The dangers of underutilisation

My ex colleague used to jokingly call me Marvin, because whenever I had a moan at work he said it would start along the lines of "I've got a brain the size of a planet and all they've got me doing is...". That always made me laugh.

Marvin the paranoid android, from The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy

But there's a very serious side to it - a mind that isn't exercised, that doesn't practise its abilities and that doesn't have a chance to really get out there and show off a bit, is bound to suffer. Those who know me learn very quickly that a bored Emily is a very dangerous thing indeed. A bored Emily is generally a frustrated Emily and that breeds resentment, discontent and eventually depression. The last is the most difficult to recover from.

So the easy answer is to keep busy: don't get into boring or frustrating situations. Find a job where you are stretched, where you can do great work all of the time, or failing that start your own business and work for yourself.

That's the easy answer.

Let's leave it there.

Joining the Corporate Side

As of Monday, the little agency I've been working for here in Sydney is no more. It has been bought outright and merged into a much, much bigger company. These things happen. So far, little has changed beyond the name on the deeds - I'm still working in the same office with the same team and our shift to corporate life will be a gradual one over the coming months.

I can hear your disappointment even before I've finished writing the words! "Oh Emily, why? How can you so betray your hippy fairy soul?". Well clearly it's not my choice. I was quite happy where I was, thank you very much. But it also doesn't have to be a problem. Really.

The plans you refer to...

Everything's easier with money. Stop judging! It's an ugly truth but no less factual for its displeasing visage. While a corporate job doesn't necessarily equate to a chunky salary, it does come with a plethora of other benefits: free gym membership, reimbursement of phone plans, salary sacrifice schemes... all of it helping those savings grow up to be big and strong. So the goal of debt-free eco living creeps ever closer. Keeping one's head down, continuing to watch the pennies, it won't be long before I can snatch that parcel of land in Nirvana.

Unfortunately there does seem to be some political and beaurocratic nonsense around getting employer nomination for a residency visa, but I've never been one to let such silliness get in my way. I'm pushing ahead with the application regardless, and will 'persuade' my new employer to play along even if I have to lock all the doors and execute one hostage at a time. (Might not mention that bit to the Department of Immigration...)

"Sign the papers. SIGN THEM NOW!"

The Death Star

It's big. It's posh. It's filled with pristene designer suits and polished glass cityscapes. But it's not all bad: I'll have my best friends beside me and plenty of work to get on with. And let's face it, work is great! It's distracting, it passes the time more quickly and it leads to a sense of accomplishment and self satisfaction. Probably the biggest problem I've had with work lately is the lack of it - I seem to spend most of my time dawdling about, never actually getting stuck into anything very challenging. So that'll be good.

One of the many lobbies. I don't know which one. It's confusing.

Of course it's also going to come with a brand new commute. At present there are just 170 metres between my bed and my desk, but that's about to extend to a whopping 2.1 kilometres More than twelve times as far! Instead of a two minute hop I'll be battling through pedestrian swarms for up to half an hour. Bright side? Well, clearly walking is healthier. Work-life boundaries can be more easily built. Commuting to the office with my best friend / neighbour will guarantee a daily dose of gossip. And popping into specialist food markets on the way home can be cheap as well as interesting. Yeah, I think it's going to be all right.

These are not the employees you're looking for

It might seem a bit out of sorts for a big corpo to hire a bunch of hippies in the first place. Have they made a mistake? Do they know what they're letting themselves in for? 

They insist that they do, that they're prepared for Rebels in their midst and willing to embrace us as we are (if only in the non-physical sense). We may have to tone down the touch-feely hugging for which our team is famed but we are packing the hammock and refusing to take any corporate bollocks from Director Vader. We'll continue as a small team buried inside a bigger one. I guess they're probably hoping that we'll nurture some loyalty for our new overlords but it doesn't really matter as long as we're still loyal to one another. Passion for doing good work is unlikely to change, although I do quietly reserve the right to refuse any particularly evil clients that come my way (I can't have another US pharmaceutical company on my conscience, not after last time).

It's a lizard in a hammock. That's how we roll.

In summary, yes I am now part of the capitalist machine in a much bigger way than I've been for years. It's happened against my will. But I'm running with it. When life gives you lemons etc etc etc, bla-bla-bla...

This time I know you

I'm starting this week's post with an apology: this is no good. Please, just skip on to the next. It has not been written to entertain an audience, or to continue the blog, or because I want to share my feelings (I'm pretty sure I don't). I can't really explain why I'm writing this one and I may never hit 'publish'. It won't even make sense without reading all the way through. But here it is:

I knew you were coming

This isn't something that hits suddenly - it takes months and months to manifest. It seemed sudden before, when I was younger, because I wasn't yet experienced enough to understand the warning signs. I didn't know back then what was coming. But this time I do. I've been feeling you now for almost a year and, because your progress was slow and gradual, I honestly thought that I could fight you off, ignore you, push you down and carry on.

I remember how you operate

It's been almost three years since your last visit. You struck me in February 2011 when I left Cardiff and started a new job in Swindon. I'd had a sizeable pay-off, walked straight into another role with a better salary and bought the car of my dreams... and yet I managed to justify you. I told myself you were expected because my life had changed without my permission, because the work I was doing was unsatisfying and because I'd lost the social interaction of working and spending time with friends closer to home. Those things supposedly made my fortuitous life miserable enough to warrant you.

I could plainly see the contradiction and was embarassed by the excuses, but my doctor and family backed me up, prescribing drugs and rest to counterbalance the 'horror' of my situation, and when I was later invited to start a new life in London I used those same excuses to shrug you off, eventually indulging in some of the happiest circumstances I've ever been lucky enough to live through.

I thought I'd beaten you

Every time I felt that you might be lurking, I deployed my defences. I planned, imagined, took control of my life and sought out the big rewards that keep you at bay. Change is the key, or so I believe, so I kept changing: new flat, new job, new friends (the most amazing friends), new diet, new ambitions... Every time I dreamt up something worth doing I did it without hesitation. I found creative outlets and I celebrated every win. I believed you would fade away, cease to be.

But I felt your gaze again in December and my defences were weak. My default position was propped up on one elbow, repose on the sofa with a bottle and a pizza box. I drank cheap wine with anyone who'd join me, fearing spending time alone in case you spoke. I knew that you were gaining strength and that my next change would have to be a big one. So I took time over Christmas and conceived the 'build an eco house' plan. It was a good one! One of the few wishes I've always held onto but haven't ever before tried to fulfill, one that I was saving for 'later'. In planning I realised that it was achievable and that I could make it happen now, and the excitement of the project would be enough to defeat you. I was prepared and I was focused.

You didn't back off

But it's a delicate position to be in, relying on just one plan to stave you off. My passion can keep you at bay as long as it's progressing but one setback, one difficulty and you leap. Every obstacle gets harder and harder to overcome, and I feel less and less in control. You're strong now and my plans are faltering. The next milestone is entirely reliant on authorities like the Australian immigration board and my corporate employer, who between them need to prioritise my request for residency here with no self motivation whatsoever to act in my favour. I can't influence that decision and I can't progress with anything until it's been made. I feel helpless.

And you've been waiting long enough. You're ready for me.

Who you are

I always thought that depression was about feeling sad. But that's not all you do to me... you paralyse me. You make me dread. I sit here anxious, scared to do anything at all - I don't want to write, I don't want to speak, I don't even want to get up and make a cup of tea, or grab a bite to eat when my rumbling stomach is all I can hear. It's like needing to urinate in the middle of the night - of course one should get up and go to the toilet but there's no way of convincing oneself to do it. Against all reason I genuinely believe that 'lying here a little longer' will solve the problem. And right now all I want to do is sit here a little longer. I don't want music, company or even comfort, I just want to stay. Exactly as I am. Still.

But that's the one thing life can't allow, isn't it? I'm expected in the office, in direct contradiction to my inability to pull on a pair of boots or open the front door. It's morally outrageous to sit at my desk staring at the BBC homepage for hours on end while my colleagues pick up the slack, yet all efforts to arrange my thoughts clearly fail. I can't keep to a corner in blessed silence while my friends strike up a conversation... but I have nothing to say.

And that just makes it harder again. The pressure of having to do these things, worse to do them cheerfully, makes me feel even less in control of my own life. If I can't even decide what time to get up or whether to eat, what's the point of my existence? I'm just a reluctant automaton, a slave to social conventions with no purpose or direction. Suddenly those big plans I was using to fight you with seem ridiculous, hopeless, beyond fanciful.

My hands shake, my throat catches and my head hurts. I feel like I'm crying or about to cry even though there are no tears. I'm tired. I have no idea whether I'm better off with company or alone so I'll stare at films and TV shows without paying much attention. Perhaps the characters' voices are comforting, or distracting... I don't notice. Every hour is a struggle to pretend to be okay, and a struggle to fight the desire to escape and crawl back into a small, dark space. I have an overwhelming need to get out of the way.

I love my friends dearly and treasure doing things with them but dread the approaching appointment and breathe an enormous sigh of relief when our engagements are over. Who knows what that means?

Everything will just work itself out. Or it won't. And you've destroyed my ability to care either way.

What do we do now?

Well, there's the question. I could visit a doctor again. What would she say? Take time off work and try some drugs? Sick leave would only cause resentment in the office - I have no right to be sadder than anyone else - and it certainly won't help with career prospects. It would be unprofessional at best or a limp excuse for laziness at worst. And a diagnosis of depression could endanger my residency application, could see me deported from the country if I stopped work. Wouldn't that just suit you perfectly.

No, on balance I'd rather suffer now knowing that I can fight you better in future. I will do my best alone. I'll fix a smile and carry on. I'll hide you from my friends and I'll continue writing, drawing and playing music to channel you. I won't let you take hold of me - I'll be your partner and your companion for as long as it takes to make those big changes. I'll learn to meditate again and use mental presence to appreciate the beauty of the world I'm in right now. I'll break my dependence on the future just as one day the future will break you.

Walk with me, old friend; your time is brief.

Creative pursuits

So, as you may have gathered from recent posts, work is getting less fun again. It's not that I want to stop doing it, rather just that it can't be my number one priority any more... When your life is focused around your job it had better be bloody brilliant. If it's anything less than creative, flexible, social and spiritually satisfying, then you need to treat it as the nine 'til five it is and seek life experiences outside of it.

So I'm shifting those priorities now and finding other ways to occupy myself, hopefully at the same time adding to the house build fund:

Singing for your supper

There are plenty of great busking spots near my gaff in Sydney, not least the Central railway station with its long underground tunnel. I have no idea how lucrative these pitches are but licences are cheap and it would be a great excuse to get back into performing music.

'She had blue hair (Colour)' by Ben K Adams on Flickr (via Sprixi). CC BY-ND licence.

Now I just need to choose an instrument and get practising...

Making your way

My local area hosts community cinema nights every so often, showing interesting films that you may not see anywhere else. They're currently running a crowdfunding campaign so of course I'll support the area where I live by making a contribution. The deal is that, if the campaign hits its target within 30 days, my donation will grant me a stall at the monthly Surry Hills market, a medium-sized market in a fashionable area that specialises in retro clothing and crafts.

'nolasalvage' by adiything on Flickr (via Sprixi). CC BY-SA licence.

What a great excuse to try some stuff out! How about customising some funky shoes? Or making beautiful incense holders? Hand made earrings? Anything that doesn't sell at the market could still go on eBay, or if it's a tremendous success perhaps we'll do it again. The ideation begins...

What would you do?

Joining an Eco Community

As I've continued dreaming about and planning my new eco-friendly home, there's been a nagging issue: where to put it.

And I don't just mean a suitable plot of land with good soil. That's the last consideration. What about the neighbours, and the sense of community? In the modern world we tend to live in enclosed family units, perhaps knowing our neighbours but not necessarily forming strong attachments with them. So if, like me, you don't have a family unit to belong to, how lonely could it get to live outside the city? Is there any point in retiring to live in isolation, miles from the nearest friend, with nowhere particular to go all day?

So there are options: move to a village or town and hope everyone there opens up to you. Except the plots tend to be on the pricey side, and the councils are a lot more fussy about what you can build. The neighbours may just look down their noses at 'that girl with the smelly garden'.

Or get a shed load of cats.

But the inspiration for all this came from Lammas Eco Village, which appears to have an extremely strong community spirit, with single people and families of all ages belonging to it. Rather than just coveting their architecture and ecological principles, I think I'd really like to be their friend.

The Lammas village - a perfect community?

Finding an Australian Lammas

A search for similar projects in Australia started slowly. On the surface, most of modern Australia is a little bit on the snobby side - certainly in Sydney and in the popular retirement spots where prices are high and the standards even higher. There's a lot of talk about ecological building but it's combined with modern architecture and big, ambitious projects to 'hide the eco' and appear 'normal'.

But eventually, after a lot of digging, I've found them. The quiet, hippy communities that are either well established or just beginning. And they might be exactly where I need to go.

The concept

Generally, these villages are set up as a cooperative. Pioneers purchase a large plot of land and between them define the spaces - lots of communal facilities with sensibly divided lots for individuals to build on. In some of these the small lots are entirely freehold, though some are sold on a leasehold basis.

It's a choice that sounds ideal to me but certainly isn't for everyone. The conventional Australian is likely to be unimpressed. Which seems to result in some very reasonably-priced properties. Included in the 'sold subject to contract' search is a small house on a 2-acre, well cultivated plot for only $79,000. There would be no problem at all putting a little hobbit house on a plot like that, taking your time and living in the existing house in the meantime.

An adorable home in an established ecovillage for less than $80,000

Another village that's in its very early stages is a good deal further North in Queensland, where you can buy a freehold acre of building land for $45,000 and establish yourself within the community before it becomes too tightly knit. The climate up there would be beautiful and all the schools and facilities you could ever need would be right next door. They also have a 'no dogs or cats' policy that encourages the native wildlife to flourish alongside the people. Imagine living with kangaroos and kookaburras hopping around your garden!

Visiting

One thing is clear: you can't just buy into these places. If you're joining a community, you have to know who and what that community is. Will it be similar to the pagan community portrayed in The Wicker Man? Will it remind me of my favourite 70's TV series Survivors? Or could there be a dark secret like in Syamalan's The Village? It's important to go to these places and spend some time with the people who could become your neighbours, friends, co-workers and family.

Living with native wildlife

I'm trying to kick back a bit at the moment, taking things one step at a time, but it's something to think about!

Retirement II: Return of the itch!

Here in Australia they take Christmas very seriously. After all, not only is it a collection of public holidays, it's also the summer break. So businesses shut down, shops close, doors are locked and everyone goes away.

Not to 'bah humbug' or anything but I had no interest in going away - my annual leave is precious and should be saved for when it's needed, for example when I want to pop home and see my family. So I fought and argued and complained that I wanted to work through... and was denied. Holiday time was enforced from 25th December - 2nd January.

What to do with extra holiday

I took advantage of this reluctant gap in work to... err... work. I volunteered at the legendary Falls festival in Lorne. The weather was cool and clear throughout and, only being required to work two shifts, I had a lot of time to myself. Time that was spent contemplating, pontificating and daydreaming.

Dangerous behaviour. That's how ambitions start. Tut-tut.

So I came back in the New Year with a whole new project in mind. Retirement was pretty awesome but over far too quickly - I need to get back to it, this time with a good sense of permanence.

So here's the plan:

Retirement II

I'm going to build a house. I'm going to become an Australian resident, buy a block of land and build a house on it. A simple little house, just for me, where I can live 'off the grid' for as long as I like. It won't be expensive but will be a base to which I can always return and where I can sustain myself without the need for any significant income.

And it will be apocalypse-proof! (Within reason.)

Simon Dale's infamous 'Hobbit House'

I've always been thoroughly inspired by the eco roundhouses back in Wales, now officially recognised in the Lammas project. Some of these houses have been built by owners and volunteers for as little as £3,000 and are simply adorable, cosy homes. In northern NSW there's the additional advantage of climate - it simply doesn't get that cold, so a well-insulated home would need no heating at all.

For myself, I've always fancied an outdoors compost loo, a flock of chickens and a goat. I could even learn to garden if my livelihood depended on it. It would be lovely to be part of a local like-minded community and there are a few of those around.

An early draft of my house design

Anyway, it's going to take a while:

1. Secure permanent residency in Australia (this will take about nine months but I can kick the process off quite soon)
2. Attend a straw bale building course (late March)
3. Apply for building grants from the state government
4. Buy land
5. Find a builder / structural engineer to make sure everything's done to code
6. Secure building consent (this seems to be a lot easier than UK planning permission)
7. Put up an on-site yurt / bathroom and advertise for volunteers at the local backpacker hostels
8. Build that house!
9. Move in, possibly whilst still commuting to Sydney once a week, until financially stable enough to quit or go back to contracting on an ad-hoc basis.

Getting started

At the moment I'm still researching all the different aspects of the building - laws, materials, designs - and working out how to pay for everything. I'm pretty confident I can be in by July 2016.  And I promise to post up all the interesting bits I learn along the way.

Turning into my Mother

We all do it. We hear our mothers whining that they're turning into their mothers, and the fact is we're destined for exactly the same fate.

Every single morning...

This morning I decided that cleaning a backpackers' hostel is no longer good for the soul. For almost a month I've been without a companion to help me - instead of a fun and practical way to start the day it's been a solitary slog from kitchen to bathroom to kitchen to bathroom (in total there are 6 kitchens and 10 bathrooms), picking up strangers' pubes from toilet seats and hefting industrial vacuum cleaners up and down the stairs.

Yesterday I came to the very last kitchen only to be confronted with a pile of breakfast dishes that some lazy sods had decided to just dump on the draining board, right next to the clearly written and laminated sign instructing them to avoid doing exactly that.

"Please take other guests into consideration and wash, dry and put away all the items you use in the kitchen."

I finished my morning chores suppressing a curse and returning to the tranquil, unaffected state that I've learned to live in through meditation.

...every single morning...

When, however, I this morning went to back to the kitchen and found the same pile of used dishes, I exploded. "WHOSE ARE THESE?" I belowed across the hallway to the nearby dormitories. One poor girl was caught in the stream of my wrath: "Um, I think everybody's just been leaving them".
"WELL I'VE HAD IT! EVERY BLOODY MORNING, I'M NOT DOING IT ANY MORE - YOU CAN DAMN WELL CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELVES!". I stormed down the stairs with a sweep and a stomp.

I spent much of the rest of the morning muttering to myself, things like "look at the state of this bath tub, this was spotless yesterday, how on earth have they got it like this?", and "Oh for goodness sake, surely they could have put their own curry boxes in the bin, not left them on the floor".

And that was when I heard it: 'when will you children learn to clear up after yourselves? I'm fed up of tidying up after you all the time. And you're just as bad - what's this? Why are these here? Put it away!'. It had happened. Without even procreating, I had become my poor mother exasperated with her inconsiderate family.

Can you enter 'big kids'?

Run away!

Once the cleaning was finished I took my laptop to the library and booked a flight to Sydney. I will carry on working here but only until Saturday - then I'm packing my bags and heading back to the big city. I've made appointments to view some lovely apartments near the harbour (and, more importantly, near ALDI), and will resume my job hunting in person there. I'm sorry to break my contract with the hostel but I think they've had the benefit of me!

Appropriate or Not?

Today I have compiled a list of appropriate and inappropriate things from my tiny world in Australia.

Inappropriate

Fire Exit

Since moving into this hostel, I've been plagued by the emergency exit sign in my bedroom. Harmless by day, this wired-in non-switch-off-able menace emits a bright green glow that fills every corner of the room with its erie luminations in an effort to prevent any kind of meaninful sleep. My requests to disable it fell on deaf ears: "we legally have to keep it switched on for health and safety".

The best part? It points at a wooden door that's bolted on both sides. A great bet for escaping in the event of fire. Much better than the double patio doors that lead directly outside, just on the other side of the room.


Targeted Advertising

I've been using a popular calorie-counting website to keep track of what I've been eating during my weight loss plan. Of course the website relies on selling advertising space. So what would be an appropriate targeted advert to see on this site, frequented by people trying to lose weight by only eating strictly healthy foods? Perhaps some health-related companies, body-building sites or links to exercise DVDs?

No, this is what I saw when I logged in:

Quality Street and Coca Cola. Just what I want to see.

Appropriate

Remember the Thyme

Yesterday I decided to make a potato, brie and thyme pizza according to this recipe: http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/260616/potato-brie-and-thyme-pizza
I went to the local supermarket to pick up the ingredients and, after having walked up and down each aisle, thought to myself, 'I'm sure there's something I've forgotten'.

I went to queue at the tills. As I stood waiting I noticed the music being played over the the supermarket's sound system: Michael Jackson's 'Remember the Time'. I dashed back to the herb section...

That concludes today's list of appropriate and inappropriate things.

What exactly is 'Balancing Shampoo'?

I've been told off for not posting. So I'm posting. Enjoy!

Where the hell have I been?

I've been in Australia for 8 weeks now, most of it fairly uneventful. I went on a bush walk around Mount Sabine, swam in the ocean and spent a lot of time on the beach. I joined a local yoga group, started a new weightloss plan and did a lot of experimental cooking. I made new friends too - mostly backpackers and students passing through, some staying for a while and some staying in touch after they left. And I've done lots and LOTS of cleaning. Some might say a little too much.

A hearty meal with my fellow hostel cleaners Jen, Birte and Marie

What's next?

Although I'm not spending much money here, I really should be looking to earn some. I considered working on a farm, taking on the 'seasonal work' traditional to backpackers across the world. Tales of sharing a caravan with seven other workers and having to strap your valuables to your body at night to avoid theft really made the idea sound tempting. Even more so the idea of doing eight hours a day back-breaking work for fairly pitiful wages, and only having access to whatever food the employers provide. And if that weren't enough, how about the job openings for 'open-minded females' in the outback?

Despite that gloriously tempting offer, I thought I'd investigate whether Australia would actually like me to stay on under my own terms. It turns out, it would! I can apply for my old 'normal' job here and, all going well, can be sponsored for a permanent workers' visa. Hooray for careers.

So that's where I am now: two interviews done, both for jobs in Sydney, just waiting for their feedback. I've shortlisted five rooms-to-rent on Gumtree and am waiting for that positive contract offer before I start calling the advertisers!

What has any of that got to do with shampoo?

Not a lot. But this gives me the giggles:

Stepping into the shower of a morning...

...and picking up the bottle of Balancing Shampoo.

Life as a Buddhist Monk

OK, I'm not technically Buddhist. Or a monk. In fact I probably wouldn't get the job if I applied for it. But I have this week moved to another part of Australia and found myself in quite a different situation.

A few steps outside the door...

For one thing, I'm staying here. And I mean staying for about three months. Which sounds unbelievable - I've been known to get bored with a place before arriving at it - but actually there's something very calming about taking a break from travelling and settling into some sort of routine for a while. So here it is:

AM

06:00 - wake up, get up and pull on some trousers

06:15 - march down to the beach for a spot of jogging and stretches (okay so I haven't done this yet but there's clear intention!)

07:30 - breakfast at home, check emails

09:30 - start work (as a cleaner)

11:30 - finish work, have a shower and change into clean clothes

12:15 - cook a proper (vegetarian) lunch, wash up

Today's baking effort: egg custard tart

PM

13:00 - get the paints out OR
          - head to the beach for some swimming / surfing OR
          - take a hike around one of the natural beauty spots in the area OR
          - sneak off somewhere quiet and meditate

18:30 - prepare some (vegetarian) supper

19:30 - contemplate, jot in my diary or write a little update on here

21:00 - watch a film in bed, fall asleep (not necessarily chronologically)

It's certainly a departure from life in the campervan... and is it very different from the lifestyle of a Buddhist monk? I live in a hostel and share a room with a fellow backpacker. The accommodation is provided in return for cleaning work - the proprieter doesn't pay me and I don't pay him. The majority of the day is set aside for peaceful persuits in a beautiful setting, and do you know what? I really enjoy the meditation as a way to calm the world down - if you haven't already, try it and see!

Sydney: my insider tips

So, last week I arrived in the city of Sydney, New South Wales. And that doesn't really make me an expert... but I'll still share some of the budget traveller tips that I've collected in case they prove useful to you.

Accommodation

Hotels here are expensive, as you might expect. But there's a range of backpacker hostels in the heart of the city for only $25 a night. If you're in a group of 3-4, consider camping on Cockatoo Island - a quiet retreat in the middle of Sydney Harbour with a free ferry service to the mainland - for $45 split between you.

Cockatoo Island - cool place for camping or a day trip

But for travelling alone, nothing beats couchsurfing.org, especially in Australia where it's widely used. Be sensible - only go to stay with verified people who have a strong network of friends and references on the site - and you'll find that there are incredibly friendly, helpful and trustworthy people out there who can really give you an insider's viewpoint. I was lucky enough on this trip to stay with two different people who I got on really well with and who enjoyed doing the 'tourist thing' with me as well as introducing me to their friends in the area.

Two of my new couchsurfing friends, Hannah and Hassan

Food

Of course restaurants can be really expensive, especially in the top tourist destinations. Every beach has a fish and chip outlet and the city centre is packed full of options. Unfortunately, if you're on foot in the middle of town, buying your own groceries doesn't save a lot - normal supermarkets like Woolworths (not to be confused with the defunct pick-n-mix shop!) really raise their prices to scary levels.

Outside of the main centre, though, there are Aldi stores so grab one when you see it!

And if you're looking for a nice meal out, consider Chinatown - a big Asian migrant population means there are plenty of high-quality restaurants, some at surprisingly low cost. I can heartily recommend a Japanese restaurant called Ramen Kan - it has no proper front door, just a scruffy old elevator to the first floor, making it a really secret spot. Once you're inside, it's casual and comfortable with quick service and a fantastic menu.

Three hungry people, two courses with drinks: $50.35

The good thing about Sydney restaurants is that a very large proportion offers 'bring your own booze', sometimes with a corkage fee. Ramen Kan above, for example, charges $2 per person drinking wine and you can bring as much as you like.

Internet

This has been a real problem... hotels that profess to 'provide WiFi' are actually offering to charge $40 a day for the privilege, and those claiming to 'provide free WiFi' are actually offering a service so restricted that BBC iPlayer thinks you're offline and Facebook spends 17 minutes just trying to display your friend's new profile pic. Even Starbucks issues thirty-minute vouchers if you remember to request it with your drink purchase - if you want more time, you buy another drink.

Apparently broadband is just damned expensive to provide. Those who know how simply nick bandwidth from their neighbours or make use of their office supply, rather than paying extortionate rates for the convenience of having their own provision. But the 3G service has been excellent throughout the city. This means that the trusty Kindle 3G continues to do a great job of keeping in touch for free, and a Lebara visitors' mobile phone package (with no minimum contract length) provides heaps of included data. You can order a SIM before you leave or just pick one up at the airport.

Techy enough for ya? We'll move on...

Transport

There are great public transport connections across the city: ferries (to cross the harbour and visit the beaches), trains and buses. Each has its own ticketing system and I haven't managed to work out how it's priced exactly - it seems to be a fixed cost per 'zone' and there doesn't seem to be any benefit in buying a return.

Unlike London, it is possible to drive and park around Sydney. It can be fun finding a space on a Saturday night but the option is still there.

What I have worked out is that the airport train stations take an extra charge of around $12, making the trains a less cost-effective way to get into the city. You can jump onto shuttle bus services to most hotels for $6 or, if you're heading for the South side of the city or if there are more than 2 of you, just grab a taxi. I know it's counter-intuitive but it's the best option!

Things to see

Well no surprises here: walk around the Circular Quay, past the Opera House and round the bay to get a picture-perfect view. Then walk back through the Botanical Gardens, chatting to the birds on your way. Luna Park is an old 1930s theme park - you can walk around it for free but it's nearly $40 for a day pass on the rides (I skipped that). You can walk across the Harbour Bridge and tour The Rocks (an old housing area with traditional markets) and check out a free exhibition in the museum there - I was lucky enough to catch an Aboriginal demonstration. And of course, you can chill out on one of the many beaches, soaking up sunshine and watching surfers at work.

Compulsary view

The one attraction I did pay for was the Justice and Police Museum, based in an old Police Station. It tells the story of convicts first arriving on Australian shores and how a system of policing was introduced and developed over the next 200 years. I normally try to avoid museums but this one was really interesting and worth the $10 entrance fee. Tip though: go with someone. The place is full of fantastic photo opportunities, such as lying on a wooden 'bed' in an old prison cell, if only you've got a friend to hold the camera up!

Result of putting the camera on 'timer' and wedging it into a crack in the plaster...

In conclusion, I think a week is long enough assuming you're full of energy and keen to get involved. And you can do it very cheaply indeed by focusing on free destinations, staying on people's couches and buying cheap delicious Asian food. Have fun!

Preparing for a new life down under

It's been a long time since my last post and there's a very good reason for that: I've been busy doing nothing interesting.

Yes, it's been a slog of filling out tax information, tidying up paperwork, selling things I no longer need, packing boxes away in the coal cellar and preparing for the next phase of the adventure: a working holiday in Australia.

I won't give too much away now but my flight is on Sunday and I'll be sure to update you with everything that happens from then on.

See ya later!

Some wanker stole my keys

I was very fortunate this week to receive an unexpected offer of a ticket to V Festival in Staffordshire. Never being one to decline an opportunity to camp in a field and watch live music, I packed my one-man hiking tent, negotiated an early Friday finish, picked up the friend who'd so kindly made the offer and drove North.

Not a bad line up

Oh yeah, that's why I don't buy tickets to festivals...

It didn't take long following our arrival for me to be reminded of exactly why I hate going to festivals as a member of the public. We'd both packed light, the majority of our weight being attributed to cider and wine, so we were prepared for a hefty walk from the carpark to the campsite. However, we weren't prepared for an hour and a half of being bundled into a tight crowd of people waiting to have their bags searched in the pitch dark.

Wedged behind a man towing a sledge, which constantly fooled me by disguising itself as 'a place to stand', and alongside an animated man with a camping chair over one shoulder that swiped heavily across my face from time to time, I tried to use a luggage strap tied round my waist to support the weight of my booze-filled carrier bag, the handles of which had been cutting fiercly into my palms.

When we finally emerged on the other side and walked to the nearest campsite, I discovered to my horror that something was missing: my belt. Which sounds trivial until I point out that this is a belt with pockets. And in those pockets were half a packet of paracetamol, some tissues, a battered old iPod and my car key.

My car key.

We pitched our tents and headed straight to the site's Lost and Found to report the missing item, aware that it was unlikely to be spotted in the middle of the night, and finally retired to lie pitched between consciousness and sleep according to the frequency with which young drunkards would shout "ALAN!" as loudly as they could in close proximity to dark tents.

How I've learned to hate you all

Saturday

I awoke in good spirits and took a walk back up to the carpark to retrace my steps of the previous night and look out for the missing items. The pocket belt should have been easy to spot by now but there was no sign of it.

Coming back in through security was a much more pleasant experience thanks to short queues and plenty of daylight - a female security guard tugged at my wristband, noticed I wasn't carrying any bags and allowed me through.

Unfortunatey Lost Property had no news so I bought a cheap waterproof poncho (my rain coat was locked in the car) and headed in to enjoy the festival.

By 5pm, with still no news at Lost Property, I started to get worried. I had to be back at work in Cardiff on Monday - there was no choice about that - so it was time to start thinking about Plan B. I went on another walk to the car park. Perhaps someone found the belt, extracted the iPod thinking it was more valuable than it actually is, and threw my keys into a bush. So this time I did the walk much more slowly, kicking tufts of long grass aside and peering under cars. Still no luck.

This time Security coming back in was completely empty. Knowing the routine, I held my wrist out and offered "give us a tug then!". The young man tugged, then fiddled, then pulled a bit and slid my entire wristband off. I was confused. "Um - don't I need that?", I asked with a frown, but he refused to speak to me, instead calling someone else over.
"We've got another one", he said.
"Excuse me? Another what? Are you trying to suggest that my wristband is anything other than genuine?"
"It's not genuine, darlin'", he sneered, "genuine ones don't do that. This is a fake - where'd you get it?"
"Excuse me" I laughed, shocked, "but genuine ones clearly do do that, because this one has just done it!"
The young chap was not willing to let me through and did not offer any appeals procedure. What could I do besides kick off? I was outraged and made this perfectly clear to him! I insisted on speaking to someone, which happened very quickly when the rest of the security team smelled trouble in my direction. I was grilled: when did I buy the tickets? Where did I get them? Online? "I didn't get them", I explained, "my friend did. But I know for a fact that the ticket was genuine because it's already been scanned and exchanged for a wristband, which I've used to come through security three times so far!".

What would us paying customers do without your assistance?

Eventually they handed me the pieces of my wristband back and said that I would have to visit the wristband exchange tent and find out whether they were willing to refit it. No apology, no verification of my validity or otherwise, just a wave into the festival site with, at that point, no access to the main arena.

I got my new wristband and called the RAC to ask about my car. They were next to useless, offering only to give me the phone number of a locksmith who wouldn't be able to help because my car has a built-in immobiliser and new keys can only be programmed by a main dealer. I checked lost property again. No news. I burst into tears.

The guys at Lost Property, which at V Festival doubles as a welfare tent, took pity on me, giving me tissues and water and listening to my woes. I soon calmed down enough to think rationally about Plan B and to put it into action:

I called the RAC back and proposed that they find a main Mercedes-Smart dealer in the local area and tow my car there the next day when somebody would be there to let them in. They duly found a dealer in Wolverhampton that was 13 miles away and therefore 3 miles outside my membership allowance, so they were happy to do it for a charge of £21. Great. Perfect. No problem. I would meet the towage truck by the carpark entrance at 2pm on Sunday, accompany the car to Wolverhampton, catch a train home and deal with the rest afterwards. I would miss a lot of the festival but by then I didn't care very much.

Sunday

Sunday morning arrived and I decided not to risk leaving the site, just in case Security got overexcited again. I packed up my tent before the rain started, checked at Lost Property (no news) and headed into an on-site internet cafe to shelter for a couple of hours.

At 13:30, to ensure I was there in plenty of time, I took my tent back up to the main car park entrance and hung out with a parking steward.

At 14:05, I phoned the RAC to ask what was going on. "Oh", she said, "well you haven't paid the £21 charge so it hasn't actually been booked."
"What do you mean it hasn't been booked? Can you take the payment now and get someone here now? We're on a deadline - we have to be at the Wolverhampton dealers before they close at four o'clock!"
"I need you to calm down Miss, and when you're ready I can take your card details."
Much as I resented the 'calm down' I played her game and read out my financial information.
"Okay so I'll schedule in a pickup for you and the recovery team will be in touch."
"Do you have any idea about timing? Will they come quickly?"
"I don't have any of that information Miss, as I say you'll get a phonecall..."

To cut a long and frustrating part of the story short, the recovery truck finally arrived at 15:50, otherwise known as 'too late'. I jumped in the passenger side and directed him to my poor little car. The dealership in Wolverhampton tried to call me but the mobile signal was in and out so I'm not sure how much they understood of what went on.

We walked round to the car and pulled off its waterproof cover. Stuck to the windscreen was a Staffordshire Police card with the following message:

KEYS IN POLICE POST

I fell to my knees in the wet grass, much to the shock and dismay of the recovery driver who pulled me up by the elbow. He offered to drive me to the 'Police post' but we only got a limited distance before it was a purely pedestrian route, so I sent him on his way.

I arrived at the on-site Police caravan and presented my new message card with an excited grin. There was a new shift of officers there who started sifting their desk for keys. "No", they said, "none like that here... we're supposed to take everything to Lost and Found anyway".
"Are you sure?", I asked, "they were in a black pocket belt when they were lost - maybe someone found the whole thing? Could it be under those bags in the corner, or hanging under these coats?". The Police gave both a cursory prod and shook their heads.

I checked at Lost and Found. No news.

The Police gave a 'shout out' across their radio network and I went back into the festival to see Tim Minchin. I was glad of the opportunity to do that - he's a genuinely incredibly talented man and his show was extraordinarily good.

"Praise be to magic Woody Allen Jesus"

I came back, still jovial, stating that I was ready to collect my key and go home. One of the police officers was approaching the end of her shift and did not like my attitude one bit. She told me that they had nothing, no keys, and that they wouldn't keep someone's keys anyway. She said that the morning shift had all gone home now and no-one had replied to the shout out. She said that the message on my car probably wasn't even from the Police, that someone must have just found the card somewhere and then stuck it on the car as a joke, and that it was pure coincident that they'd done it to a car for which keys had actually been lost.

I stumbled out of the caravan and fell to my knees again, this time sobbing uncontrollably for the complete incompetence of everyone around me and for pure emotional exhaustion. I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to get back to Cardiff for my last week of work. And it wasn't happening.

I stumbled back to Welfare where I laughed and cried together with the staff I'd come to know so well about the latest stage of the saga. We had a pretty good view of Noel Gallagher's latest band and the Stone Roses so we drank black tea out of polystyrene cups and watched it happen. I called the RAC intermittently to hear their full range of amusing excuses:

- the AA are on site covering anyone who needs assistance (yes but only if you pay them to become a member - as an RAC member I need to call you)
- the AA are actually stopping any other recovery vehicle from coming on site (no they're not, in fact your guy was here with me earlier)
- if the Police have your keys then they count as 'found' so we can't come out to you (there's no way you can call my keys 'found' until I have, er, found them)
- the job has been closed so we have to open a new one (what the hell significance is that to me?)
- we have to recover your car tonight otherwise if you want it to tomorrow you'll have to call again and open a new job (again, so what?)
- you need to pay £21 for the extra three miles of towage (I've already paid it - can you not just use the same money again?)
- (in answer to "so you're proposing to leave my unlocked car in a public carpark overnight and leave me in a strange town after the trains have stopped running?") Our responsibility is to recover your vehicle, how you get home is up to you"
- no, we can't recover it when the dealership is actually open because you'll be at work in Cardiff and we can only recover a vehicle if the member is present with it

I finally gave up and sloped back up the hill to the Police caravan. I offered a hopeful smile and got a sad shake of the head in return, so I slumped and casually relayed how useless the RAC were being. Bless them, the officers then set to work to help me - one had a friend who works for RAC so she started a text conversation to get the inside scoop while another got onto good old Google. I stared blankly into space while they discussed options including taking the car to their Police compound to keep it secure until I could get back.

As I leaned my weary head and stared my eye was caught... inside the Police caravan was a desk. One of the officers was sat behind the desk and behind her... in the corner... don't I recognise those buttons?

I lept up and interrupted the three of them mid-sentence, "excuse me but what is that? There, in the corner, behind you."
"What, this thing? Dunno, it's been here since Friday night..."

She lifted my pocket belt up and handed it over. I grabbed the pockets and felt that they were full. I unzipped one to see my iPod and earphones. I unzipped another and pulled out my car key.

My car key.

There was stunned silence in the caravan. What was there to say? I thanked them and left. My next stop was Lost and Found to show them, which caused much joy amongst the staff who'd watched me go slowly insane over the course of the weekend. But they were also extremely upset on my behalf with whichever policeman had chucked it in the corner there without telling anyone, so they gave me a contact card to submit a complaint. I didn't really care, I was still stroking and kissing my car key.

Have you ever seen a more beautiful thing?

I picked up my tent yet again and strode on up to the carpark, keen to escape before the Stone Roses finished playing. I drove home.

That was my V Festival experience.

Resisting the Lure of Cats

This girl says it all really. Except the bit about bow ties. That's a bit weird.

But what is this obsession with cats? It seems to run in the family - certainly my sister and I have both ended up with it. Grandad was always a cat's best friend, our Aunt Tracy has had at least seven feline furballs at a time and Uncle Frank describes himself as 'dotty about cats'. I grew up with a fat moggy called, er, Moggy whose eventual demise upset my mother so much that she refused to ever form another feline bond.

I so enjoyed living with Tufter, the daft old cat who shared my home until his disappearence early in this blog. I was perfectly happy to just provide him with a warm spot on the sofa and sit next to his sleeping (occasionally snoring) little body. And now that he's gone, I leave the back door open whenever I'm home just in case the neighbours' cats fancy popping round.

Tufter in his usual repose

Cats are like the cuckoos of the mammal world. They simulate human babies by mimicking the pitch of their cry and by using their body language to suggest dependence, love and affection. And they've evolved to do this because, falling for it every time, we soppy old humans will provide them with free food and shelter for the whole of their lives. It's manipulation pure and simple, a drain on our resources, a parasite.

And you'd have thought that the modern astute person armed with this knowledge would kick the cuckoo out of the nest, but no. We still fall for it. I am not broody, I have no desire to partner up and have babies (and a good job too - it would put quite a kink in my travel plans), but I do feel that little tugging need to settle down somewhere comfortable and acquire cats.

Who can explain how to get over this?

Office Politics and Tea

I'm typing this as I sit here desperate for a cup of tea. Something hot, wet, delicious and ever-so-slightly stimulating while I tap away at my keyboard and click my mouse. There's a kettle just through that door over there. Mugs too. I've even brought my own tea bags in.

So why can't I just go and make one?

Well, it turns out this is the sort of office where anyone going into the kitchen to make a cuppa also goes round all of their colleagues' desks offering to make them one too. It presumably began when there was just a small team of developers huddled in a poky office above a bar but the obligation has lasted through the growth and expansion of the company - now there are more than thirty desks on this floor alone.

The thing is, in theory the system should be a good one. You would need to make only every twentieth cup of tea, with the intermittent nineteen being brought to your desk free of any personal effort. Sounds great, right?

No. It's not what I want. No-one makes a cup of tea the way that you make your own. You know exactly how long to keep the tea bag in the water, how much milk and sugar to add and the correct order to do it all in. You know whether you have to wait for the kettle to fully boil and whether to pour it immediately afterwards (that's a 'yes' to both in case you don't).

And the most vital reason why I don't want a cup of tea brought to my desk is this: we spend upwards of eight hours a day staring at computer screens. We already know that doing so is bad for our long-term vision but more recent studies have also shown that it can confuse your brain too by affecting production of natural chemicals like melatonin and seratonin. It just not good for you! So I don't just want to drink tea, I want to step away from my laptop, walk into a different room and stand there for at least ten minutes while I make it. I'd stand up, stretch my legs, stare at a dark wall and breathe.

So I opt out of the system. Every time someone offers me a drink, I politely decline.

But I still can't boil that kettle over there without eyes boring into the back of my head, eyes of the desk-constrained awaiting their turn for a free tea. Because I can't tell them I'm 'opting out', can I? It would be selfish, anti-social, billigerant...

It looks like I'll have to wait until I get home.

I can still be a tourist!

Well I've been back for twelve days now and it feels like forever. The sky doesn't seem willing to stay up where it belongs, instead constantly pushing down grey clouds and wet spatterings, I've got allergic rashes from all the pollution and everyone's grumpy. It's like a darker, colder, less healthy Belgium. But we have to find happy things wherever we go, don't we?


Stimulating debates

I always wanted to join the debating team at school but it clashed with drama group and so was set aside. There's nothing more invigorating than a flat-out argument with someone who's wrong! That's why I've so enjoyed this week's fights with:

 - The Barclays staff who refused to give me my own money after a half hour queue, because I happened to mention that my debit card was in another country.

- The London transport system that made me tap into a train station, wait fifteen minutes for my platform to be allocated, then forced me to tap back out to get to the required platform by which time I'd been fined £10 for failing to travel anywhere, meaning I had to run to a nearby shop and top up my Oyster card again in the three minutes prior to the train leaving.

- Virgin Media (yes, again) for my internet being down for five days, which wouldn't have been so bad if they hadn't kept saying "it'll be back on in the morning".

- Admiral Insurance who called to say that they forgot to mention: yes, Cecil is insured to be in France, but only until 7th August after which he'll be legally compliant but not in fact covered for any damage costs to himself. But don't panic - an hour later they called again to say they'd gotten their facts wrong and that he is covered after all.

Aah, Britain's customer service personnel, how I've missed you!

Touring London


This year more than any other, London is a hot global tourist destination. And I was lucky enough to be sent there to work for a week. Lucky me! I took a photo of St Paul's Cathedral in the rain to demonstrate what fun I had.

There can never be too many kittens

But at the end of the week, when the work is done, the hair shaken down and the heels kicked off, there's one genuine joy. Remember the little black kitten I told you about? Well she's back and she's brought a friend! Two curious, friendly, sweet wee cats with matching white bibs. I don't know their real names so I call them Cutey and Skinny Face (Skinny Face is a bit more wary than her sister).

"Oi! Get that camera outta me face..."

Back to the 'Diff

I promised to continue the blog despite putting the travel on hold for a few weeks. So here's a little update for ya.

Power dressing

I had a slight panic as I flew back to Cardiff; would I have anything to wear? I remembered selling a lot of my clothes and for the last four months I'd worn nothing but hiking gear and flowing cotton... if I still owned office attire I didn't know whether it would still fit. Thankfully I arrived back to a rail full of smart dresses and appropriate shoes, so I donned a Karen Millen number with medium-heeled court shoes for my first day.

How could something so pretty hurt so much?

Well that was a painful day! Apparently all this wandering about in super comfortable walking boots has robbed me of my ability to gracefully trip through the town in stilettos - for the first time in my life my legs are the wrong shape. I bought a pair of insoles from Clarks which helped a little but still my calves ached and the balls of my feet felt shredded, even into the next day. It looks like I'm going to need more practice!

Working

I won't say too much about the work I'm doing, mostly because it's not that interesting, but I can tell you that it's no fun being back in an office after such a fulfilling adventure. The people there seem lovely and the location is perfect, but I'm still staring at a computer screen all day long. And my day is forcibly structured - get up at 7, walk to the bus station at 8, spend exactly one hour having lunch... this is not natural, people! Worst of all, I keep thinking. My brain is used to being free to ponder and meditate on a subject of its own choosing and it won't be reigned down again. Working on complicated website stuff is made much more difficult when your imagination keeps drifting off into post-apocalyptic survivalism and flying goats. Sigh.

I don't have a touchtone phone

Before this adventure had started, I'd noticed that one of the scart sockets at the back of the Virgin cable TV box was broken. I hadn't have time to see to it before I went and neither of my current housemates bother watching television so it wasn't an issue. This week I decided to call the media company and get it sorted - a tick for the 'to do' list. After all, it can't be that difficult to just call them up and report the breakage, right? Check out a transcript of my 1hr and 21 minute phonecall.

Tufter II

Last night I had a somewhat surreal experience as I arrived home after catching up with my good friends in the drama group. I stepped out of the taxi and was greeted by a young black cat who fixed me with round green eyes and trotted over with a small miaow.

My pen drawing of a young Tufter

She was actually a short-haired female with a white bib but her personality was so like old Tufter's! She was instantly affectionate, quite happy to be picked up and sat on my shoulder, and incredibly keen to come inside the house (which i didn't allow). I quizzed some of the neighbours and found out who she belongs to - a lady just across the road from me. Hopefully we'll see much more of this little fuzz ball!

A Town in Three Countries

My final weekend of the European tour was spent in the City of Basel, Switzerland. With a little time spent in Basel, Germany. All with a fine view of Basel, France.

I was here to meet Jenny, an old school friend who now lives here with her German fiance Bjoern. With SatNav's help I negotiated the one way system but we still had the challenge of parking Cecil. Jenny and Bjoern hopped in outside their flat and we drove around the quarter on the lookout for any empty space marked in white (not blue) that was large enough to parallel park in. After around fifteen minutes we found an end-of-the-row. To my surprise there was a cream Late Bay with its hazard lights on across the road! But there was no time to take any pictures - we found our way neatly into the space and switched off the engine with relief.

The first evening consisted of dinner, fine wine, gossip and an early night since we'd all had long and tiring weeks to recover from.

Lots of Friends

It was difficult to miss the concentration of VW buses in this place. Having not seen another T2 in all my time in France, I saw 5 within a day here in Switzerland - four late bays and one early bay - plus countless T3s and T4s. I don't know why. But Cecil felt quite at home.

Just one of our new friends

Wave at the Animals

On yet another hot, sunny day, we took a long walk across the city (and across a country border) to a public animal park. Many of the animals, particularly those of a cat persuasion, were sensibly hidden in the shade but there were plenty of large birds including herons and storks perched on distinctive high up nests. Peacocks and peahens skipped away from small children on the paths and occasionally peered into the monkey enclosure looking charactistically grumpy.

Baby storks, not yet strong enough to leave the nest

Drowning in the Rhine

Jenny confided in me that 'Rhine swimming' was her very favourite thing to do, and that we should partake that afternoon to cool down from our sweaty hike. I agreed, imaging splashing about on a little stoney beach somewhere, and we changed into our swimming costumes.

It wasn't until I was chest deep in the river water that I understood what we were actually doing. 'Rhine swimming' consists of packing your gear into a waterproof bag, swimming out to the middle of the Rhine, and then trying to stay safely a float while the undefeatably strong current thrusts you downstream at a rate of several knots. It's important to avoid being flung into any obstacles along the way, such as moored boats or marker bouys. Then, approximately 2km later, you paddle desperately back to the side and grab a ladder in the wall with which to make an exit.

An exciting and frugal way to see the city

I took my waterproof camera again - there are still more photos to take before I can develop the film though!

Switzerland falls down

Once we'd showered, changed and eaten Jenny's fabulous home cooking, we wandered into the City centre for a tour of its sights and a beer on a busy high street that buzzed with every variety of human being. We ambled home and reentered the flat within seconds of a mighty hail and thunder storm, which we then enjoyed from the covered balcony with a cup of hot tea.

It's Art

The rain continued throughout Sunday so we hopped on a bus to the Tanguely museum to enjoy its range of 'machine art'. This local artist focused on putting together bizarre combinations of objects and then making them move in interesting ways. One particular piece included musical instruments to add an eerie sound dimension and another was large enough to enter and walk around. Frustratingly for us visitors, the machines were only allowed to be turned on infrequently so that they wouldn't wear out... there seemed to be a group of excitable children constantly ahead of us turning the sculptures on so that they were immobile by the time we arrived.

Exploring the art

The afternoon was spent back at the flat playing Carcassonne, a highly addictive board game, with a fourth friend of Bjoern's and enjoying a traditional Swiss fondue with some surprisingly drinkable English white wine.

A healthy meal

The end of the Adventure

... Or this leg of the adventure, anyway. I said a sad farewell on Monday and drove back South into France. Cecil was cleaned and aired and left in a sunny airport while I flew back to the grey and drizzly UK for work. Now my task is to get through my contract as quickly and efficiently as possible so that I can return and squeeze just a little more Europe in...

Emily sells out

Cheese, Watches and Yodelling

After a brief stop over in Grenobles, Cecil and I finally entered Switzerland this week and camped in a small village marina on Lake Geneva. We had one day of gentle rain, an opportunity to rest, recuperate and carry out house hold (or bus hold) chores. The next day the sun re-emerged and I took to the lakeside paths.

The village of Cully seems to have been set up purely as a rest stop for tourists. The marina here, which has a hard stand for campervans, is flanked by restaurants and bars, plus a grassy area with steps down into the lake for swimming. And that's it.

View of the campsite from the lake. He is there - look harder.

As I walked on past these in hope of something more (for starters I hadn't yet found a cash machine and was in dire need of Swiss Francs), I stumbled upon a train station and took the easy route to nearby city Lausanne. It was instantly noticeable how much more 'with it' this area was than anywhere I'd been in France... there were electric buses running up and down the streets using overhead contact wires, shops open right the way through the day, and the first restaurant menu I looked at included a vegetarian option with tofu!

Beetle boats with built-in water slides! How awesome is that?

I found a cheap cafe by the water for lunch and booked an afternoon cruise on a steam boat that would, in three hours, give me tour of the East side of the lake and drop me off back at my little marina. Most handy.

Betraying my mission...

It was whilst preparing to board the boat that I had a call from Cardiff. A job offer. It's only temporary! But I'm to fly back to the UK and start next Wednesday, finishing some time before the end of August. I know it's the boring thing to do and trust me I'm heartbroken to stop the adventure just as we were really making sound progress, but the money will help a lot and I'll have a chance to deal with some of the things that have slipped at home, such as finding a new lodger and selling my little car. It also sort of saves me from the 'high season' down here.

I'm still heading to North Switzerland to see my friend this weekend and then travelling back to France for the flight home (the airport parking is much cheaper there).

The boat where it all happened...

Anyway, I will continue to update the blog... I may even pop back to Europe for a long weekend... but the next big adventure will be the drive home. Then of course it will be Bestival and on to Australia! This is certainly not the end.