on providing us with an utter soaking at any time.

"Paperwork" she/he barked.

"I'm sorry?" I enquired.

"The paperwork you were given when you picked up the car".

"Yes. Fine. OK. Can we just get our luggage sorted out?” I replied, feeling my proverbial rag starting to slip through my fingers.

"Ah, yeah. Rain", she said, as the heavens opened. She strode manfully to the dry refuge of her shack, no doubt the interior walls of which were adorned with pictures of monster trucks and K D Lang, whilst we got piss-wet through. Too late, we decided to shelter back in the car, as it really was coming down now as if someone had turned a hose on. Wet and hot. Well, to misquote the great 'Good Morning Vietnam' one more time, 'That's nice if you're with a lady, but ain't no good if you're in the jungle'. And it's not that great if you're stuck in a rental car, with your luggage getting drenched outside, a threatening lesbian rolling cigarettes in her hut mere metres away and a flight to catch in less than an hour.

The rain stopped, as they say, as quickly as it began, and we stepped - pretty much soaked - back out of the car to finish putting our luggage onto the trolley. Our hairy legged tormentor ventured out of her hut and was once more coming back to harangue us. We'd found the paperwork- which was, by now, in danger of turning into papier-mâché - and thrust it at her, explaining that it clearly showed (thank god!) that the scratch on the bumper was there when we collected the car. Reluctantly, and with the kind of bad grace you'd expect from a six year old boy who's been told to stop tying fireworks to the cat's tail, she printed us a receipt and was on her way.

Matters weren't helped by the unwelcome sight of a long queue for check-in snaking towards us as we squelched into the terminal. And we only had about 15 minutes before our flight closed. If anything, the time spent in the queue allowed us to dry off quite nicely (you're never wet for long in the tropics) and once we checked-in we were informed that there was no rush anyway as our flight was delayed by an hour and a half.

The departure hall was the kind of hell that first made me start saving my pocket money very hard indeed so that I could avoid it completely and use the Executive Lounge instead. Screaming kids, bored looking teenagers plugged into their iPods, adults in ill fitting track suits stuffing their faces with overpriced airport sandwiches showing scant regard for the very real possiblilty of contracting bochelism prior to boarding their upcoming flight.

A recovering alcoholic in a Santa suit was milling around giving sticky sweets to the children. Generously assuming he was employed in some way by the airport, I allowed a rather dumb-struck Tizer to accept one, but then confiscated it as soon as Old Soak Santa had stumbled away. Tizer wasn’t all that bothered either, which says something.

I'd barely had time to spill a cup of steaming hot coffee over my foot and eat half a stale muffin before our flight was mercifully called. But then, of course, this was Qantas Economy, so it wasn't going to be a great deal better once we were on the plane. And it wasn't.

Our seats were about mid-way down the plane and - as Qantas don't employ anything as common-sense as a priority boarding system for those travelling with small children - we squeezed our way uncomfortably through the cabin carrying three lots of hand luggage and a wriggling toddler. Not an easy task. We managed to prise ourselves into our seats and settled in for the long haul. I know, three hours and a half hours isn't really long haul, but in economy it certainly feels like it. I hate to keep banging on about this, but it was pretty awful.

Tizer was well behaved throughout, but then she usually is, bless 'er. We stuck a DVD on the portable player for her and she was happy enough with that. The food was terrible; almost inedible, to be honest. It was some sort of curry. One of the cabin crew was billing it as a vegetable jalfrezi, whilst another was introducing it as a chicken korma and I can assure you - not a word of a lie - they were exactly the same meal. It had a label on the foil lid that said 'Curry' so, at the very least, you've got to give the crew 10 out of 10 for imagination. I dipped at the sauce with a piece of bread, then hungrily devoured the chocolate biscuit that came with it instead.

We landed at a very soggy looking Melbourne, more-or-less on time, to be told that we were exceptionally lucky to be doing so. A thunder storm had passed through earlier that afternoon and had completely closed the airport, shutting most of the electrics down. They'd been re-directing flights to Sydney, apparently, and had only re-opened just in time for us to land.

We decamped from the plane, relishing the sensation of blood flowing back to our feet again, and headed for baggage retrieval. We'd booked a car to collect us a couple of days before and were glad to see the driver waiting for us with our names on his little sign. Then we waited for the baggage conveyor to start. The airport may have re-opened but, clearly, no one had told the bright and industrious gentlemen who work in baggage handling. It was almost an hour before all of our luggage came off, and by the time we headed for our waiting car I worked out we'd been on the move for nearly 7 hours.

We were shattered, and matters weren't helped by the sight of the car that awaited us. What we'd booked was an 'executive' SUV so that we'd have lots of room for our luggage. What we got was an off-white stretch limo with beige velour seats, the likes of which you might expect to see in a bad 70s porn movie. The real down side was that whilst there was plenty of room to do whatever it is people do in these dreadful stretched monstrosities, there wasn't all that much space for things like suitcases or push-chairs. The driver - who went by the name of Dieter, looked about 75 years old and may or may not have been a Nazi war criminal - manfully managed to get the push-chair wedged into the front seat. He also completed a task equal to anything they ever set on the Krypton Factor by somehow fitting our luggage into the boot, but only after five or six aborted attempts and what looked to me like a minor stroke.

An hour later and we were pulling outside the Westin Melbourne; Dieter leapt from the car with the sprightliness of a man half his age and transferred all of our luggage to one of those hotel trolley things (I'm sure there's a more concise term for them, but that's the best I can come up with for now). We tipped him accordingly, of course. It wasn't his fault we'd had to show up at one of Melbourne's finest hotels in a Porn Limo.

The Westin, from where I'm now typing this blog, is a very pleasant hotel. I'm in the bar (of course) enjoying a Peroni and waiting for Mrs V to settle Tizer with the babysitter we've booked for this eve. We've got a smashing room, a 'Westin Studio', which is a great size and has a massive bathroom. One thing I have noticed is the overuse of 'Westin' on this property. The studio is a 'Westin' as is the bed. The bathroom is no normal bathroom, oh no. It's a Westin Spa Bathroom. We have Westin Towels in there, along with two Westin Robes. You can order a Westin Burger from room service. Tizer, on arrival at the hotel, received a Westin Kids Club Pack. Still, as I say, it's a very nice hotel.

Melbourne's a lovely city too. Bloody cold, mind. It was about 16 digress today and it peed it down most of the afternoon. Quite a shock to the system after the sultry climes of Port Douglas. There's a lot of charm to the place though, and you'd be forgiven for thinking you were somewhere in Northern Europe rather than a city of such a southerly latitude. Trams pass up and down the tree-lined avenues past Victorian facades and street side coffee shops. There are up-market restaurants and fancy looking fashion stores all over the place and it feels strangely like 'home', an image that's probably helped by the clouds, rain and rather chilly breeze that led us to quit our day's sight-seeing early today and take refuge in the hotel bar.

One thing that must be mentioned, however, are the flies. They are - to put none too fine a point upon it - bloody annoying. If anything, that's the bonus of the rain, as they only seem to come out when it stops. But, chirst, they are persistent little buggers and they don't take no for an answer, seemingly hell-bent on landing actually inside your mouth. Wave your hands around your head as much as you like, it won't put them off. They say you get used to them after a while, but Mrs V seems a long way from that...

We started our day with some very sad news. We'd spied a little coffee place in the square in front of the hotel so grabbed a table there for a spot of breakfast. Then we got a text from home informing us that Bill, a good friend and neighbour of ours, had died. We knew he'd been very poorly, but he was a rather private gentleman and I don't think many people, us included, realised just how ill he was. We've been neighbours for 13 years and it was a heck of a blow finding out so far from home.

He was only in his early 60s, a former army-man who served with the Coldstream Guards (they're the ones in the bearskins outside Buckingham Palace). He and his wife moved to our village around the same time I bought our current house. We used to go round to each others gaffs after the pub on a weekend to play a particularly bastardised game of poker to which only Bill seemed to know the rules, a fact that was usually reflected by the way in which he'd taken most of our money off us by the time we staggered homeward in the early hours. He'll be sadly missed, the old bugger.

Nonetheless, we're on the other side of the planet and, short of sending a couple of conciliatory text messages, there's little more we can do. We took Tizer's photo with the very jolly Santa in the square, then walked the few blocks down to the 55 storey Rialto Tower, which has an observation deck offering what I imagine are pretty stunning views when it's not raining.

As I mentioned earlier, we have a sitter tonight, so we're heading out to a little Italian place we've found a couple of blocks away. Piles of fresh pasta and a couple of bottles of red are the order of the day, I think. And we'll be raising a glass or three in memory of Bill. "Pame!" Bill, as you (and the Greeks) used to say...

A Cable Car Named Desire

2007-12-19T16:26:00.013Z

Another darned day in paradise. I woke, as is the norm, before my slumbersome spouse and stepped out onto the balcony of our bugalow to see what the weather had to offer (and was presented with the vista above). Sunny? Check. Hot? Check. Gentle sea breeze to take the edge of the humidity? Check. That'll do, thought I, and went back inside to wake wife and daughter for yet another exciting adventure - a cable car ride over the rainforest.

Not wanting to delay our departure more than was absolutely necessary we breakfasted on chocolate out of the mini-bar (the health-kick can wait 'til the New Year), tramped stickily up to reception and had one of the staff bring our cavernous SUV round for us. It's wonderful that they offer this 'valet' service, not just because it saves us the walk down to the car park but also as they're canny enough to stick the air con. on full wack, so that by the time we get in it's all nicely chilled.

We were heading south, back towards Cairns, and the Skyrail Rainforest Cableway which climbs up over the mountains to a little town called Kuranda. After an hour's drive, we parked up at the Skyrail terminal and stepped from the cool airconditioned luxury of our car into the kind of heat that comes from the shimmering tarmac beneath your feet rather than the sun above. It was hot, hot, hot.

We made a dash for the shade of the Skyrail and bumped into nice middle-aged couple from our boat trip on Shaolin. They'd just come down from Kuranda and, whilst Mrs. middle-aged had had a delightful time, Mr. middle-aged had liked it considerably less, suffering from a problem with heights. Oh dear. So that's snorkelling and cable cars out. They were waiting for a coach to take them on the 'second part' of their tour - whatever that might be, we tend to feel the same about coach tours as we do cruise ships - so we bade them farewell and headed for the Skyrail.

The cableway itself is over 4 miles long and climbs up the mountainside over some of the oldest rainforest on earth. There's just the right amount of room in the cable car for four or five adults or, in our case, 2 adults, one child and a push-chair. All loaded on board the main cable grabs the car and all but hurls it up over the trees. Quite exhilirating. Within a couple of minutes we were already enjoying wonderful views of the trees below, climbing toward the first mountain rigde, enjoying stunning vistas of the coast and the sea behind us.

Tizer thought it was fantastic, immediately squishing her nose against the cable car window with a look of complete delight on her face. There are two stops along the way before you get to Kuranda, and we were approaching the first one after quarter of an hour or so of skimming the treetops. We were helped, push-chair and all, out of our cable car by a really friendly member of staff (they were all very good, putting the surly teenagers you get working in many of the UK's tourist attractions to shame). We took a wander along the decked walkway that leads off into the rainforest and joined a little guided tour where a terribly knowledgable ranger type - kitted out in the de rigeuer khaki shirt, shorts and bushman's hat - spouted forth about the different trees and plants, how they pollenated and some of their medicinal properites.

Back onto the skyrail, this time with the push-chair travelling behind us in its own cable car, the kind lady at the station having told us we may be a little more comfortable that way, which was nice. The next stop, another 20 minutes up the line, once more had a decked path to follow which brought us out to the edge of a gorge, complete with waterfall, cutting its way through the rainforest. Having taken the obligatory photos, we re-joined the skyrail again and completed our journey to Kuranda.

Now, whilst the cable car trip was possibly one of the highlights of our holiday so far, Kuranda, by comparison, was something of a disappointment. It often seems to be the way that certain journies - especially those of the 'scenic rail' variety - generally end at a pretty pointless destination, the journey itself being the thing that really draws to tourists. Kuranda, originally a mountain retreat of bohemian artist types, was now just one long drag of tacky shops selling tourist tat - hats, T-shirts, digeridoos, boomerangs. Shop, after shop, after shop of the damn stuff. There was a small park at the end with a little playground that we briefly thought Tizer might like to visit, but it was stinking hot and the local police seemed to have chosen it as a venue for hassling some Aborigne kids, so we turned heel and headed back to the skyrail.

Despite the disappointment of Kuranda, it didn't really bother us, as the trip back was just as spectacular as the trip there. Okay, so it was still the same route, same rainforest, but this time we could stay on all the way through and really enjoy the views. It was late afternoon by this time and the sun was low enough to really show off the multitude of greens in the rainforest canopy as we passed over it. We even so a cockatoo, though failed miserably to get a photo of it, succeeding only in taking a slightly blurred picture of Tizer's arm and the top of the seat.

Yes, it was all a bit touristy (we even bought the photo of us that's automatically taken as your cable car comes into 'land' back at the terminal, for crying out loud!) but it was a top notch day out. Tizer loved it, pointing back at the cable cars and saying "Again, again" as we left, which is always a good sign.

We managed to get back to the hotel in time to change and head into Port Douglas for dinner. We found a rather nice little tapas (and pizza) restaurant, and Tizer - whilst getting some cautious glances for our fellow diners when we first arrived - was pretty much well behaved throughout. She didn't like her pizza, unfortunately, as it was herbed to an extent that just about completely obscured the cheese, but she enjoyed sharing my tapas with me. I finished the meal with an Espresso Martini which was not only deliciously invigorating but really bloody strong. Just about put me on my back (and probably would have done if it wasn't for the conter-acting effects of the caffiene).

We finished the evening off sitting outside a bar across the street from the restaurant that had a pretty good singer/pianist type doing a good mixture of songs that Tizer enjoyed having a little dance to. Then back to the hotel, and the prospect of a 'free' day tomorrow. Nothing planned. Nothing at all. Hell, we may even sit around the pool in the sun and do - well - nothing. Oh, the hedonistic lethargy of it all...

Coral Sea Junk-ies

2007-12-18T15:59:00.013Z

Two days into our tropical escape up here in Queensland and I think we've all more-or-less acclimatised to the heat, Tizer included. She wasn't the happiest of bunnies for the first couple of nights, refusing point blank to do the decent thing and sleep in her push-chair when we were out of an evening.

It's probably worth pointing out that when we're travelling away from home, we are usually fortunate enough to be able to book a sitter or - as long as we dine in the hotel - leave daughter-dear asleep in our room. Yes, I know, I'm opening up a whole can of ugly worms here with regards to the very real tradgedy of a certain little British girl in Portugal earlier this year, but we're comfortable with the way we go about it and it works for us. We'd never stay in a hotel where we weren't happy with the general security, or in a room that wasn't clearly secure with a decent lock on the door. She's never left for more than 10 minutes at a time (we take it in turns; plays havoc with your digestion, but there you go) and, as is the case here at Thala, we never leave her if we are more than 90 seconds from the room.

So, as our beautiful rainforest bungalow is about as far as you could get from the hotel restaurant without it being in another state, she must join us for dinner. She was hot and tired, and - most importantly - she wanted us to know that she was hot and tired, so it made for two rather stressful dining experiences. The second of these was partaken in the bar, instead of the restaurant itself, mainly in the interests of letting our fellow guests enjoy their dinner to the sounds of the Queensland rainforest at night rather than the catterwalling of a toddler from Yorkshire.

It's great food in the hotel, by the way. I had a fantastic stuffed chicken breast with risotto the other night, and a damn fine plate of battered red snapper and chips yesterday evening. Well above normal hotel fair - and priced accordingly, more's the pity - but still, you get what you pay for.

Sunday was a delightfully lazy day; after all, with Hong Kong followed by Sydney we'd essentially been on a nine day city break puntuated by 24 hours of flying, and Tizer wasn't the only one starting to feel the strain. We drove into Port Douglas, a 12 minute journey from the hotel (I like to time these kind of things), but then, of course, it takes as long again to find a parking space. Be it Sainsburys on a Saturday or the tropics on a Sunday afternoon, some things are the same the world over.

To be fair, the reason that Port Douglas was quite so busy this particular morning was because it was market day, held each Sunday near to the Marina. I'm not normally a fan of dawdling around craft fairs, and I'd rather have electrodes attached to the tenderest parts of my body than go to a 'car boot sale', but this weekly market was a delight. The sky was blue, with a few stray, fluffy white clouds, the temperature was somewhere in the mid-80s and the market stalls were set out amongst palm trees between the town and the waters edge.

The stalls were generally quite hippified, with a least three dedicated to various forms of far eastern massage (which seems a tad excessive for a small market, until I realised that all three were doing pretty decent business). Others sold the obligitory T-shirts - one of which had to be purchased for Tizer after we were naive enough to buy her a luminous green snow cone - wind chimes, natural cosmetics, local foods and one very strange man attempting to sell duck-callers and wooden whistles, predominantly to young boys. I think he was French, which goes some way to explaining things.

Having bought the afore mentioned snow cones and replacement T-shirt, as well as a really nice wind-chimey thing with a lizard on it, we had a wander through the town. What's that saying about mad-dogs and Englishmen? Well, I think we proved it true, as it was now well into the 90s and even I was starting to find the going a little tough. We headed up the main street through Port Douglas to the beach, which was much better thanks to a stiff sea-breeze.

We weren't dressed for a dip, which was just as well, as there were signs up and down the beach warning us of the threat from box-jellyfish. I'd done a fair bit of reading up on this before we came out, so it wasn't too much of a surprise. You see, you really don't want to swim with box-jellyfish because they've got a pretty nasty sting which will - well, to put none too fine a point upon it - kill you. Not before it's put you through a hellish-ring-cycle of unbearable pain, of course, but death is usually the ultimate outcome. The local Surf Rescue Club were out and they'd netted an area of sea off for 'safe' swimming, but - and call me a softy if you will - I like more than a bit of netting between me and an almost certain, agonising death when I go for a swim. I paddled, which I thought was terribly brave, but that's as far as I went.

Heading back into town we found a decent looking restaurant/bar. I ordered what turned out to be a pretty good steak and one of the most perfectly chilled and refreshing pints of Stella Artois I have ever been fortunate enough lay my lips upon. It was so good that, once I'd finished it, I had another one. And a cigarette, in the bar's rather attractive decking area, whilst watching some stunning parrot-type-birds - with 'beautiful plumage' - flit amongst the trees above me. I've since discovered - from one of the really friendly waitresses at the hotel - that they are in fact lorikeets, so there you go. Certainly much nicer than enduring any length of time in some of the so-called 'smoking shelters' back home.

Now, I like detail in these blog posts as much as the next man, but I wou,ldn't normally go as far as describing my visits to the toilet to you, dear reader. However, the gents in this particular bar have almost inspired me to start a whole new section to this blog. Maybe I'll call it 'Bogs of Note'. Or 'Bog Blog'. I'm not sure yet; I think it still might need some work.

Anyway, the gents in this particular gaff were situated just off the decking area where the dirty smokers hang out. I entered, did my best to get my bearings having just come in from bright sunlight, spied the latrine, unzipped and commenced doing what a man's gotta do. Then I had a sudden realisation; I was looking straight at the couple with whom I'd just been sharing the decking area, which was odd and just a tad disconcerting, all things considered. With some relief (geddit?) I quickly discovered that the back of the latrine was actually one big sheet of smoked, one-way glass so, as you went about your business you could make sure no one was nicking your pint outside. I thought it was excessively cool and, upon returning to the bar, swiftly ordered another pint to give me a reason to go back again soon.

Back at our digs we ate and managed a couple of drinks prior to heading bedwards for a relatively early night, as we had a big day ahead of us - sailing on an authentic Chinese junk to the Low Isles and the Great Barrier Reef.

There're lots of trips out to the 'GBR', as they seem to call it around these parts, both from Port Douglas and from Cairns. A company called Quicksilver appears to be the biggest operator, with big motorised catamarans that look like they can accommodate literally hundreds of giddy snorkellers and divers. They tend to head out to the reef proper, which is a good 2 hours each way. We didn't fancy that or, at least, felt it would probably be a bit boring for Tizer and really didn't appreciate the prospect of sharing a boat with so many people. Considering the current craze for 'Cruise Holidays' has much the same effect on me - the prospect of being trapped on a bloody great floating all-inclusive hotel for days on end, with no escape from boring couples like John & Doreen from Wolverhampton short of hurling oneself (or John & Doreen from Wolverhampton) into the deep blue briny fills me with an absolute dread.

We decided, instead, on taking a boat to Low Isles - a coral cay island - which is only an hour each way and, unlike visiting the GBR, means you can get off the boat and onto dry land. This was probably going to be much better suited to a two year old and, whilst not officially on the GBR itself, it was close enough to have some pretty impressive coral, all of which could be easily viewed by your average snorkeller (a.k.a - me) in nice, calm, protected waters.

The Chinese junk which was going to get us out there was named Shaolin and, whilst I'm not exactly a nautical man, she was a beauty, especially when set alongside the hulking motor catamarans in Port Douglas marina. She was commissioned and built in Hong Kong some forty years ago, has sailed around the world twice and had ulitimately found herself in Port Doulglas plowing her way to-and-fro across the Coral Sea. We were due to board around mid-day, which seemed wonderfully civilised as so many of these tours seem to set off at the crack of dawn. We were to sail off to Low Isles, drop anchor for a spot of lunch on board, then take the little motorised tender (which doubles up as a glass bottom boat) over to the beach to snorkel, sunbathe, chill out, whatever really.

All terribly relaxed, and when we discovered that we were three of only seven guests on board - bearing in mind their website proudly announces they normally only allow a maximum of 23 people - we were certainly rather pleased with ourselves. OK, so as we boarded we realised we hadn't brought a single towel between us, but one of the three crew quickly found us a spare and surprising clean one, so we didn't stress for too long.

We set off out of the marina, waved off by locals and tourists alike along the waters edge, and headed out to sea towards Low Isles. The sea was relatively calm, but a boat of the design and age of Shaolin doesn't have the same kind of stability as more modern boats, so it was delightfully 'bouncy'. I love it. We've been visiting Barbados each spring for the last few years and we always try and squeeze in a couple of sailing trips; one of the highlights for me is when we head out away from the coast to catch some of the bigger waves. Most exhilarating. Shaolin was a gentler experience, but it was still bags of fun. And with so few of us on board it really did feel like our own private junk as we bounced over the waves, the forested mountains of the mainland behind us, a cloudless blue sky above and the tiny prospect of Low Isles getting slowly larger before us.

Our fellow adventurers were a middle-aged British couple on a 'once-in-a-lifetime' around the world, and a pair of Kiwi lads in their late twenties, and all four were very pleasant travelling companions. Also on board with us was skipper, Connor, his girlfriend and his son, Brodie (lovely lad) as well as 'first mate' and snorkelling guru, Carly, who was an American but had been in Oz a fair few years. She issued us with stinger suits, designed to protect us from the jellyfish which could otherwise make our snorkelling experience at best, rather uncomfortable and, at worst, deadly.

This made me nervous, such is my dispostion, especially when you consider that, even with the suit on, my cheeks and chin were still going to be exposed, as were my feet, at least they would be until I put my fins on. I expressed my reservations to Carly who was as reassuring as she could be in a realistic kind of way.

"Life is about taking risks," she told me. "Of all the people who come snorkelling out here, maybe 1 in 20,000 get stung, and that's not even by box jellyfish". She's quite right, the 'boxy' is quite rare when you get away from the coast; you're much more likely to be stung by a little fella called the irukandji, a much smaller jellyfish that just loves it out on the reef. It's unlikely a sting from one would kill you, but it's supposedly so painful that if you are stung you may well wish you were dead.

"Do you smoke?" asked Carly. I admitted sheepishly that yes, I do. "Much riskier" she told me in a that's-our-discussion-over kind of way, handing me my attractive blue stinger suit.

We dropped anchor quarter of a mile or so off Low Isles at about 1ish amidst three of four larger tour boats. As lunch was served - salad and cold meats, all very nice - the other boats called their hoardes of snorkellers back and, one by one and much to our delight, sailed back off toward the mainland, leaving us as the only boat out there. Just how I like it.

After lunch we donned our stinger suits (be warned, they don't leave a great deal to the imagination which is why you won't find any photos of me wearing mine) and clambered into the glass-bottomed tender - passing Tizer carefully down to the skipper much to our daughter's delight - then proceeded to take a 30 minute tour over the coral around Low Isles.

The Great Barrier Reef is made up predominantly of hard coral (rocky, lumpy, spikey) but at Low Isles it's mostly soft coral (floaty, swishy, swaying) and it was only about 5-15 feet under the water, so great to observe from the tender. Harking back to Barbados again, we've been lucky enough to do a fair bit of snorkelling over some half decent reefs, but they've been almost entirely hard coral and quite old. For my liking, this soft coral was much more akin to what you'd see on a Jacques Cousteau documentary or 'Finding Nemo' (more of Nemo soon...). And not only was it stunningly beautiful, it was also rather easy to identify each species of the coral thanks to a pretty self-explanatory naming system. So, spaghetti coral looks like spaghetti, tree coral looks like a tree and grape coral looks like bunches of grapes. You'll never guess what pineapple coral looks like. Yup, you got it.

Next, we made landfall on Low Isles and, as all the other boats and their touristy hoards were already most of their way back to Port Douglas, we had this tiny desert island - complete with palm trees and solitary white-washed lighthouse - all to ourselves. Mrs V used our dear daughter as an excuse not to go snorkelling, concerned as she was about jellyfish, so our snorkel party comprised of the nice middle-aged couple, the two Kiwi lads, Brodie and myself, led and guided by the gutsy Carly.

Kitted out head-to-toe in close-fitting blue lycra, flippers, snorkels and masks, we certainly weren't catwalk material. Mind you, some of the ridiculous get-ups paraded by the major fashion houses are often far more outrageous. If you stuck a Dior label on our stinger suits I'm sure there'd be some celebrity-chav out there simply dying to be parted from a ridiculous amount of their money for it. Victoria Beckham, for instance.

As I say, I've snorkelled a bit in the Caribbean and have my own prescription mask (without it I could swim toward a 30 foot Great White shark and still not know it was there until it bit my arm off), so I didn't need the Beginners Guide To Snorkelling that Carly was doling out to nice middle-aged couple. It basically involved putting one's snorkel and mask on then dipping your face in the water to see if you drowned or not, so nothing too strenuous. However, after 5 or 10 minutes of aborted attempts, nice middle-aged couple decided it wasn't for them - though at least they tried - so that left just the five of us to head out on our snorkel tour of the reef and, following in Carly's not inconsiderable wake, we made our way out over the coral.

It was tough going as Carly set up a cracking pace and had clearly assumed (wrongly if you ask me) that my Kiwi chums and I were three fit lads with as much stamina as her - but the whole endeavour could not have been more worthwhile. Snorkelling over the Great Barrier Reef in water warm enough to bathe in, watching a kalaedoscope of tropical fish and turtles dart amongst the coral was a truly amazing experience. Then Carly stopped, waving to attract our attention, and pointed down toward a cluster of sea anemones - and there he was - Nemo! No, two Nemos!! Swimming in and out of the anemones were two beautiful clown fish (for that is what Nemos are apparently). I was delighted, and got even giddier when Carly told us we might be lucky enough to see Nemo's friend later on (the blue fish with the short term memory problem for those who've seen the film).

But not before we saw a pair of giant clams. They were a good 3 foot long, like something straight out of '20,000 Leagues Under The Sea'. Brodie swam down and stuck his hand breifly into one of the clams' open 'mouths', and it slowly closed its gaping maw, obviously pretty disappointed to find a distinct lack of the promised 8-year-old-boy-limb.

We scooted around the reef for another 40 minutes or so, finally catching up with Nemo's buddy, much to my satisfaction. I have to say, it wasn't lost on me how fortunate we were; Carly was a first class snorkel guide and, by this time, Brodie and one of the Kiwis had dropped out, so there was only the remaining Kiwi and myself left. Now, bearing in mind that Shaolin often takes a full compliment of 20 odd guests, we were exceptionally luck to be taking part in an almost private snorkel tour of the Great Barrier Reef, in wonderful conditions with a truly entertaining and informative guide. And the whole kaboodle had only cost around 70 quid each - boat, lunch, snorkel, the lot.

Cramp and fatigue finally rendering my puny legs all but useless, we ultimately admitted defeat and called it a day, returning to the beach.

"So," said Carly as we stepped back onto the sand, knackered, "Did you see any jellies?". I did, just the one, a small mushroom shaped thing. "There you go," she replied, "and that one can't even sting you". Fair point. For the sake of a bit of risk taking (and a pretty tiny bit at that) I'd had a truly great and memorable experience. Lesson learnt, me thinks. Carpe Diem and all that from now on. Although I draw the line at bungy jumping.

The skipper took everyone back out on the glass bottom tender after this, but I stayed on the island - entirely alone - and carried out a quick circumnavigation of my new realm, whilst quietly worrying that they might not come back for me. It only took 10 minutes to walk all the way around, but I really wish I'd taken some shoes as there were one or two fallen trees to climb over and quite a bit of sharp coral that could have cut my feet to shreds and entirely ruined my newly found - if temporary - Robinson Crusoe status.

I was soon 'rescued' by our returning party. We gathered our belongings (stinger suit - loaned. Towel - ditto) and got back on board the tender which took us over to the junk once more. The sails were set - or whatever it is you do with sails - and we bid a fond farewell to Low Isles and set a course for the mainland (see how nautical I'm getting?).

Shaolin's owners don't have an alcohol license, but - like a lot of Aussie establishments - they are happy for you to 'BYO', or Bring Your Own which, of course, we had. I liberated our bottle of Sauvignon Blanc - Australian, of course - from the ice box where the skipper had kindly let us leave it to chill, poured us a couple of glasses, and took a sip whilst watching the sun drift down toward the mountains behind Port Douglas. The low sunlight was glinting gently off the waves, the warm breeze was drying the saltwater and sand onto our skin in a very satisfying way; Tizer was playing nicely with Brodie and everyone seemed delightfully, excessively chilled as we bobbed our way back toward land and the approaching tropical dusk. Just one of those all too rare perfect moments.

Way too soon, we were back to engine power and put-putting our way into the marina again. Small groups of tourists and locals stood, sundowners in hand, and waved at us from waterside bars as we navigated our way back to Shaolin's berth. Shaking hands with the crew and thanking them wholeheartedly for one hell of a day out, they told us the one thing we're always delighted to hear: It was a pleasure having you - and especially Tizer - on board. Thank goodness; we do try very hard indeed to ensure that Tizer's enjoyment doesn't impact on anyone else's when we're out and about. In fact, they said that they wished all two year olds could be like her, then they'd be a lot happier welcoming them and their families on board in future. Too kind.

We had dinner at a really pleasant restaurant on the edge of the marina, which was throughouly delicious and the perfect end to the perfect day. Tizer fell asleep in the car on the way back to the hotel, and even Mrs V and I only had the energy for a couple of glasses of wine before retiring ourselves. A wonderful day that will last long in the memory.

Next - we tackle the wilds of the tropical rainforest. Pass me my pith helmet!

Some Like It Hot

2007-12-16T11:56:00.003Z

Time to move on. Like The Littlest Hobo, every stop we make, we make a new friend, but can't stay for long, just turn around and we're gone again. Except he was, essentially, just a stray dog and we is people. Mind you, it's times like these that you appreciate his nomadic lifestlye and, to an extent, his ability to wash his balls with his tongue. But I digress.

Mrs V had done her usual, sterling job of packing our numerous, voluminous cases and after one last breakfast up in the Club Lounge it was time to meet our taxi to the airport (which, incidentally, was about a third of the price of the car that picked us up from there earlier in the week). We'd really enjoyed Sydney; the Intercontinental was a very pleasant hotel and the city itself had a good feel to it. But it was time to head north, to Cairns and the heat and humidity of the tropics!

The domestic terminal at Sydney Airport was refreshingly quiet, check-in and security were a breeze and we were at the gate, sipping coffee, with only 40 minutes or so to kill. However, my relaxed exterior belied the internal disquiet I was experiencing at the prospect of being transported to our destination in Cattle Class.

It was going to be a two and half hour flight up to Cairns and I felt I could just about handle that long in economy. Even a Business Class junky like me couldn't justify the price of an upgrade on this one - it was working out something like eight times more than an economy ticket, which is plain crazy (or should that be plane crazy - geddit?) , especially when you see what Qantas domestic Business Class is actually like. We were in the first row of Cattle Class, so got a good vantage point to see what delights the ambrosia sipping, quail's egg scoffing types get up front (cripes, listen to me, it's like I fly economy all the time - up the workers, down with the bourgeoisie!).

Excuse my while I pause here to enlighten you with interesting Oz fact No. 2 (No. 1 was the one about the echinda laying eggs. Remember?). Qantas - note the lack of a 'U' after the 'Q'? - is an acronym for Queensland and Northern Territories Air Service. There you go, that's another one for the pub quiz.

Anyhoo, Qantas Business Class takes up the first three rows of a standard 737 with four seats across rather than six in Cattle. Passengers got a glass of sparkling stuff when they boarded, free headphones (oh, the luxury!), a decent enough looking lunch - kind of Premium Economy style, for those of you who know what that means - and complimentary wine throughout. Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather have been up there then where we were, but I didn't see much that to justify the astronomical cost of the upgrade, which was reassuring in its own little way.

Qantas crew are a queer bunch, by the way (in more ways than one, might I suggest). Generally pleasant, but much older than, say, Virgin crew. Often the way on domestic routes I think. Lunch (the first economy in-flight meal I've had in the best part of a decade) was some kind of lamb stew and couscous concoction which was vaguely palatable and filled a gap. Can't remember what Mrs V had, but I do remember she hated it.

Anyway, I got my Mac out - once the aging and vaguely camp steward finally cleared my greasy little metal tray from in front of me - and started a bit of this 'ere post. Then in no time at all we were coming in to land in Cairns. It all looked terribly tropical and rainforested out of the window, which is probably just a well, this was tropical Queensland after all. We landed, the doors opened and we got that wonderful warm 'n' wet smell so redolent of these climes. I love it; I'm a loud shirt, shorts and flip-flops kind of guy and a temperature set somewhere in the high 80s, predominantly sunny with the occasional downpour to keep the palm trees green is just ideal for me.

We picked up our luggage, got temprorarily lost on the way to collect the hire car, but were soon on the road (Mrs V driving, me map-reading - do you think I'd let a woman loose with a map?) and heading north through some stunning countryside. We were driving up the Cook Highway, lined by trees full of bright red and yellow blossoms, with the blue coral sea being revealed intermittantly to our right and lush, forest covered mountains rising to our left. Our destination was the Thala Beach Lodge, a hotel a few miles south of Port Douglas, which is a little town based around a marina from where various trips to the Great Barrier Reef depart. The hotel is slap bang in the middle of rainforest, with wooden bungalows on stilts scattered up the hillside.

We arrived, stepped from the air-conditioned car and realised that every pore on our bodies was instantly and profusely leaking. Boy, it was hot, not that you'll hear me complain; all I have to do is imagine people back home scraping ice from their windscreens and suddenly everything seems just fine. A very nice chap called Daryl transfered our luggage onto a groovy little golf cart and whisked us off through the forest to our bungalow. He even came back ten minutes later with a bottle of champagne after learning it was our honeymoon.

The bungalow is great; bags of space with a huge balcony looking out over the treetops to the sea. Mrs V's being a bit iffy with the bugs, however, which can't be helped, phobias being what they are. We've got some bloody huge green ants on the balcony which - so Daryl informs us - can give you a nasty bite, but other than them, the mossies (for which we're dowsing ourselves liberally in repellent) and the truly massive cane toads, I'm not too sure what she's stressing about. Oh, and Tizer's decided that she doesn't like sleeping anymore, which meant she sat and winged at us all the way through dinner last night - and this was at nearly 10 o' clock when she'd normally be well away in her buggy. It's pretty much out of character for her and I can only assume that it's the travelling and heat that's got to a her a bit. She'll adjust, or we'll give her away to gypsies. One or the other.

Being manly in Manly

2007-12-15T14:44:00.011Z

Yeah. I know. Must try harder with my post titles.

Back to dear old Circular Quay today. The plan; well, now that the sun was out in style it was time to hit the beach to really work on those melanoma. It was a toss-up between the famed sandy stretches of Bondi or the slightly less well know town of Manly - seven miles from Sydney but, as their pithy promotional tagline put it, 'a thousand miles from care'. Not great for the elderly or infirm looking for a nursing home then.

We went for Manly over Bondi because (a) it meant another ride on the ferry and, perhaps more tellingly, (b) I felt there was less chance of a profusion of bronzed and hunky surfer dudes queuing up to kick sand in my face.

So Manly it was, and after a later-than-usual start (Bollywood cocktail hangover, anyone?) we got ourselves down to Circular Quay for the ferry. Mrs V queued for tickets whilst I took charge of Tizer. As the queue for tickets was quite long I decided, in something of a masochistic vein, to check out what the resident didgeridooers were doing.

"This is track 9 - Jambawonga Sky," they announced before letting rip with the 'doo (I rather hope that's what proponents of said instrument call it - it works for me). The tinny backing music, the native rhythms, the guttural emissions of the 'doo - sorry, but it still sounded just like Forest Illoowaloo to me. What was it I was missing? I mean, I like to think that I have a wide and varied taste in music, from pop to Puccini and rock to Rachmaninov. Hell, I even 'get' jazz. But the 'doo, as yet, escapes me.

I was shaken from my reverie by my good wife who'd bought the tickets for the ferry, which was boarding in 10 minutes. She had just one question: "Where's Tizer's shoe?". Shoe? What shoe? I looked down to see my recalcitrant daughter tugging manically at her one remaining sock. The shoe she'd just removed and one sad looking sock were in her lap; the shoe belonging to her other, now bare foot, was nowhere to be seen. If this wasn't one of her favourite tricks - usually reserved for the moment before boarding a boat of plane, or performed somewhere in the depths of Marks & Sparks on a busy Saturday afternoon - I would have sworn that it was a reaction to the music, and that she was trying to get out to dance barefoot on the kangaroo skins and get down to the 'doo.

Well, could we find that bloody shoe? Increasingly irritated questions passed between us; queries such as "Well how far can it have gone?", "Can you remember where you were stood?" and "When did she last have it on?" proved as futile as they sounded. We even peered into the oily waters lapping the side of the quay to see whether she could have kicked it off, Jonny Wilkinson style, into the harbour, but nothing.

In desperation we resorted to asking Tizer herself: "Sweetheart, where's your shoe?", to which - in answer - she held up her remaining shoe, before chucking it out of the side of her pushchair. Smart kid. So there was nothing else for it but to head back up to the hotel for another pair of shoes.

It was turned one o' clock in the afternoon by the time we got back down to the quay (after stapling Tizer's only remaining pair of shoes firmly to her feet), but luckily the next ferry was just boarding so we headed straight for it. Purely out of curiosity Mrs V asked the girl at the turnstile if she's seen a child's shoe kicking around. Of course she had. One was handed in half an hour ago after some kindly gentleman found it. The arse. Ah well, at least we didn't have to add a pair of shoes, along with our two jackets, to the list of clothing articles missing in action so far on this trip.

The ferry ride over to Manly was great. It's on a much bigger boat than the one that took us over to Taronga, although still in public-bog beige 'n' green, and it takes the best part of 40 minutes. Once again, wonderful views of the city and really great value when you compare it to the tourist charter boats that ply much the same route, but for considerably more dosh. The only difference with the ferry trip is that it's minus the tinny and annoying 'commentary' you get on the tourist boats. Oh, and you're much less likely to come across an out of work actor dressed up as Captain Cook, but that can't be entirely guaranteed.

Arriving in Manly in time for a late lunch, it strikes you as a pretty pleasant seaside town. Set on a peninsula with the harbour on one side and the Pacific on the other, it's two promenades are strewn with cafes, bars and surf shops. I'd probably want to avoid it on a night though. As nice as many of the bars looked in the sunshine, the boards outside advertising happy hours, two-for-one drinks deals and 'Drink The Weight Of A Pommie Bastard For A Dollar' promotions seemed to suggest that it might be in danger of turning 'a bit lairy' after dark.

We stopped at one of the cafes on the Pacific side for a sarnie and an ice tea and watched the surfer types going to-and-fro with their boards tucked 'neath their arms. All very Australian. Watching the people go by in the afternoon sun, the surf crashing against the golden sands of the beach opposite, it suddenly struck me as a terrible shame that this was, in fact, deepest December and our dear friends and family back home were braving freezing fog, scraping ice from their windscreens and enduring endless Christmas TV ads for Argos and WH Smith. Fair brought a tear to my eye, so it did.

We'd had plans to meet an old school chum of mine in the evening - Julie, a resident of Sydney now for some nine years - so with time passing through our fingers like so many grains of metaphorical sand, we fast-footed it onto the non-metaphorical variety (though not before buying Tizer the essential bucket and spade). Six sandcastles and a quick paddle in a surprisingly nippy sea later, we wrestled our screaming toddler back into her pushchair ("More seaside, daddy, more seeeeeesiiiide!") and made our way back to catch to the ferry.

More beautiful views of the city were enjoyed on our trip back, then straight up to the room for a shower and change before meeting up with Julie. It must have been six or seven years since we'd last met up whilst she was visiting the UK, so it was terrific to see her again. What Julie lacks in stature she more than makes up for in personality, and it was a pleasure to catch up with her, discuss old times, slag a few mutual acquaintances off and introduce her to Tizer, who'd been specially trained to deliver a nice, clear 'How do you do?', though we're still working on her curtsey.

Call me a sentimental old fool, but I think it's good to stay in touch with people who you were friends with in the days when Fairground Attraction were still in the charts and we were worried that the Ruskies might nuke us (although on that latter point, watch this space...). Helps to put things in perspective in this fast-paced world of iPods, the internet, mobile 'phones, Al Qaeda and 'I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here'.

Julie took us to a pizza place on Circular Quay, all but a stone's throw from the god-awful restaurant we'd eaten at the previous night. This place, however, was great and proof positive that locals usually know where the best food is. Excellent pizza - complimented by a big fave out here of rocket, pear and parmesan salad - and a good bottle of Merlot from a half decent wine list.

We bid Julie the very fondest of farewells after a truly cracking evening, with a promise to try and catch up later in our trip when we're closer to Sydney again. Then bed for Tizer and a couple of drinks in the Club Lounge for me and the Mrs. It was a pleasantly mild night so we stepped onto the balcony for a filthy cig and gazed down on the lights of Sydney.

We had flights to Cairns on the morrow, then onward to a steamy five days in Port Douglas, so it was nice to sip a G & T and recap on the trip so far. And yes, there was just a slight sense of foreboding, as the flight to Cairns was to be no normal flight for us. Oh no. This flight was going to be in Economy...

Say Taronga, Be Happy

2007-12-13T11:54:00.002Z

Time to take to the water today and catch the ferry from Circular Quay over to Taronga Zoo. It's years since I've been to a zoo; the last time must have been as a kid on one of our holidays to Newquay. This was the 70s, you understand, so my memories are of chimps in small cages throwing poo at each other and tatty polar bears going slowly mental in concrete pits. Not that we let that detract from our fun, as I say, it was the 70s...

Taronga Zoo is a zillion miles from this, with a guiding policy of conservation, education and animal welfare and, more importantly - a really cool cable car to the top of the zoo. Avid readers of this blog (at least those who haven't allowed the tedium to drive them to the verge of dementia) may recall our aborted attempt at visiting a mountain-top Buddhist monastery in Hong Kong, only to be usurped by a suspended cable car service (pun unintended), so we were hoping this might make up for things, if only in a small way.

We breakfasted once more in the Club Lounge on top of the Intercontinental. As I've mentioned before, the views are just stunning from up here, with the harbour bridge, opera house and all of Sydney laid out in front of you and I would, under normal circumstances, claim that I couldn't think of a better spot to partake of breakfast. Then I realise just how spoilt rotten we are this month, as I recall thinking much the same thing only a few days ago whilst tucking into my Shreddies and toast, gazing out over Victoria Harbour in Hong Kong from the comfort of the Four Seasons Executive Lounge. Tough call. Let's just say that this is the kind of life which could be very, very easy get used to.

So after breakfast we headed down to Circular Quay, from where the majority of ferries depart for both commuter and tourist trips across and around Sydney Harbour. Being such a hive of tourist activity it's deemed the perfect spot to get together with your Aborigine mates and showcase your latest CD of didgeridoo related music.

"This is track 3 - 'Forest Illoowaloo'", they'd announce before treating us to a dose of didgeridoo accompanied by a tinny backbeat on their stereo. "You can buy the CD here, today," they'd tell us to intermittent applause, "for only 12 dollars - that's half the price you'd pay for it in the stores". They sell this stuff in the shops? The mind boggles. They'd also invite members of the public to "Come down and sit on the kangaroo skins with us, have your photo taken", but people weren't exactly elbowing each other out of the way to take them up on the offer.

Still, a man's got to make a living, so I take nothing away from them. My only real bug-bear is that each time we passed by they'd be announcing another track from their CD: "This is track 7 - Narabagga Desert Sunset", or "This is track 4 - Canyon Warralongoo". But you know what? They all sounded just like Forest Illoowaloo to me... Maybe didgeridoo music is an acquired taste which I've yet to tune my ear to. I'm in no rush to start tuning, to be honest.

So, we bought our tickets for the ferry and the zoo (you can do both at the booth on Circular Quay) and filed onto the boat. Intriguing colour scheme that they've gone for with the ferries; beige and green - kind of post-modernist public toilet. Although it was bit grey and windy it was still pleasantly warm and as the ferry set out across Sydney Harbour we got - yet another -cracking view of the opera house, then of the city as a whole as we made away towards Taronga, some 20 minutes over the water.

The zoo is sited on the side of a hill overlooking Sydney Harbour, and the feted cable car takes you all the way to the top so that you can saunter back down on foot past the mightily impressive array of animals. We started with the kangaroos (well, we're in Australia, it seemed like the right thing to do), then discovered a fascinating 'little fella' called an echidna. Looks like a porcupine. Walks like a porcupine. Hell, it even tasted like a porcupine (I jest). But, no relation whatsoever to a porcupine. Although a mammal, it's one of only two types of mammal that lay eggs - the other, of course, being the duck billed platypus, pub quiz fans. So, take that Creationists.

Post lunch the weather started to hot-up, our first real taste so far on this trip of some conventional Aussie heat. And yes, this time I gave myself two coats of factor 30, so no more sunburnt-Pommie-bastard-tourist impressions. We then hit the chimps, giraffes, elephants, a strangely bashful orangutan, a couple of crocodiles and a pretty decent selection of big cats (sleeping) before finally succumbing to complete animal overload. We were done; animaled out; you could have taken me to the dodo enclosure and I don't think I'd even have taken the cap off my camera lens. We still had a taste for cable cars though, so we hiked - unnecessarily - up the hill just so we could take the sky-rail back down. Just a pair of big kids (and one small one).

The ferry back to the city was wonderful. The weather had improved in leaps and bounds and the view of the harbour with the sun glinting off the waves and bouncing off the arcs of the opera house was as if it had been cut-and-pasted straight out of the Australia Tourist Board brochure. It's at moments like this that you realise why everyone goes on about Sydney as much as they do, and I was almost glad that it'd taken a day and a half for the weather to come out in style. Plowing our way over the water in the late afternoon sunshine and seeing the city laid our around the harbour in all its splendour was one great big Aussie smack in the gob. Marvellous stuff.

Back at the hotel, and after a few restorative glasses of Bimbadgen Shiraz in the Club Lounge (it's an outstanding wine - get some), we remembered we'd booked ourselves a (poor, unsuspecting) babysitter for the night so hurried off to change and get Tizer ready for bed.

We had a pleasant night out, marred only by the fact that we'd not reserved a table anywhere. The waiter in the lounge tried his best to get us into a fish restaurant in The Rocks district, but to no avail, so we ended up in an 'Italian' joint on Circular Quay. You remember Circular Quay, don't you? The place where the didgeridoo players play samples of their wares for the tourists. Well, guess what: this is not the place to eat if you like - well - food, really. Calamari that was, in texture, more like fish-flavoured rubber and a tough old piece of veal that I think had been beaten to death with a didgeridoo. Awful.

The evening was saved by an after-dinner saunter up to the Shangri-la Hotel to try out their cocktail bar. The music was a bit 'doof-doof' but the view was good and the girl who made our cocktails was delightful and clearly as mad as a bag of wasps. We went for the Bollywood - a combination of ginger vodka, lychee liqueur, muddled lime and chili. With a lychee on a stick to garnish. Sounds vicious, and it is, but very, very tasty. Two was enough to sedate a rhino, and it has to be said put a pleasant enough smile on this old soak's face. Rest assured, we slept well, and woke with slightly thick heads and ginger and lychee burps in the morning.

Sydney: No Jackets Required?

2007-12-12T15:31:00.004Z

Hello again. We're in Sydney at the Intercontinental, and it's really rather nice

It was cold (well, cool) when we arrived yesterday morning and then it slashed in down sideways last night, which wasn't really what we were expecting from the-land-down-under. Matters weren't helped by the fact that - like the fools we are - we managed to leave our jackets in the Hong Kong Clubhouse (i.e. at the airport). We didn't realise until about 2 minutes before they closed the plane doors, which was galling. Apparently they're going to do their best to get them flown over and delivered to our hotel soon (preferably before we leave for Cairns), so watch this space...

Our depature from the Four Seasons in Hong Kong was as luxurious as our arrival, as we once again booked their outstanding limo service. It was damn hard to leave as well; what a fantastic hotel. Best we've ever stayed in (and we have been fortunate enough over the years to stay in some pretty swanky hotels). We managed a late breakfast, a wander around the adjacent shopping mall for gifts and a couple of glasses of Veuve Cliquot in the executive lounge before gliding away from the hotel, aiport bound, in a beautifully airconditioned 'luxury MPV', as I believe the Yanks call 'em.

Once we arrived at the airport we were greeted straight from the car by Kenzo and Hiro, who introduced themselves as representitives of the Four Seasons who were charged with ensuring our swift progress through check-in and security. Despite the wonderful service we'd received on arrival, we weren't expecting it again on our way out, so this was rather a pleasant surprise. And, make no mistake, Kenzo and Hiro were cool. In matching black suits they delivered the impecable yet effortless service we'd started to get quite used to in Hong Kong. They loaded our luggage onto trolleys, guided us to check-in and took our tickets and passports to give to the agent. They then put all the luggage onto the conveyor for us before escorting us to security where, regrettably, we had to part company, which was a crying shame 'cause I rather wanted to take them home with me.

We enjoyed the tranquility of the Virgin Clubhouse, a sarnie and a couple of glasses of mojito and champers afore boarding our flight (the pic above is testament to Tizer's inability to handle her mojitos) . As I mentioned earlier, it was around this time that we realised our jackets were still hung in the Clubhouse, which put me in one of the vilest moods (something which didn't go unnoticed by Mrs V) for the first hour or so of the flight. A G & T and a pleasant dinner soon calmed me somewhat, but I'm still cursing my own stupidity. Anyway, for the nerdier among you, those good people at V-Flyer have been kind enough to let me post a trip report of the flight, so feel free to take a look.

We arrived at Sydney airport relatively refreshed (thank god for Virgin Upper Class Suites...) and the only real hicough (yes, that is how you spell it) was being picked up by customs after their sniffer dog got a little over-excited by one of our cases. They emptied the whole case and all but took out the lining, bless them, but didn't find anything. Not that there was anything to find. Honest guv.

Our pre-booked limo was waiting for us and efficiently got us to the Intercontinental, though I felt at nearly 180 Aussie Dollars we were royally ripped off. The hotel is very nice, and the benefit of Club access on the top floor is great. There's a balcony on two sides of the lounge with stunning views of Sydney Harbour, the bridge and the opera house. Great staff and some lovely wines too, in particular a cracking local Shiraz from the Bimbadgen winery. Spicey and fruity and - as the great James May once famously put it - winey.

Today, we did the only decent thing a self-respecting tourist can be expected to do and, after a very nice breakfast in the Club Lounge, headed for the opera house. It's such an architectural icon that it's almost like seeing an old friend as it looms into view from behind the row of restaurants and gift shops lining the side of Circular Quay. It's truly a wonderful looking thing, unlike any building you've ever clapped your eyes on, and it certainly got my camera shutter clicking. Tizer loved it, mainly because it has so many steps on a number of different levels leading up to it. Even the most laid back and relaxed of toddler-rearers would be as nervous as a small nun at a penguin shoot watching their little ones make a break for it and start scaling their way inexorably upwards towards the tall white sails of the opera house.

After what would have been about a reel and a half of film in the days before digital cameras, I guessed I'd probably caught the dear old opera house from enough angles, so we headed for the Royal Botanical Gardens, all of a two minute walk away. This was when the sun came out for the first time and - quite rightly - Mrs V basted herself and Tizer in sunscreen. Me? Well, there was still a cool breeze, and a bit of fluffy cloud left, and I don't tend to burn too easily, so I left it for the time being. What I forgot to consider was the distinct lack of ozone layer that they have around these parts and although I finally slapped on some factor 30 an hour or so later, my forehead (expansive as it is) is glowing a bright crimson as I type. Lesson learnt. If you don't want to look like a typical tourist and/or avoid skin cancer, stick the sun cream on you Herbert.

We're all going to the zoo tomorrow (zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow) and we may very well stay all day.

Off To Oz!

2007-12-10T19:43:00.007Z

All to brief a time in Hong Kong. All. Too. Brief. What a place. The people, the hotels, the food, the service, the sights. We will be back, and this time we'll be making bloomin' sure that the cable car to the monastery is running.

We're due to fly onto Sydney this afternoon, so we managed yet another relaxing and extensive breakfast in the executive lounge (the view from which can be seen above), followed by a rather frustrating search for nappies in the shopping mall under the hotel. Long story short, they seem not to do nappies in Hong Kong. What they offer as an alternative, I know not, but - in yet one more example of why the Four Seasons Hong Kong has to be up there as 'Best Hotel In the Whole God Damned World' - we enquired as to the availability of nappies with the staff at the lounge and, you guessed it, five minutes later they came up with the goods. I don't know where from. I don't know how they do it. I want to live in this hotel forever.

But, of course, we can't. Our car is due to take us out to the airport in little more than an hour and we've got the 10 hour flight to Sydney ahead of us. It's going to be tough to leave though. This is one hell of a fantastic hotel in one hell of a fantastic city. Hong Kong, Victoria Harbour, Kowloon, Mongkok (oh, and Disney, I suppose). There aren't enough superlatives to describe it and Australia is really going to have to put some hard work in if it's going to rival this place.

They're just setting out the third 'food presentation' of the day here in the executive lounge. It's incredible; the grub just keeps on coming. Breakfast is followed by morning coffee, which is followed by some kind of lunch offering, followed by afternoon tea. Then there's cocktails and aperitifs. Then there's something else, I lose track. If it wasn't for the fact that there's so much to see and do in and around Hong Kong, you could quite easily stay up here in the lounge all day and get fat and drunk (Veuve Clicquot is on tap all day, so the latter would be far too easy to manage).

We had a wander around the spa and pool (which we've been far to busy to take advantage of) before heading back up here. It's stunning. So beautiful. Next time we're here (and there will be a next time, be sure of that) we must make use of the pool if nothing else.

Ah well, best pack the Mac and have glass of the afore mentioned bubbly before the car comes. Next time you hear from me we should be in the Southern Hemisphere. I wonder if the water really does go the other way down the plug hole. Only one way to find out...

Big Buddha (or not, as the case might be)

2007-12-10T01:08:00.003Z

Today it was time to get all cultural, head out to Lantau island and visit Po Lin Monastery, home to one of the biggest bronze Buddha statues on the planet (this one weighs as much as a jumbo jet, apparently).

I'd spent quite a bit of time researching this one on t'internet and it looked pretty impressive - flights of stone steps leading up to the Big Buddha, ornately decorated temples and halls, and the exciting prospect of the cable car ride up the mountain to get there.

The train whisked us to the far end of Lantau in less than an hour, we disembarked, made our way out of the station, then - disaster! Mrs V was standing a little ahead of me pointing dejectedly at a sign curtly informing us that the cable car service was suspended until further notice. There was a bus service available, but this, after a lengthy discussion with a transit official who had about as much understanding of English as we did Cantonese, turned out to take the best part of an hour each way on winding rural roads and we didn't feel that Tizer - or at the very least, our potential fellow passengers - would be up to it.

By this time it was mid-afternoon, and we were both bitterly disappointed at missing out on the monastery. I started to suffer from a customary spot of OCD (as is my wont) about screwing up a precious day of our precious trip and couldn't really think of a way of salvaging things. The day was two-thirds done and we were at the far side of Lantau Island, an hour's train ride back to the hotel. The only things close to us were the airport and Disney.

And so it was; within the hour, we were back on that feted 'Main Street USA'. As we arrived, the parade was just passing back through town, and it was snowing once again in South East Asia. OK, so it wasn't a Buddhist monastery nestled on a Lantau mountainside, but it was still a splendid afternoon out. Plus, we got to see the fireworks again and this time Tizer stayed awake for them. Loved 'em, so she did, so whilst I got a great big duck in terms of our cultural advancement and spiritual enlightenment, I still managed full marks for being the kind of top-notch Daddy that takes his daughter to Disneyland twice in three days. Christ, she's spoilt rotten...

Mongkok & Back

2007-12-09T09:39:00.002Z

Today we decided it was time to visit the mainland proper. No longer for us the safe and sanitised environs of Hong Kong and Disneyland, we were taking the famous Star Ferry across Victoria Harbour to spend the day exploring Kowloon and Mongkok.

Hong Kong as the colony it once was – and now as an SAR (Self Administrative Region) of China – is a small chunk of Southern China and about 100 other islands, the most well-known being Hong Kong Island itself. Kowloon is the mainland ‘bit’ immediately across the harbour from Hong Kong, and it was over this busy stretch of water that we took the Star Ferry – lower deck $1.70, upper deck $2.20 one-way. Since we’re on honeymoon we threw caution to the wind and went for the upper deck – that’s nearly 20 pence each I’ll have you know. Tizer went free, so our economy drive is still firmly on course.

It’s a wonderful experience as the aging ferry plows it’s way over the harbour, and the views are superb. The whole trip was over in less than 10 minutes, and we disembarked in Kowloon. You don’t get very far from the ferry terminal – say, 5 steps or so – before being approached by the first of many gentlemen of Indian extraction who are hell bent on fitting you for a tailor-made suit. And if you don’t fancy a suit, they’re more than happy to sort you out with with a ‘designer’ handbag – “for the lady”.

Declining politely (but getting less polite with each fresh assault on every street corner) we decided to check out the contrasting opulence of the Peninsula Hotel. This is alleged to be the hotel in Hong Kong, with it’s own fleet of Bentleys to transport its well heeled guests to-and-fro, and there's certainly a kind of faded grandeur about the place; it’s lobby is essentially one large tea room with customers being waited on by white-jacketed staff whilst listening to the strains of a string quartet. It’s impressive in it’s own way but all rather dated, and the vast majority of those partaking of the (no doubt very pricey) dainty cakes, sarnies and Earl Grey seemed to be there more to be seen that to be sustained in any significant way.

Still, I got to use the loos, which was a relief, and we continued to dawdle up Nathan Street, the main drag through Kowloon. It’s a wonderfully atmospheric place; jewellery shops, designer clothes shops, hi-fi and TV shops line the street one after the other, all selling the best names in their field, and all of them clearly knock-offs. Rolex watch sir? Only $2000 (about £120) to you sir, and comes complete with certificate of authenticity. Yeah, right…

About halfway along Nathan Street we clambered up the steps to Kowloon Park which is actually sited on top of the shops - says it all really. Such a haven of peace and quiet you will seldom find, especially slap in the middle of the mayhem and noise of downtown Hong Kong. Diligently pruned ornamental trees brimming with fragrant blossom lined the gently winding paths, which lead us past groups of Hong Kong OAPs slowly practicing their Tai Chi. Mini-pagodas sited in the centre of small lilly-ponds provided shade for pairs of quietly bickering old Chinese men and young courting couples, surrounded by dainty trickling streams and a surprisingly wide range of gently chirupping birds, all of them beautiful but pretty much unrecognisable to the average Westerner (Bill Oddie excepted).

Rather like entering an old wood-lined library, this was the kind of place that made you subconsciously quieten your voice to a murmer. I loved it. But then Tizer broke my revery somewhat by chasing and terrorising the resident pigeons which was vaguely amusing until our attention was drawn to a poster clearly forbidding said act under pain of a cash fine, so we decided to move on.

Back on the street we decided we'd had enough of Kowloon for the time being and headed down into the MTR for the two stop journey north to Mongkok, a poor neighbourhood of crumbling apartment blocks and hectic street markets, and home - apparently - to the Triad, which is nice. The MTR was, once again, immaculate, but on climbing the stairs out onto the streets of Mongkok, we were made instantly aware of why this is reputedly one of the most densely populated places on earth. It was like being suddenly and inadvertently plunged into a game of sardines with several thousand Chinese people, all of whom seemed perfectly at home with the idea and all of whom appeared to have heard of a much better hiding place in the exact opposite direction to the one we were trying to head in.

Thankfully (and I mean this without the slightest trace of racial slur) the Hong Kong Chinese are not only terribly polite, they are also - generally speaking - all rather short which, being just a little vertically challenged myself, was a positive boon. It meant that, despite the crowds, we were able to see over their heads (a real novelty for me) and although progress was slow we soon found our bearings. What an astounding place - decrepit tenement blocks with washing festooned from window-to-window, huge neon signs in Cantonese, blaring car horns and thick exhaust fumes, some of the most curious and (on occasion) stomach-churning smells wafting from street corner eateries and all the time the relentless surge of far too many bodies, all stoically enduring the complete absence of personal space.

We found Ladies Market a couple of blocks (and about 20 minutes) from the MTR station. Narrow lanes of stalls selling everything from 'China Town' tat to knock-off designer trainers, Kung Fu DVDs to English Premier League football shirts. We actually spied a pair of Converse pumps for Tizer, but despite the stall holder's attempts to assure us that they were the right size with added claims of, "they fit soon, she grow fast", we decided not to entrust the health of our daughter's feet to the vagueries of cut-price market footwear and ploughed on.

After several blocks of markets and malodorous food stalls, and working our way from the Ladies Market to the Goldfish Market (which, unsurprisingly, sells nought but goldfish, in bags, just like the 'Hook-a-Duck' stall at your local fair), we descended again into the MTR. We took the train as far as Kowloon, then got back onto the Star Ferry - which gave us 10 minutes of stunning night-time views - before setting us back into the relative calm and, on reflection, much more sanitised atmosphere of Hong Kong.

We'd booked ourselves a baby-sitter for the night, and a table at the Four Season's renowned restaurant, Caprice. Those who know me will attest to my abject food snobbery and it is fair to say that I'm pretty hard to impress in the culinary department. But this was good; damn it, this was stunning. The setting (overlooking Victoria Harbour) the service (typically Hong Kong, typically flawless) and - oh my god - the food! This was the real McCoy; I think we ended up going through about five courses, but mentions of merit must go to the langoustine and sweetbread ravioli, the foie gras terrine and the lamb fillet with pears. Wonderful, wonderful grub, the likes of which I can't envisage us being fortunate enough to stumble over for quite some time. Ah well, it is our honeymoon....

Big Buddha tomorrow.

Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me..?

2007-12-08T09:08:00.006Z

Our second full day in Hong Kong and, despite our oversized and most salubrious surroundings (I'm not saying the suite is big, but Tizer and I managed a half decent polo match in there earlier today; I won), neither Mrs V nor I managed more than 4 hours sleep. We can only presume that the jet-lag has mangled our body clocks more than we thought. It's all well and good that in this modern age of ours we're able to whisk ourselves a third of the way around the globe in just 12 hours, but it's rather disconcerting that it takes our brains a good three days to catch up. It's just not natural. Maybe they should bring Concorde back. Or would that only make things worse?

Today was officially marked as a 'Tizer Day' – the poor mite has put up with quite a lot in the last few days and probably doesn't get quite the same buzz out of flying Upper Class or partaking of the Four Seasons' seemingly unlimited levels of service and hospitality, so it only seemed fair to give her a break. And – well, hell – if said break meant that us 'grown-ups' had to suffer a day with her at Hong Kong Disney, then that's just the kind of sacrifice that we – as parents – sometimes have to make.

We set off typically late – why is it when you can't sleep all night, the one time you do fall into the deepest of slumbers is 20 minutes before you're due to get up? After breakfasting like kings in the executive lounge, and with the vague trepidation that can only be felt by a Northerner who manages to limit to once a year his use of the hot, dirty, overpriced and entirely unreliable transist system that is the London Underground, we descended into the bowels of the Hong Kong MTR – the Metropolitan Transit Railway. My god, it's clean. You could eat your dinner of the floor of one of their sparklingly clean and punctual trains (if you were predisposed to do so. I was still full from breakfast).

We were swiftly and efficiently delivered to the gates of the Land of the Mouse and, it had to be said, we were all feeling just a little giddy. I say we. Tizer was, thus far, rather nonplussed by the whole experience. Once through those glittering gates, however, and she really started to pick up. As soon as we set foot upon 'Main Street USA' – a quaint depiction of a homely, stylised, Americana-esque town which, without doubt, never existed outside the minds of Disney Corp executives– she was presented with the man (or should I say rodent?) of the hour; Mr. M. Mouse him very self. Boy was she excited, so much so that we felt compelled to join the over-long queue of parents, all with children in similar states of delirium for the chance of a ‘photo opportunity’ with an underpaid and no doubt over-hot Hong Kong bloke in a sweaty mouse suit.

All went well until we got to the head of the queue; it was our turn, and Tizer went charging toward Mickey’s open arms. Then she hesitated. It seems the closer she got, the greater the realization dawned on her that this was no ordinary mouse. This was one big bugger of a mouse. In fact, for a child who doesn’t quite top three feet, this was a gargantuan mouse. This was no mouse – this was a monster. She slowed; she stopped; she turned heel sharpish and ran like hell back to her mother, screaming, “Mummy! Mouse, no!”. As you can see from the pic above, we still managed to get our photo, but Tizer was far from happy and insisted she be kept a safe distance from mutant the cheese-muncher.

We hit the ‘attractions’ after that, and managed the carousel, the spinning tea-cups (just a little nausea inducing), a ride down the ‘river’ complete with pretend animals that reared out of the water at you, and a visit to Tarzan’s treehouse. He wasn’t home, but we had a good nose round all the same.

The climax of the day was the firework display over the fairytale castle (Cinderella’s? Sleeping Beauty’s? Maybe they ‘castle share’; mind you, I bet Cinderella does all the cleaning and Sleeping Beauty never gets out of bed, lazy cow). Stunning fireworks, although Tizer managed to sleep through the whole display, which was a shame. Oh, and best of all – it snowed! In Hong Kong! In 70 degree heat! OK, so it was just soap-suds blown out of the rooftops along Main Street, but it was still particularly Christmassy, even for a jaded old fool like me. Snow gently falling, Hong Kong kids going bloomin’ cock-a-hoop for the stuff, carols playing and a huge great Christmas tree twinkling away at the bottom of the street. Bloody marvelous.

Even the trip back to Hong Kong was a pleasure. Seeing so many people leave Disney en-masse after the fireworks, we were fearing the worse when we got back to the train station, but one has to keep reminding oneself that this is Hong Kong, not the UK. Folk filed in an orderly fashion towards the station; the transit authorities, wise to the fact that this is a busy time, put on extra staff and trains to cope, and everything went smoother than Micheal Buble gargling with chocolate syrup whilst wearing silk pyjamas.

My good lady wife and I dined in our suite after putting our comatose daughter to bed, whilst enjoying views across Victoria Harbour. It was almost like being on honeymoon…

Kowloon and Mongkok tomorrow (reputedly one of the most densely populated places on earth), so that should be fun.

Hello from Hong Kong

2007-12-06T13:15:00.003Z

Evening all. I'm sitting here in the executive lounge of the Four Seasons in Hong Kong, so for anyone who was worrying terribly (and I know you're out there), rest assured, all is well, you can sleep soundly again.

Our flight over was wonderful - more so for me perhaps than Mrs V, as Tizer wasn't really in the mood for sleeping as much as we'd like. I got a good 6 hours sleep, which was nice. Made it a pain getting a decent kip last night though, what with the 8 hour time difference. You can read my trip report on dear old V-Flyer. Me? Well, I'm luxuriating with a 'free' G & T whilst me good lady puts number one toddler to bed.

The Four Seasons is one stunning bugger of a hotel. We'd arranged to be transfered from the airport with their limo service - we were met off the plane, driven in one of those wonderful golf-cart style buggies to immigration then left to sort things there whilst they went off and collected our luggage for us. We were then whisked into our waiting limo (given warm towels and mineral water by the driver) and 40 minutes later we were at the hotel. A delightful lady welcomed us by name when as we stepped from the limo, then we were taken directly to our harbour view suite (upgraded from deluxe room!).

We never even saw reception - we completed all the paperwork and formalities at the dining table in the suite. Humble as those who know me will tell you I am, we have stayed in some pretty swanky hotels in our time, but this place tops the lot! The suite is colossal (two bathrooms, sir? No problem at all, sir...) and they'd even left complimentary strawberries and champagne for us. Well, it is our honeymoon. Unfortunately, Tizer took a liking for the strawberries so we hardy got a look-in. The only down side is that the Four Seasons go for a very 'beige' theme in their properties, a fact that a designer somewhere really needs to re-think, at least as far as strawberry covered toddlers and fawn scatter cushions are concerned...

We visited Victoria Peak today - it's the big mountain behind the main district of Hong Kong (Photo of jr. and I basking in the December sunshine above). There's a tram that takes you up a 70 degree gradiant with stunning views. We then stopped for lunch at the top - dim sum and noodles. Mrs V and I were, of course, given chopsticks; Tizer was allowed a fork. I was rather envious of her, to be honest. Steamed pork dumplings are a bugger to eat with chopsticks when you know that the waiters are watching you just praying the you'll screw up (I didn't, but more through good luck than good management).

Anyway, I've just had my buzz busted by realising that Mrs V has taken the cigs back down to the suite with her. I was really looking forward to a last fag on the terrace, so to speak. You will have to excuse me whilst I go downstairs to admonish her.

The Difficult Second Post

2007-12-01T15:05:00.003Z

So, it looks like I haven't lost interest yet. That can only be a good thing, right? Well, I've worked out how to stick photos and links on here, so as learning curves go it isn't proving too overtly strenuous.

We're still in the middle of a suitcase/clothes maelstrom here in the wilds of Yorkshire. Hopefully all the packing will be sorted by the morrow. I take on more of an advisory role in these things; I hand over my list of requirements to my dear lady wife - in my best hand-writing on a crisp sheet of two-holed, yellow file paper - she then crosses half the items off said list (apparently five pairs of jeans is excessive, even for a month long trip) and packs the rest whilst I take refuge in the pub. It's worked like a dream for the past decade and I'm very much a believer of the not broke/don't fix adage.

Generally, I return from the pub to find her sitting atop a particularly recalcitrant case (usually having sunk a bottle of red while packing it), swearing like only a Yorkshire girl can and trying to get it to close over a partly compressed mass of underwear and beach towels. My added weight is normally enough to rectify the situation, but then, of course, we have to weigh the damn things.

Airlines seem to be decreasing their weight allowances for luggage at such an alarming rate that we'll soon be permitted little more than a clean pair of trolleys in a Tesco carrier bag before being charged for excess baggage. Actually, come to think of it, we won't even be allowed that; after all, obtaining a carrier bag from Tesco is now deemed tantamount to building an oil-fired power station on the Antartic ice shelf, or going off on a panda poaching expedition. What we need is for Madonna to fly half way around the world on her fuel guzzling private jet so that she can stand on a stage with amps and lighting that require the power output of a small nation and tell us not to leave our telly on stand-by.

Yeah, that should save the planet. And I bet she gets all the baggage allowance she needs and more. She probably packs a brace of African orphans in a couple of pet carriers to boot.

Anyway, we're allowed 30Kg (and that's travelling business class - the poor schmucks in cattle class have barely enough allowance to fit a spare shell-suit and a Burberry cap in their fluorescent case). That's not a lot for a month long holiday, but with the help of hotel laundry services we should survive. Just my hand luggage to pack now - I'm proud to say I do this all on my ownsome; Book, Mac, Bose QC2 noise-cancelling headphones (indispensable when travelling with a toddler), iPod and selection of DVDs all to hand and I'm ready for the off.

Just the small matter of a haircut and completing the purchase of our new house and we're on our way to Hong Kong. Yay.

Notes From A Small Brain

2007-11-30T16:55:00.002Z

Cheers! And welcome to my rather enigmatically entitled blog. I'll explain where said title comes from in a later post; it seems a shame to sully ourselves with detail so soon.

So - what are you having? Me? I appear to be enjoying a cosmopolitan, but only because the bar has run out of mint, rendering them incapable of making a decent mojito. Damn their hides!

I don't think I would ever have entered into the world of 'blog' had it not been for our upcoming honeymoon to Hong Kong and Australia. We're off on Tuesday, and Mrs V is packing our cases around me as we speak. To be fair, she seems awfully pleased that I'm showing my heartfelt support by tapping diligently at my keyboard. Perhaps that's how Mrs. Peyps felt...

In the meantime, if you're heading for the bar, I'll have another cosmopolitan. Ta.