Nature Does Christmas

It’s hot. Thirty degrees when I got up at seven this morning and windy. Everyone has been telling me that I should go and see the Christmas lights on The Boulevard, seeing as it is just around the corner. Last night then we headed out after dark hoping it might have cooled down a fraction but unfortunately not and joined the throng on the Christmas twinkle trail.

There were not as many houses lit up as on Franklin Road in Auckland but those that entered the spirit were definitely visible from space. I swear that it must have been a degree hotter on this stretch of road than elsewhere in Melbourne due to the radiation of millions of tiny twinkle lights and the greenhouse gases spewing from the snake of cars inching along the street.

“Are the lights worth it?” someone leaned out of a car going nowhere in the jam to ask me.

“Well yes they are worth a walk.”

And I thought people might be having an eco-Christmas this year but no they still went for the showy lights and tacky themes that I half expected to see the Virgin birth in animated lights watched by Rudolph the Red Nosed Pug dog and the three wise possums – “ooh a star, let’s follow the light.”

To me though, nature won the prize last night for being the most festive. A lone cicada serenaded the gathering buzzing a monotonous Christmas song and the brown moths illuminated fluttering in the light of the streetlamps took the prize over the twinkling Las Vegas lights.

Have I mentioned it’s hot? Thoughts of snow, sleigh bells and chestnuts roasting couldn’t be further from my mind. Apparently the fish shops are doing a roaring trade today. Shrimps to throw on the barbie will be heard sizzling tomorrow no doubt and that crack you hear is not a Christmas cracker but the spine of a tasty crustacean. This is Christmas in Australia.

A Batswing and Bottlebrush Christmas

Last night, in the balmy glow of a twilight warmed by a day of cloudless blue, I witnessed an incredible sight. Hundreds of black shapes took to the sky's fading light in elegant leisurely wing. I watched in awe as they soared above the trees on the banks of the Yarra River. The Yarra Boulevard is a popular drive the road twisting and wending its way up hill through a bushy park. It boasts some of the city's biggest mansions, overlooking stunning views and yet these millionaires share their park with the humble darkness creatures of black nightmares. Bats. The captivating display of winged symphony I was watching was hundreds of bats, trained to relocate their home from the Botanic Gardens where they were stripping trees bare, to the Yarra Parklands. And they are quite simply beautiful in flight. I'm not saying that I'm keen to meet one close up but then I dare say that they think the same was about me, freaky human that I am. In the sky however, sweeping overhead, I can appreciate how exotically awesome they are.

This has become my new reality adapting to life in a strange land with insects, creatures and weather phenomena my sheltered previous existence has only read about and promptly blocked out in terror. A storm in Melbourne is not done by half measures either. The other day the temperature climbed with the promised liquid blessing predicted to follow and eagerly anticipated. It held off till nightfall when sitting in the living room with the door open letting in the evening cool the atmospheric tension broke and the deluge descended.

Through the screen door I watched the air crackle with electricity cutting the night like a knife. With so much usual dry a storm sweeps through with spectacular display of sheet lightning and long, low rumbles of thunder. The rain hits at the end of the light show, hard and heavy for just a few minutes. The next moment it is all over and the temperature has cooled, the air is light and smells of fragrant tropical flowers. This is a bacteria I am told, triggered by the rain into releasing a lovely floral scent.

And speaking of flowers, the Bottlebrush and Wattle bush are in bloom as I hanker for the brilliant red of the Pohutukawa, in season at home for a Kiwi Christmas. The Aussie Christmas decorations are up in Melbourne City though not many houses around town have outdoor themed light displays, a sign maybe of people concerned about conservation. Even the big tree in Cathedral Square is not ostentatiously lit and the stars across the main streets are designed to reflect light rather than requiring power to shine. We are having a subdued eco-Christmas this year. The splash of red on the Bottlebrush reminds me that Christmas is this Friday and it will be the first I spend away from the traditions I have known. It is time for me to make new traditions and I look forward to the opportunity. The holiday season also is approaching and I am looking forward to a few days break. But despite all that, I do miss the Pohutukawa among other things.

The incense of Eucalytpus leaves drying in the sun infusing the warm air with a pervasive healing fragrance has infiltrated my new Christmas memories as has the eardrum piercing drone of giant green cicadas. I know which one I prefer. The birds in the trees are making themselves more known as the summer warms up. Pink Galahs and Crimson Rosellas sing their own carols overhead as they gather to roost while the sun goes down. Wattlebirds are not as pretty or colourful but they have a familiar song. The northern hemisphere images of snow on fir trees and heavy winter dinners of plum pudding and turkey seem even more incongruous in the Australian dry, dust bowl heat. A cold picnic of refreshing sparkling mineral water or a glass of wine, french bread smeared with creamy brie, pear and crisp celery with blue cheese on a blanket under a tree features in my plan for a new tradition. Whatever I do, I will finally this year get to achieve my dream of having a quiet, peaceful Christmas with no rushing about, no over-eating, just a restful holiday from the usual busyness of life and a true sense of goodwill to all man. Merry Christmas everyone.

Welcome to the Apocalyse

There has been much hooplah in the news lately about Australia's lack of leadership with a commitment to the environment as the climate summit at Copenhagen approaches. Brown coal, the exclusion of farming from carbon trading and water catchments that remain painfully dry in a weekend of rare Melbourne downpours have me spreading my arms and welcoming my friends to the apocalyptic weather becoming our reality. Seriously people if you want proof that global warping (no that was not a typo) is happening then come to Australia where spring heat waves are already plunging three states into hellfire.

It's only November, keep that firmly in your mind as you read on. Last February fires devastated the state and Victorians are collectively holding their breath as reports of flames spreading through the Blue Mountains in NSW send shivers down the spines of the population. There's still three longs months stretching between where we currently stand, having just seen two weeks in the mid-30s, and a time looked forward to as, 'over the worst'.

Let me tell you what it is like for a newcomer to experience the start of Melbourne's summer. My first thirty degree day I thought I had stepped into an oven and felt immediate sympathy for roasting chickens. Breathing was a struggle but I was reassured that come fifteen degrees hotter, I would actually continue to breathe it would just seem like my lungs were burning. This, was nothing – yet.

By the next 30+ day about a week later I had already acclimatised to expect air like dragon's breath and surprisingly this time it was not so bad. Dry heat is more bearable than the debilitating humidity I am used to in Auckland. Nothing decays into rot the way it does when you add moisture. It just fossilises into crumbling dust powder. Strange but true however this scary weather continues to astound me almost every day. As the heat wave continues day after day night time can't cool enough to allow the temperature to drop and so the next day starts off hotter than the last already. Twenty degrees at 7.00am rises a further two degrees within the hour. If you do the math the prediction for the day seems frightening.

Imagine if you will midday mercury climbing to thirty-eight, a searing dry heat, eerily still and silent. The next minute a wind sweeps through whipping dust and parchment leaves from the gutters to circle the air. I look up at the noise of what incredibly, sounds like rain and find that it is...followed closely by thunder. The heavens open and bellow dirty rain onto the gasping ground and the temperature instantly drops at least ten degrees. Just astounding! The following morning I blinked several times only to discover that the cataract-like haze before my eyes was in fact a humid cloud clinging to the tops of roofs and tall buildings of the city. By the afternoon it was raining and children splashed joyfully in puddles as their parents watched without censure. It was so rare that passers-by paused to smile. For the first time in months I fell asleep to the sound of rain rather than an oscillating fan by the bed. During the night I heard its familiar lull and in the morning the sky was darker than usual because it..was..still..raining. The radio DJ's children have never seen what she terms “old-fashioned rain”, rain that reminded her for childhood downpours lasting days. They are too young to know what I take for granted. Tomorrow's generation is already forgetting or worse, oblivious to the joy of water.

It's drier than I ever imagined here and this is the city, it's not the Outback cliché of the movies. Driving between Melbourne and Wagga Wagga the other weekend I witnessed more shame. Lake Eildon, famed site of Bonnie Doon in the iconic film “The Castle”, is so dry that not even a trickle flows under the bridge that used to span one of the major water supplies to the Goulburn Valley. In the movie they fish and blat about on speed boats on Lake Eildon. Today you can drive your car off the long concrete boat ramp straight into the hollow should be under water. A rabbit dashes in front of the car. The city rain has just stopped after two days of consistent falling and the 6 o'clock news describes it as torrential. Okay so it was steady but nowhere near that exaggeration. Have Victorians really forgotten what torrential looks like? Still we bless the rains down in Victoria until the weather reporter shakes his head answering the question on everyone's lips at the slightest spattering. Despite flooding in parts of the city, a city so unused to water that it has forgotten how to cope with more than a millimetre, it failed to raise the total catchment capacity above its current 38%. The best the weatherman could offer was that the addition has postponed the lake levels dropping further for a couple of days. Clearly they are in the wrong place to benefit from the preciously sparse rainfall and yet the solution offered by authorities is not to build more or shift the catchments but to de-salinate the bay! And what is the response? Blame it on the weatherman.

They Must Be Giants

I have come not to the Land not of Oz but of Lilliputt where I feel dwarfed by the insects. I kid ye not, the creepy crawlies in this town are Big Mothers and the folk ‘round these parts simply shrug at my squeamishness and say, “just be grateful you ain’t in Queensland darl. That’s where the real nasty buggers hang out.” Oh gee, thanks for the reassuring comfort.

Met me a Red Back spider the other day and while it didn’t look all that large, I hear that they are sneaky sods and – yeah reasonably poisonous. I mean, apparently they won’t kill ya, not unless you are a cat or allergic to them but still, a nip from one of these purdy critters will I’m told, make you mighty sick for a few days.

The harmless arachnid type that I did meet not that long ago was a Huntsman. Well two actually. The first was just a baby but in my mind it was still big to eat a hamster. Now, I am arachnophobic but I can handle the creepy crawlie as long as I can trap it in a glass and release it into the wild where let’s face it, it belonged in the first place! So this ‘baby’, yeah it technically came under that heading. Its big brother, rudely not formally introduced to me in the toilet one morning not so long after was a different story. The size of my fist I’m looking at it looking back at me with multiple beady eyes and my mind starts screaming…I don’t have a glass big enough for this one. If I’d met Big Daddy I’m assured, a pint beer glass would not have contained the body let alone the legs jammed under the rim. But they are harmless friendly spiders. Yeah right! They can scare small children with a cocky three-eyed wink but they will not kill ya.

Ants…twice the size of Kiwi cousins and the bigguns will nip you if you let ‘em. Beetles…big as bottle tops or a fifty cent piece without the bevelled edges. Cicadas…I haven’t actually seen one but I’ve heard them in the trees and they sound like they would definitely get stuck in a bird’s throat. Maybe that explains the mean look in the raven’s eye and the squawking caw they make. All in all, a land of giants.

That's Entertainment

There's been a few festivals on lately and as is my habit, I went to some of the offerings. This year however, rather than making my choice based on reading the programme with price at the forefront (I was economising last year), my selection was made on Triple R interviews. Yes folks, I am a supporter of the Melbourne community radio station Triple R and it is the most fabulous thing since sliced bread as far as I am concerned. My morning begins with the Breakfasters gently shaking me awake before the real alarm barks at me to stop lazing around and get up. Saturday morning eases into activity with the eclectic mix of music on Vital Bits and Sunday lazes around till midday with information by osmosis on Radio Marinara, Radio Therapy and Einstein A-go-go. Thanks to The Breakfasters too I can while away a rather dull double train ride with information of things to fill my spare time and enrich my life, like...

Philip Escoffey's Six Impossible Things Before Dinner at the Melbourne Fringe Festival. It was very entertaining I have to say and just the ticket to cheer us up in a trying week of freezing cold and no electrons in the house. It's a long story but the power accidentally got cut off in the coldest week of Spring. Anyway, Philip Escoffey does not claim to read minds but he does do some pretty wicked tricks that suggest to his audience he does. And I was one of the audience members to have my mind read...well sort of, it was a trick after all because if he had been reading my mind, he would have seen only blank space between these blonde ears. It was however very entertaining and clever and his show gets my recommendation.

Second Triple R recommendation for something to do on a Sunday night was Mal Webb and Adam Page's musical gymnastics with loopback machines and more instruments than two people should be able to play in a million years. Yes, these two were completely, spontaneously impressive on trombone, saxophone, paper fan, nose flute and tin whistle to name but a few. Mal's vocal ability with sound effects was also pretty impressive as they jammed for two and a half hours. Mal's songs too were very funny and acrobatic with words.

Triple R also offered a Black Cab performance in their performance space which as a new subscriber, I was welcome to on my own merits rather than as an invited plus one. Yay, for my Radiothon inspired subscription.

On Sunday afternoon Lauren and I wandered down to Federation Square for a dose of Melbourne Arts Festival with Living Room on the big screen. It featured photos people had sent in of them at home in their living spaces. It was pretty cool to recognise all the neighbourhoods featured now that I am a local and I thought that my living room photo could easily have featured alongside the rest. My living room would have fitted in perfectly.

The big show of the week however was Debbie and me going to 'Chicago' at Her Majesty's Theatre. I was captivated. It was a truly great show, better than Wicked and all it had was one set and one costume each. Pretty low budget on effects but it made up for it with big voices and big acting to keep me spellbound. All in all, well worthwhile arty couple of weeks.

Things that sneak up on you

I met my first unfriendly Aussie the other morning. A Huntsman spider stalked me from the corner of the ceiling in the kitchen. It was black and all legs, as big as the average Avondale arachnid.

“Ah, there's a big black thing in the kitchen. Do something,” I commanded Roger.

“Like what? It's a spider,” he answered inexplicably nonchalantly.

Yes, that's right, it is a spider and that should be enough don't you think? He was showing a distinct lack of seriousness for the situation I thought so I reluctantly spelled it out.

“Like get rid of it. I don't care how, I don't like spiders.”

The unspoken look on his face indicated that he thought I was in the wrong country then but humouring me he went into the kitchen to check it out.

“Oh it's only a baby,” I heard his disembodied voice announce and considered his joke to be in very poor taste.

“Well it's bigger than I've ever seen. I'm from New Zealand, we don't have beasts that can eat you in one swallow.”

What happened next made me squeal like a girl's blouse. He picked it up in his hand and let it sit on his arm while walking the thing to the door. Eee-yew.

“No seriously it's just a baby,” he said as cool as a cucumber icy pole. “Wait till you see what it grows up to be.”

“Ah, yeah, I'm good with not thank you.”

A few days later I spotted a book in the library called 'Melbourne's Wildlife'. Melbourne mind, not Victoria, not Australia's wildlife – just Melbourne and it was still the size and thickness of the complete Oxford dictionary! I look up Huntsman because I had a ghoulish curiosity. Yep, pretty frigging huge, Roger was not joking.

“Of course,” remarked my Queensland colleague. “They get bigger than that in Brisbane.”

Placing her fingers and thumbs together to make a circle she showed me a shape the size of, oh – I'm thinking a hamster! Remembering the comment of the old guy on Brighton Beach about it being too cold in Melbourne for most beasts, I knew there was a reason I chose Victoria over Queensland, the most deadliest place on the planet it would seem. Queensland boasts one of the only two animals in the world to hunt humans for fun. That would be the 'Salty' or saltwater crocodile. The other is a polar bear but thankfully Melbourne is not quite cold enough to attract them either.

Anyway back to my friend the Huntsman spider because the story doesn't end there. Saturday morning, bleary-eyed, grumbling about having to get up at 7.00am, I stagger into the toilet. It's a gloomy day so I turn on the light and as I look up – Ah! Harry the Huntsman's big brother Everett (as in Peter 'Spider' Everett the local sportsman) is looking down at me. Little Harry was more like Dirty Harry setting his older, hairier sibling on to me. Well I was not feeling very lucky punk so yet again Rog the disposal expert is called in only this time I'm not prepared to watch him bare-hand the beermat sized creature. I retreat to the bathroom to shower away my shattered nerves, making sure of course that I check every ceiling crevice first.

Far out, I'm still having palpitations thinking about the thing. The good news – they are apparently friendly spiders by comparison. Comparison to what!?! Black Widows? Darth Vadar? But yes it's true, the Huntsman is not a venomous arachnid and they don't nest, hunt in packs or curl up in shoes, clothes or bedding, unlike the White Tail, Funnel Web or Red Back. Except that they are all Australian crawlies too! Huntsmen, or so I am reassured and I hope that they're not just being kind, only like to hang out in ceiling corners so while they can be pretty much the size of small rodents, they don't come near humans much.

In fact Harry and Everett were as scared of me as I was of them - apparently. So while I'm screaming at Harry, Harry was not taking any of his eight beady eyes off me in terrified fear that he might lose track of the human and not know which part of the house I might be lurking in. “Ah, a girl,” would no doubt have been the shaky words on his fangs if a spider's mandibles had the ability to form words. Okay look I'm trying but Roger's advice to shake my irrational fear by thinking of the poor spider and giving is a name to become it's friend is just not working when every time I close my eyes I see an image of it having four times as many eyes and legs as me. I don't think Harry, Everett and I will ever be enjoying tea together unfortunately but if this beast meeting carries on, I might have to see a therapist.

Oh and by the way, book on 'Melbourne's Wildlife'. I don't care if you decide to call it a 'legless lizard', I'm afraid it's still a goddam snake.

Doggies canned in Pies

Well, here we are again nearing the end of another AFL season, the Grand Final looming next weekend. It's a menagerie fight between Cats and Dogs over a bunch of Magpies and Crows it would seem with Geelong, Collingwood, St Kilda and Footscray the prominent teams hanging in there in the finals. Oh, and the Adelaide crows are there too but we don't talk much about them 'cos they are not a Victorian team. It seems that there are still the diehards that believe the uniquely strange game that started as the VFL (Victorian Football League) should never have gone national. They take comfort in the knowledge that the Sydney Swans migrated from South Melbourne and that Brisbane's team is Fitzroy in disguise. I know diddly-squat about footy but I can't help overhearing the passionate conversations. Even those who support other sports as far removed as motorsport and yachting still know the names of the Victorian teams at the very least. It's a Melbourne thing and you can't call yourself a true local until you know a war cry or two.

I once asked why Australians couldn't just play rugby like everyone else and be happy with international competitions. The indignant answer came back; “we had to have an identity, a sport that belongs just to us. The U.S. has grid iron, there's Pacific Cricket and Canada is pretty much the only country to go nuts over ice hockey. Ergo we invent a wacky way to play football so that it will be neither soccer football nor rugby football. And it shall be known hence forth as footy.”

So how do you support footy? Well apparently you pick a team based not on form but on prejudice. You are completely within your rights to pledge allegiance using whatever criteria you wish as long as once pledged, you are a supporter for life. There's no option to change without very scary things happening to you. Your choice might have been based on lineage, who your father, grandfather, etc supported. It might have been a whimsical youthful rebellion against afore mentioned paternal influence. It might have been a team chosen in direct opposition to your husband just to piss him off and create healthy competition within the marriage. Support divides families when Mum and Dad barrack for different teams. Parent's openly vie with bribery and corruption for their children's loyalty. It's important to catch 'em while they are young and impressionable because remember, membership is FOR LIFE!

So if you are a team and your supporters have nothing to do with playing form, the idea is to get yourself a raucously wicked war cry that will attract the masses. Hence “Go the Doggies” for the Western Bulldogs and “Carn the Pies” to mimic the call of the Collingwood Magpies. This team would better get my allegiance if said pies were actually handed out free at games but apparently it's not what the cry means. That's all it takes apparently, a cry that sounds fantastic when bellowed at the top of cigarette graveled lungs.

So who does this fresh blood new Melbourne immigrant barrack for? Well I give as much toss about it as I do the back end of a rat which means that my allegiance is up for grabs based purely on the best pie deal. Yes that is correct, I am corruptible and my support is for sale. But remember folks, I'm a vego and have yet to be offered a really good, innovative pastry meal so you will need a sophisticated pie offer to tempt me to your team.

Train of thought

There are of course times when public transportation can raise a smile or our sense of community spirit to the best of humanity. Sitting on a Craigieburn train one day (not in any particular hurry so therefore not stressed), it came to a halt. There we remained, trapped so to speak in our capsule, unable to get off, unable to get on with things. It was a nice day, the train was not full so the feeling of claustrophobia was nowhere in my sight. I was simply resigned to waiting...as were the other passengers obviously.

Two minutes...five minutes...ten...and an announcement from a less than impressed weary train driver...”I'm sorry passengers it would appear that there is only one platform in operation at North Melbourne Station today and that every other train in the city is being allowed on ahead of us. I do apologise.” I looked at the girl opposite me who had looked up from her mobile phone at the sound of the disembodied voice and our eyes met in mutual amusement. Even train drivers have bad days.

My regular line has been subjected to dastardly track works. This means that anyone leaving the city after 7.30pm gets off-loaded at Clifton Hill and squashed on to a connecting bus. This adds its own special adventure to the journey. It's pitch black outside the bus and there are so many bodies crammed on that you couldn't see where you are even if you had night vision goggles. Intelligent drivers then who announce the stations so you don't have to count them off on the unfamiliar road trip, are really appreciated. One such journey where the stops were not being announced led to confusion and subsequent uprising. One passenger started loudly announcing the stations for the driver. We had a very nervous old Japanese man with a bicycle sharing the bus who was anxious not to miss his stop. Why he didn't ride his bike instead of adding it to the cramped space was beyond me but no one seemed that fussed by the inconvenience of accommodating it. This is what I mean about the best of humanity. Take us off the impersonal train and we become people again, able to talk to and help each other out. People talk on the trams and buses, it just seems to be trains that turns us into ice sculptures.

On another bus replacement night we passengers were left standing in the freezing cold, stormy dark waiting for a late connection. Did we grumble? Did we complain? No, we chatted and got to know each other. We stamped our feet to keep warm and compared climates from our originating homes. We reminisced about holidays in the sun. We laughed and made the time pass quickly by betting on which one of us would not last and opt for the gathering taxis. “Ah, where's your balls mate, are you man or mouse?” to the businessman opting out and heading for the cab. You meet some nice people at the bus stop. You meet no one on the train.

Points however for the funniest announcement I've heard so far goes to the driver watching over the cctv, a smart arse school boy force the doors and leap on at the last minute as the train started to pull away. “Would the passenger who just forced the door please note that this is a very dangerous practise. Falling between the train and track could cause death and at the very least the rest of us wouldn't enjoy watching you lose a leg. So don't be an idiot.”

Train of Fools

I am often gobsmacked at the behaviour on the trains I am now travelling as a big city commuter. I'm certainly not in Kansas any more l'il girl. My lines are mostly Glen Waverley and Hurstbridge and occasionally Pakenham and Craigieburn. While the lyrical names of the passing suburbs never ceases to bring a smile to my face, and the now familiar beauty of the scenery pleases my soul, the interior of the carriages often disturbs. Sarah once had a whole day ruined by sitting on a piece of chewing gum stuck to a tram seat and at the time I laughed. Who's laughing now though, certainly not me. Eating and making a mess in the enclosed space of public transport is commonplace and disgusting. Call me old fashioned but I believe that there should still be places in this world where it is not culturally acceptable to eat. Have we become so dependent on food that we cannot wait twenty minutes or so to stuff our faces? Or do we need to slow our lives down to allow time to eat properly? It can't be good for anyone's system to scoff stinky fast food from a paper bag on a jiggling train. I know it's not good for mine to witness it.

But it's not necessarily the state of the trains I am talking about here though they are not obviously pleasant but the way the passengers treat each other and their temporary environment. Here's a tip, don't even think about catching a train on a Saturday afternoon around the time of an AFL game unless you like the smell of vomit or watching a trail of piss slowly trickle down the aisle towards your feet. I kid ye not, I got on a full-ish train once and wondered why there were some empty seats up one end. Discovered why when the smell reached my nostrils. The 20mins to Ivanhoe never went so slowly. Mind you, yours truly has been guilty of having a discreet puke into a library membership bag when a migraine struck on my first day at work. Trapped on a train knowing that I would be better getting to somewhere I could safely pass out rather than get off in the middle of nowhere , there was no stopping the chuck when it knocked at the door. Hoo-boy the motion of the not so smooth tracks did not help much.

Anyway, in the morning between Hurstbridge and the city a full train is expected. Apart from the lovely names of the suburbs, it is by far the worst line. They desperately need more trains running because the Epping and Hurstbridge services share a track north from the city to Clifton Hill then split. This means that at ten minute intervals leaving Flinders Street mine only runs every second time. You really don't want to miss it then if the next one will be along in – oh only twenty minutes if you're lucky and its not late. I spend my life waiting for late trains, trams and buses at the moment. There's the time to be eating!

Sometimes enjoying the ride though is a real stretch of the Pollyanna 'glad game'. It's raining this morning so already everything is unpleasantly wet and steamy on board. Today's Glen Waverley vehicle is an ancient dunger of a carriage with graffiti on every surface, vertical and horizontal. Jaggered indecipherable letters are scratched into the windows, penned in black on the walls, floor and even the distinctive blue geometrically patterned seats. I share the morning train with the kids from St Kevin's College. Their not bad dressed in the crest embossed blazers and striped ties but they are typical teenage boys, popping gum, talking about girls and swearing. However I much prefer their irritating adolescence to the Broadie Bogans on the Craigieburn and the middle class suburban young Rebels without a Clue on the Hurstbridge.

The Hurstbridge youth are utterly appalling. Cheap imitations of Paris Hilton with screechingly loud Down Under twangs at its almost worst, tits and bits hanging out of teensy outfits that cost more per square inch of fabric than the national debt of Japan. And the boys are just as bad. Drunk and obnoxious at ten on a Sunday morning they look about twelve to me and no matter what they think...THEY ARE NOT FUNNY...not even in a pitiful way! Put these two sexes together, add a year of maturity and what do you get?! A self-absorbed young couple glued together with suction sound effects all the way to Heidelberg. “It's another full tram guys, excuse me,” I want to say, “but it is really uncomfortable for the people sitting next to you to be elbowed by limbs greedy to be fondling each other.” But of course I don't because the most adhered to unspoken rule of train travel is that you never react to the other beings around you. Stare straight ahead and ignore whatever is going on. Eavesdropping is permitted and if you don't have small buds of music connected by dental floss to your pocket attached to your ears, positively unavoidable however under no circumstances must you react. Getting involved is worse by a thousand times than the obnoxious behaviour and that is because everyone is afraid that speaking up won't make the situation better or go away, it will only make it unbearably worse. What have we become?

Three months on and seeds begin to take root...

Well, after three months of being a gypsy in Melbourne, I am setting down a few roots. My Nunnery room mate Sarah, began putting the seed into my head months ago, that if I like it here so much to return after only four months away, then maybe I should think about staying. Okay, fair enough I thought, good point and well raised. Apparently Mum back in Auckland had been thinking something similar. It honestly hadn't occurred to me but then sometimes it takes an external viewpoint to see the obvious. What can be clear as the nose on a face to someone else can sometimes be missed by the eyes just above the nose.

So I started to just, oh what the hell, apply for jobs here and there. I got more Dear Louise...letters than I did interviews but it only takes one to get a job. And what a job. I get to be a team leader in a community library. Something tells me that my library career so far has been preparing me for this step. It's a step that if you asked me some years back when I was a wee young library assistant, if I would want to take, I would have told you, no, not for me, I'm not a manager. Apparently though I am, because not only have I had a taste of it recently being in charge of libraries as a casual librarian, but my interview answers genuinely took me by surprised and woke me up to the fact that I have matured into the role. Oh no, now I will have to start looking and acting like a bit of a grown up, :-). Not to worry, I am up for the challenge.

So, I have a job, a tax file number, and have plans afoot to get myself a place to live. Gee, it looks as if I am settling down here in Melbourne. The gypsy hours are passing with the shortening of the days and the falling of the autumn leaves. I am preparing to nest for the winter.

Nesting however will not mean hibernating. Certainly not when the days are crisp and light with hazy sun, no rain. They may get cold but making the most of the good weather is what I plan to do in the next few months of exploring my new home.

On Saturday then, Roger took me up to Kinglake for a first excursion further afield. It is somewhere he has visited often but not since the fires so he was understandably affected by the change in the landscape. I didn't know what it looked like before February but seeing the damage like a freshly logged forestry road as we climbed up into the hills, I recognised devastation. Kinglake I believe, was where the summer fires started. It used to look like the Dandenongs covered in fern trees, smelling dank and earthy. Where once the winding, twisting roads presented drivers and riders with visibility challenges through dense canopy, now the view between burnt out stalks of trees, is clear. The yellow speed signs seem redundant given how far through the scorched valleys you can now see. Four months on and the smell of fire still clings to the blackened grass and stumps of trunks and lingers in the air as a haze. A house here, a business there, those belonging to the lucky, stand from before, little patches of sanctuary in the devastation. Just the other side of the road is a vacant piece of land that Roger tells me was the pizza shop. Brick chimneys stand like ghost town remains, the rest of the house having exploded in the heat of the fire. The occasional gate across a path that leads nowhere in particular these days. Elsewhere however, are signs of new growth, seeds spreading now that the temperature is dropping and moisture returns. Some of the trees have sprouted new leaves on blackened bark. Temporary dwellings, prefabricated sheds, and caravans dot the landscape. The land is cleared of the old, dead wood and being replaced with foundations for new houses. These people are starting new lives too, it seems that winter in Melbourne is a good season to be entering for more than one of us.

Sux, Drugs, and Fush and Chups

Okay, so apparently I have a bit of an accent. Well, at least I am being teased about it these days. In an effort to “feet-een” (yeah, right pull your head in), I have occasionally managed to collect one particular Auss-ism, “no worries” where we in Kiwiland would use “no problems”, or more likely “sweet as”. The Aussies I have mentioned this to, reckon they actually prefer “sweet as” because it has a positive take.

I must admit to not noticing the Aussie accent most of the time any more unless is it the really Bogan variety which believe it or not, actually comes out with “growse” on occasion. Yep, that was “growse” you just read, it is not just put on for the telly, some people here really do use it. Or should that be “youse” as in “youse Kiwis have strange accents”.

“Darl” is another one, applied mostly by cute young shop assistants inquiring “how you doing there darl?” They are not as pushy as the Kiwi variety of shop assistant. The Aussie breed take the hint to leave you be for a moment or two but keep an eye out in case you want them to come back. Try shooing a Kiwi shop assistant away and she retreats in a huff never to be seen again, a sale lost on her. Incidentally, I have found the way to cope with the overwhelming onslaught of shopping malls – headphones playing soothing music of my choice. The raucous screaming of kids still “reeally does get een” but at least their nasal noise is masked by lulling tones.

These days too, I sit on the train or tram and not only do I recognise the names of the places I am passing but I now know how to pronounce them in 'Stryne. Moorabbin, Nunawading, Kooyong, Tooronga, Maribynong, these are all loosely Aborigine words pronounced by the Europeans as they are written. The curious ones are the English names based on people or places in England where the Aussies say it differently to us Kiwis. For instance Northcote is Northc'te, Darebin is said Dara-bin and then there are the just plain odd suburbs called Rosanna, Dennis, Merri, Moonee Ponds, and Darling. I want to live in a place I can call Darling, I think. It would be great to say that your home was just Darling, wouldn't it?

I am being re-educated apparently like some sort of mind control. My diet lately has been Aussie Melbourne music, namely Paul Kelly's early hits hankering for St Kilda while in Kings Cross and the marvellous song “To her door” which, wah-hey, mentions the no-hoper husband staying at The Nunnery while he sobers up. Yay, Go The Nunnery!

I've also been put on a nutrition plan of Aussie TV shows like “The Games”. Yeah right, who are you kidding, the main actor is John Clarke who must I remind everyone was Fred Dagg when he started out in New Zealand. Even the film “Death in Brunswick” which was set just up the road from me, stars John Clarke again and – Sam Neill! Don't even think about claiming our Sam you wicked Roos or you will have My Mum to reckon with!

This one goes out to the CFA

Easter has been and gone and I had a lovely celebration in my home away from home. On Good Friday the cell mates in dorm 12 spent the day in quiet contemplation, well, by which I mean, we wondered what we as unemployed bums could get up to on a public holiday when the rest of the world had either shut down or gone away to their holiday homes. They all have 'normal' lives, we are the oddities. Anyway, feeling a little bit lost without the usual weekend hub-bub then, we formed our own family celebration and took ourselves off the movies – ooh that was a real treat, lunch at Brunettis and hot cross buns. There was adventure in even that minor celebration. To start with the Loose-enders (kind of like the Eastenders without the drama and the horrendous accents), decided that we were bored enough to go to an early movie at Nova in Lygon Street, having chosen a French comedy called 'Pain in the Ass'. It was in hindsight, a bit of a mistake as by three in the afternoon, we were again – hmm, bored. The movie was over, we'd had our coffee and lunch at Brunettis already and all that was left to tick off on our Good Friday list, was the hot cross buns.

Down then to the hostel kitchen it was for the very first time. After sterilising everything we needed to touch, oh yes, believe me it is necessary, we cut the buns in half and stuffed them into the toaster. Here we have an exercise in the careful toasting of buns not exactly designed as toaster shape so are squashed up to the element. I have already had a ride in an ambulance and I was not particularly looking to add the fire service to my list of emergency services. But never fear, we were up to the task and enjoyed our Easter fare. Margaret bought a wee packet of Easter eggs to share over the weekend but we decided that we could resist the temptation for one more day. The hostel incidentally put on an Easter egg hunt starting at 10.00am but they hid the eggs too early. When I got up at eight to use the bathroom, I saw some coloured foil peering sneakily out from strategic places. Five minutes later returning to the dorm, they had already been scavenged. People are hopelessly greedy I tell you.

On Sunday then I had a great treat of going with my new friend Roger out to the Yarra Valley to the Rocheford Winery concert that had a line up of The Audreys, Tim Freedman, Missy Higgins and The Cat Empire. It was the usual picnic on the lawn in front of the stage affair and it was great to kick back and listen to more Aussie grown music. I made the comment that I had thought Missy Higgins to be Canadian because of her accent and Roger rather rudely pointed out that the Aussies only steal Kiwi bands, they don't plunder the rest of the world. All the bands were good although I have to say I probably enjoyed the Audrey's Celtic sound the best. Roger pointed out that even at a distance the lead singer was sexy and I could see his point, she could probably make cleaning the toilet look sensual, there is something very elegant in the way she moves.

All up the day was terrific, cruising through the very green Dandenong Ranges with the fragrant smell of eucalyptus in the high ups and the dank, earthy smell of fern tree forests in the valleys. The latter was a smell that reminded me of home. We tried spotting koalas but nothing doing however the drive, the concert and the beautiful Indian Summer, made up for the lack of wildlife.

Music to my ears

I've sampled some of Melbourne's music scene at long last. I have always been keen to do this but was quite frankly daunted by the choice. I mean it's like being a kid in a candy shop.

“Okay dear, what would you like? The strawberry lollipop or the jersey caramels?”

Um – um, can I have it all? Not on your budget remember, Louise. It's important to be selective with your entertainment allowance and choose wisely. Ah, but the difficulty with that is that when there are so many different groups and acts that are completely alien to me, what is a gal supposed to do? Stick a pin blindfold into the map? Well it worked for exploring Melbourne on the trams so why not. Fortunately I know people now who know more about the places to go than a pincushion. It's the old – not what you know but who syndrome.

Okay, so the other Thursday night my new 'wedding singer' pal took me to Manchester Lane. He suggested the notorious Espy Hotel in St Kilda but my involuntary shudder must have alerted him to my reluctance to ever set foot in that joint ever again. Manchester Lane was more my scene. A quiet, well, on a Thursday night anyway, cabaret club. On this particular night we only just caught the end of Fats Wah-Wah, having spent a bit more time chatting over supper than anticipated – hey, anyone that knows me will not be surprised that I talked for too long. Fats Wah-Wah was fronted by a skinny dude, with bright pink hat covering his dreadlocks, singing like Joe Cocker.

The next Tuesday I took my room mate Lauren back to Manchester Lane to hear the resident act, The Gabriel Lynch Band. First up though we were treated to the dolce tones of Just Desserts, a sweet, clean-cut duo in the vein of The Carpenters. We also met the Just Desserts fan club, Faezeh, Amman, Adeline, and Messel. Meeting new and interesting people made the night.

Sunday night this week, I was very lucky to have the opportunity to see a couple of hot acts at The Corner Hotel in Swan Street. My friend Roger had won tickets to see the Adelaide act Sia, a singer who reminded me of Debbie Harry in her early career. I knew nothing about the singer but couldn't really pass up the opportunity of sharing Roger's lucky win now could I, so off we went. I have always said that the best experiences are not sought and totally unexpected so not knowing anything about Sia meant that I had a lovely surprise. She has apparently made it quite big in the UK but was relatively unknown in her home town, Australia. Her Australian career has recently started taking off in a big way which was obvious by the sellout concerts greeting her in Melbourne. The warm up act was also interestingly called, Bridezilla. Four young girls with classical training have turned their violin, saxophone, and guitars to Gothic Celtic. They pulled it off by looking like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths.

So there you go, I've been induced into the Melbourne music culture but there is still a long way to go. My other room mate Sarah is keen to go to Wicked but the only affordable way to get there would be to put our names into a draw two and a half hours before every performance and then hang around waiting till show time. A bit of a waste of time if you ask me.

Weekend Watermelon Weather

Rose Street Market in Fitzroy is one of the many craft and artist markets in Melbourne. I went there this Saturday with friends Debbie and Zanetta. It was stinking hot, 33 C with a wind to sweeten the bargain but not however, a refreshing one. Rivers of sweat trickle down my back between t-shirt and pack as we walk. It's dry heat though, not debilitating humid blah, and I have the energy still to make the most of the day rather than wanting just to lie in bed with my head the freezer. Take a shower in this climate and realising as you reach around the shower door to grab the towel that you have left it in your room, is not a big deal. Your arm is dry already anyway and like some futuristic scanner-towel, your body soon follows. By the time you step out of the shower box to hunt down a flannel or t-shirt to wipe yourself with, you're dry anyway. Great! Saves on laundry!

“It should be cooling down by now,” Debbie complains. “It's March for godsake. About seven degrees less would be nice.”

Deb is not really a sun bunny. When she moved over to Melbourne last year, she was dreading the promised 40 temperature over New Years and so when the mercury topped at 47.5 I was wondering how she was coping. Actually I half expected her to decide that a Christmas Antarctic cruise was a fine sounding option but no, she was here, sweltering. When we caught up at the weekend, I asked her how she had weathered the heat and was surprised to see her shrug as if the painful memory, like childbirth, was one best forgotten so it could be repeated.

“I just stayed at home lying in the coolest part of the flat,” she said.

The image in my mind was of her lying spread-eagled on her back in the middle of the living room floor, dressed in swimsuit, ice packs surrounding her, moaning. That may have been the case but her shrug wasn't admitting it.

So we sweated our way around the market on the fine Saturday afternoon. It's watermelon weather and speaking of which, a nice, ice cold watermelon granita would not go amiss right about now but a cup of zuppa inglese gelato was next best thing. Mmmm.

Ha, finally I have found the cure for the affliction I had last sojourn of, feeling like an outcast Nigel No-friends at the weekends. On my last visit, I had been happy as Larry, amusing myself and fruitfully occupying my time during the week when I had writing and exploring to do. It was at the weekends however, when the rest of the world was out bonding with family and such, that I felt the lack of community being here solo. This time...wait for it...I have friends to hang out with. Wahoo! Debbie and Zanetta to go to the market, Lauren, Margaret and Sarah out finding Lauren a flat, it's wonderful. Melbourne is really a lovely city for getting to know people. I've been told that it is so friendly, in comparison to Sydney where people move away if the random stranger lady starts talking to them. I'm glad then that I am here and not in Sydney then. However it is poetic justice that I come to Melbourne to hang out with an Aucklander and a Hamilton girl. It really is a small world.

My dormies and other animals

A word on hostel living. It's not for the faint hearted but it is full of adventure. You meet the most interesting and infuriating people and...you have to share a room with them. So far on my two trips to Melbourne I have stayed at four hostels, The Nunnery in Carlton, Victoria Hall and The Greenhouse both in the CBD and Collingwood Backpackers, no surprise for guessing where...in Collingwood. My pick? Well for friendly, welcoming character and atmosphere, it would have to be The Nunnery. It is run efficiently by The Nuns and Brother Francis the cat and if you live by the convent rules, it is easy to stay for long enough that it becomes like home away from home.

I believe that The Nunnery was originally built for a doctor but it has definitely done its time as a nun run hostel for single females in the 50s and in the 70s, a refuge for Vietnamese refugees. Religious icons fill its high studded rooms and a comforting fire burns in the fireplace throughout the winter. It is really handy to town and in the most beautiful tree-lined neighbourhood that has become my favourite part of town.

So my worst pick thus far? Would have to be the squalid Collingwood deal. Oh, I could list the multiple ways that this place scored a 'boggie' well under the golfer's par but if I did, my mother would be on the phone straight away begging me to come home. Never fear mama, I'm outta there and well shot of the place. I have to say though that the reception I received from the anaemic-spirited manager, was the worst example of customer service I think I have ever come across.

The moral of the story is that when you share a room you either bond with, or want to strangle your room mates, especially if their nightly snoring registers on the Richter scale. So far I have not had any occasion to throttle the people I have intimately shared a six-bed dorm with but there have been times of isolation and indifference experienced immersed in a strange culture. Last time I bunked with a chaotic model, a down to earth and warm-hearted nurse, a sweet Taiwanese girl who called Melbourne “Morabin”, and some ever-so English backpackers. This time I have made friends with a lass from home. To quote an old Scottish granny, “she's from Hamilton but she's quite nice considering.” Funny how you can cross an entire ocean just to hang out with the girl next door. Other dorm inhabs (or should that be cell mates) include a Tasmanian with a colourful (I'm talking rainbow here) past, and a doctor from the north of England with pastie winter legs that should be left inside trousers until they have learned how to be sociably acceptable. I have not yet been quick enough at looking away to miss the sight each morning of nightie and pants descending on me from the bunk above. She needs some sort of landing warning siren considering the number of times she has fallen yelping from above.

But all in all, times in the hostels have been full of – okay I admit it, material for my books. Oh, the stories I could and will eventually tell, thinly disguised as fictional characters. Watch this space.

Songs about love and rain

So many songs have been written for the love of rain. Raindrops keep falling on my head, Rainy days and Mondays, It's raining men. Well okay fair enough about the last one on that list, but heavens praised, the deluge is upon us at long last. It began last night with a sudden opening of the heavens. The downpour splashing large 'v's on the lane, lasted only fifteen minutes that time but freshened an afternoon air that had been unusually humid and uncomfortable. Melbourne is not as accustomed to the humidity as the girl from Auckland so there were many bitter complaints about what I considered to be quite mild. Still, when the sky released its first brief purge of wet, it was welcomed by all. Welcomed by not exactly enjoyed. Out came the umbrellas, mad dashes to doorways, sheltering under eaves and verandahs. It has been so long coming, predicted day after hopeful day, that a collective sigh of relief could be heard breaking the routine bustle of the city but nevertheless they accepted this strange new sensation as inevitable. The rain would happen everyone had to believe to survive, so when it did, it came as no surprise. What has happened to our appreciation of the wonders of the planet that we do not savour the prayed for blessing when it arrives?

Sisto was the first to relish the rain with enormous appreciation. As soon as he saw it, he stepped from the open side door of the cafe into the laneway, raising his arms to the sky, praising above with outstretched hands. He promised his wife that if it rained he would take his shirt off and dance in it like a crazy romantic. He didn't quite go as far as au naturale in the middle of the street but his smile spread wider than usual and it was so wonderful to watch him delight in getting absolutely wet that I could not myself resist. Rain is not such a novelty to an Aucklander but I love it when the leisure to enjoy the sensation of water on my skin is there. Now was the time to completely immerse and absorb the liquid and so in my light summer dress, I joined my friend in the street. A couple of ladies sitting in the window of cafe within arms reach smiled, content to watch us from their position of dry. They were laughing with us not at us Singin' in the rain.

It was quite possibly the most delicious water I have experienced. I have to admit that I envisaged a more dramatic response from the general populace when the drought finally broke. I expected the city to come to a halt and for there to be joyous dancing in the streets as Sisto and I were doing but life went on as usual, the theatrics left to the last of the true romantics. This morning the rain continues, set in hopefully for the day. It is heavy but I am still declining an umbrella purchase to avoid chasing it away. I am happy to walk uncovered in the rain, it freshens me as well as the streets and already that is apparent. Last night's hot wet produced the smell of oil on tar, this morning's fresh has brought out the long forgotten scent of leaves and grass. On the street I breathe in Eucalyptus and lavender, fragrances touched and released by nature. A colourful array of umbrellas have opened, an unusual sight this sea of spreading cover over heads used to being bare. There is one sound however that does not bring cheer, the sound of sirens as emergency services race to accidents on roads coated heavily in oil and now slick in the wet. Drivers have forgotten how to cope with slippery driving.

This morning I sit with the old regulars at Tiamo in Lygon Street. The talk, usually centred around the AFL trials and first games of the season, today is all about the weather. It should continue like this for a month, they plead with smiles wide on their faces. Then we would be saved. If only it was that simple fellas. It had stopped by midday and the sun came out again to evaporate the results.

Blessed drops of Liquid Rain

I have brought with me from Auckland bottled rain, but no one here is complaining, rather regarding me as some sort of Angel of Blessed Relief to souls in Need. Call me superstition but I even announced that I would not buy an umbrella but walk instead in the rain to ensure that I do not chase the liquid love from the sky away. The temperature today has dropped to 19 degrees and not expecting this, Melbournians have reached to the back of their wardrobes for their winter wear. The fashion on the street today is last season's unprepared and therefore still crumpled trenches and parkas. (Do parkas even still exist or am I showing my age?) Anyway they brace themselves against the weather with hunched shoulders and grumble about how freezing it is. I raise disbelieving eyebrows in response. Freezing? Last week the wail was that it was unbearably hot? Weather is a curious thing that it affects folk so. I am still happily wandering around in my short sleeves and simply enjoying a walk in rain that will not frizz my hair into a humid bird's nest. My eyes are raised and my face pringles with as soft drops of liquid love hit my skin. There is mercy in the universe after all.

A wind from the furnace of Hell

I am sad. People have been pouring out their hearts to me with stories about the Victorian fires and although I intended to come here to bring them freshness and cheer, I have been already been touched and by their sadness. I sense their need to release some sorrow and am therefore glad to be a shoulder for them to come to but I feel the weight. There is an atmosphere of dampened spirits and strain to my dear Melbourne friends as I listen and watch their ashen faces tell of how the tragedy has affected the whole state.

Flying in over the territory it was difficult to decipher obvious fire damage from above. The landscape appeared ochre as usual, a dry dust bowl without a blade of grass showing, drier than I remember it only a few months earlier but not scorched as I expected. The very distant hills were shrouded in a haze like the mists of Avalon, jagged outlines revealed in staggered gradients of colour as the hills appeared through the smoke.

I had been told that I might be able to smell lingering smoke even in the city but have not found that to be the case. Melbourne City, apart from the emotional damage, is untouched and life continues as normal despite a collective look of disbelief on the faces around the streets. My friends have described, each in their own words yet strikingly similar, what the 47 degree temperature of Black Sunday felt like. This was the day that melted power lines and started some of the fires. The wind that carried the waves of heat straight off the desert, directly up from Hell's furnace, was the agent required to spread the destruction. One friend talked about standing on Bourke Street that day with mouth open, and feeling a force that was like holding a hair drier in his mouth. I imagined a scene from a disaster movie where a wave of nuclear explosion rips through a city melting everything in its path. It might sound dramatic but this it becoming the reality of the global climates.

Today Victoria is a desert environment. The state and the city, has been in drought for ten years with no sign that it will change any time soon yet everyone still prays for rain as if it is their only saviour. In reality the inhabitants are adapting as humans do to their new environment. A new coping mechanism appears, regulatory SMS are sent to 5 million cell phones, warning of strong winds that will further fan the lingering flames and dangers to avoid. The fears do not eventuate, instead a slight overnight rain brings a degree of relief and the collective held breath is released with a sigh. The city is eerily calm when reports are coming in of strong wind in the suburbs congesting roads. Panic is imagined rather than real but how much more tension can people take?

The answer? Life goes on. In reality the inhabitants are adapting as humans do, to their new environment and already the recovery is happening with charity concerts being orgainsed to raise money to help the victims of the fires and plans to rebuild smarter houses that will cope with the next fires because...no one believes that this is the end, only the beginning of a new landscape. And still they pray for rain.

Encore et toujours

Here I am, once again, standing on another precipice... So I begin with a line from a new song still mulling through my head. I'm at Auckland Airport again, about to return to Melbourne, the place from where all my adventures seem to stem. This time I recognise the process. I have been here enough times to know how it works and even the people closest to me are blasé about my going this time that there is little anxiety, no tears, just the briefest of hugs and a cheerio wave. And yet there are still those touched by my leaving just as there will be others affected by my return – I hope.

It is only at the airport then that I see the faces of strangers going through the mixed emotions of farewells with tear stained faces, red and streaked, supported by familial hugs. Are these people going further afield than across The Ditch? Will they be away for a longer time? This particular jaunt, I fly at four in the afternoon, a considerably more civilised hour and consequently there have been more offers to see me off than when I leave on a 7.00am flight. But here I sit now alone, two hours before my flight, surrounded by complete strangers shedding tears.

I have become a totally independent traveller. I pack my bags so that I can carry the total without assistance. I pay my own way, I make my own fortune but I understand too that I am not an island and the importance of offering and accepting help and sometimes even asking for it if it is appropriate. I have grown so much since starting out on my writing journey in August last year. I have remembered that the best company in the world is mine. I have known the splendour and serenity of solitude. I have discovered that despite being by myself, I am never alone because the world is full of strangers who are simply friends I have yet to meet.

At the airport there are oh, about a dozen flights all leaving at the same time and so the queue through security zigzags for what seems like an age. People jostle and vie for position and some have more reason to be anxious than others. Airport staff trickle down the line calling for passengers for Apia as they are holding the plane up. The Melbourne and Sydney flights are also receiving their final calls. Oh, wait, that Melbourne flight is mine and I am still in the queue being frequently nudged from behind by a girl who doesn't know how not to invade my personal space. A question that has been on my mind a fair amount lately pops into my brain. What's the hurry? Doesn't anybody know the virtue of patience any more? Are we obsessed with it all being about “ME” and regarding ourselves as more important than anyone and everyone else? Several people have already managed to work their way further up the queue by simply disregarding the presence of other people and I watch them all with irritated interest. There is a common look of arrogance on each of their faces. On the whole however, tempers and temperaments are more easygoing than they are in the midnight hour snake lines through customs. At that o'clock, after even just a short flight, people tend to look like their passport photos, drained, creased and ten years older. Trinny and Susannah need to invent a remedy for 'Airport Wretchedness'.

Eventually on the other side of the metal detectors, which surprisingly I made it through despite having a skirt held together by sequins, I can gather my possessions off the conveyor belt and walk briskly to the gate. Along the way I meet a woman heaving and sweating under the weight of three, obviously more than 7kg, bags. Earlier I saw her happy and smiling, draped with multiple, multi-coloured lai garlands of chocolates and lollies. Now they were stuffed into a bag, lugged desperately to her departing plane. As I approached her she whimpered a pitiful plea for help.

“Are you okay?” I asked fearing a heartache judging by the beads of perspiration trickling down her forehead.

“Pleese,” was all she had words for so I instead read her need from the strain on her face and relieved her of the least valuable looking of her bags. It happened to be the one with the lolly lais.

“Are you going to Melbourne?”

She shook her head.

“Oh where, where do I go for Apia plane, pleese?”

I had no idea but telling her to follow me brought a look of grateful relief so that was what I did. I walked her to the sign allocating gate numbers and pointed to her flight and gate number. Fortunately it was the one before mine so with a bit of juggling, we managed to get on the escalator (there was no way I could see her navigating the stairs without catastrophe) and the gate.

“God bless you,” she said as I handed back the bag.

I was having a conversation in the car on the way to the airport about the presence of Guardian Angels. My belief system recognises a spirit of guardianship and acknowledges that it is often channelled through the kindness of strangers. Okay, so I've done my Guardian bit for the day then.