As I may or may not have mentioned (I'm too lazy to check), Souf-Eas' London is perhaps the least scrupulous part of the city. And my home borough of Lewisham, which lies within Souf-Eas' London, is less scrupulous still. I can only conclude that the reason the Lewisham Metropolitan Police website has not been updated since August - the most recent entry details an explosion - is because they are so busy that their net geeks have been deployed onto the streets to fight crime.

Fortunately - and I'm partly telling the truth and partly being a pretentious git - my street appears to be an anomaly. The mildly ostentatiously-named Cressingham Road lies innocently just off the Lewisham High Street. Lined with quaint Victorian-era houses, rather than 60s-era council flats, Cressingham Road is home to families, both young and old, each taking part in a geographical game of Russian Roulette by living in this neck of the woods. Okay, so I exaggerate for dramatic effect. But still, I thought our sanctuary was safe.

I was getting ready for bed on Saturday night at around 2:00am (why was I up that late? None of your business, and quit interrupting my story!) when I spotted three suspicious-looking chaps looking, as you would expect, suspicious. They were standing on the opposite side of the street wearing thick jackets, dark beanies and other miscellaneous accessories that personify criminal activity. À la Hitchcock's Rear Window, I switched off my lamp, mentally ignoring the fact that the intensity of the street light outside made me clearly visible anyway, and settled in to watch what I assumed - and guiltily hoped - were some kind of nefarious goings-on.

"What could it be?" I pondered, intently spying on three people essentially doing nothing at all (albeit at two in the morning outside my house). "It could be some kind of drug deal... Those big jackets could easily contain several kilograms of Colombian pure," I thought to myself in my best Don Johnson voice.

"Perhaps it's an arms deal," I mused, rather exotically. "I'm sure they usually happen on the borders of ex-Soviet countries, but Lewisham may well be as dangerous. But not Cressingham Road, surely! Perhaps they're lost? Should I offer them directions?" I glanced over at my pocket London street directory, which is roughly the size of Michael Crichton's new novel. "No, in the time it takes me to locate a pen and paper with which to transcribe my instructions, I may have missed whatever is transpiring."

I shifted my eyes back down toward the three chaps, who hadn't moved. I could only surmise they were deciding which volcano to hollow out as part of their grand scheme of world domination.

"Maybe I should call the police," I wondered. "I'm sure they could provide these gentlemen with sufficient advice to ensure they reach their desired destination."

As if by psychic command, a police wagon arrived on the scene. I settled back into my chair, wishing I had been cooking popcorn, rather than trying to find my own street within the hundreds of pages of street maps in my directory.

A police officer got out of the van and looked toward the men, one of whom lowered his beanie over his eyes, presumably in an effort to remove his identity entirely. Only, instead of approaching these brutes and having some sort of Mexican standoff, the officer moved to the back of the van and opened the doors.

Then, in a twist of unprecedented beauty, two of the men grabbed the third and hurled him into the back of the vehicle. The doors were slammed shut and the police officer jumped back in the front seat and drove off. The two remaining men hopped into a nearby hatchback and followed.

"A sting! Right in my street!" I thought excitedly. "It's like C.S.I.: Souf-Eas' London!"

My street's not the crime-free haven I once thought it was, but if two out of every three suspicious-looking people in Cressingham Road are police officers, I like those odds!

Token message to prove my existence continues, despite a recent bout of horrid feverish conditions, which I put down to the suddenly very cold, very bleak, very windy, and, well, very British weather. That and, potentially, some odd Moroccan food I ate at the office Christmas party on Friday.

Still, like the trooper I am, I'm back at work and back in action. Sort of. My brain still feels like it's trying to burst its way out of the front of my skull, despite the certainly-illegal amount of ibuprofen and paracetamol I've consumed. Feels like it's a million degrees in here as well, even though everyone around me is wearing no fewer than 17 layers of clothes. I think I saw the postman come in wearing one of those furry Russian hats. Could just be the ibuprofen, though.

Anyway, what can I say about this past month? Ummm, been following the Ashes, anyone? Of course you have! Everyone here will deny the sporting event is even occuring, but the BBC's commentary beautifully chronicles the nation's rapid descent into
misery (examples: "This has been completely and utterly limp by England, they're playing with all the intensity of my drunk aunt playing Cluedo at Christmas" and "If you started getting too down, just think to yourself, 'at least we didn't produce Stefan Dennis'. That always gives me a little lift."). God bless the British wit for turning even the most mundane of sports into a Python-esque farce.

Been out to a number of surprisingly odd bars and clubs. A few weeks ago, the work crew decided to mosey on down to The Jolly Gardeners, which is not far from work, for a spot of karaoke (if you must ask, Hound Dog... amongst others). The next week, we somehow wound up at the Bethnal Green Working Men's Club for a spot of cabaret. Brassy big band music, '30s-era costumes, the whole shebang! And of course the Morrocan restaurant, complete with belly dancing. There's so much more to London nightlife than improbably-named pubs!

Unsure of my Christmas plans, at present. There's a chance I'll be spending it in Germany, which would be lovely. I know that frozen water will in no way compensate for 21 years' of love and care from my family, but I'm a big kid and the prospect of a white Christmas excites me to no end! Still, I have my reservations, such as the fact that everyone will be speaking a language I'm utterly unfamiliar with (my knowledge of the German language extends to the numbers 1 through 12 (excluding 11) and how to say "out of the way", which is surprisingly handy, but could be considered unfriendly when what I really want to say is "Merry Christmas").

Suppose the big question everyone's been asked me of late is, "What's the weather like over there?". Well, I've already (begrudgingly) answered that, but you all seem to also be asking me about any potential plans to come home; presumably so that, in the event I imply I won't return for some time, you can pillage all my personal belongings. In any case, I'll provide you with a conveniently vague answer: I'm not too sure! Right now, I'm missing Tim Tams, Kurrawa Surf Life Saving Club, Powderfinger, Pacific Fair (for some reason), some of the cast of Neighbours and sunlight in general. Yet I do so love it here; the other day my flatmate practically begged me to stay (I assume she likes the brand of dishwashing detergent I buy, or something). So yes, I'll keep you on tenterhooks for the moment... hands off my stuff!

Ah, London! Such a cultural hub!

Last week, I visited the BBC Radio 2 recording of The Lee Mack Show, a comedy variety show. Hosted by Lee Mack (the guy from The Sketch Show) and accompanied by musical guests Martin Fry (Shoot that poison arrow through my heeaa-aaaaart!) and Mel C (Yes. Sporty.), the recordings were such good fun, I'm going again next Tuesday!

Last Saturday I got all swisho (hi Helen!) in my tux for a black-tie gala musical adaptation of the Broadway production, City of Angels. A très swanky affair what with everyone dressed up to the nines, sipping champaign and attempting vainly to dissect the drama! Loadsa fun!

However, last night, I suited up again in black-tie for the big one.

Two words: Casino Royale.

Two more words: Royal Performance.

Two final words: World Premiere.

Yup, I was lucky enough to grace Leicester Square for the World Premiere Royal Performance of Casino Royale!

The entire square had been taken over for the opening of the film, with a massive stage, red carpets, huge spotlights and the soundtrack blaring from every corner. As I took my place to walk the red carpet, I realised I was standing directly in front of Rick Yune (who played the diamond-encrusted henchman in the last 007 film). Amongst the other celebs there, were all of the film's cast and crew, plus the likes of Elton John, Shirley Bassey, Sean Bean, Sharon Osbourne, Paris Hilton, Lord Richard Attenborough, the Sugababes, Richard Branson (who has a cute blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo in the film) and, of course, the Queen and Prince Phillip.

It's a very formal affair. Three cinemas in the square were linked by CCTV (unfortunately, I wasn't in the same cinema as the main dignitaries), as 4,200 people sat down to watch the movie together. The Queen did the rounds and was introduced to all who worked on the film before Lord Richard Attenborough got up and gave an address prior to the film. Then, the producers formally introduced the cast and crew, before the MGM lion roared and it all began.

Inside, the cinema was alive. Everyone chatted excitedly, clapping and cheering at various points in the film.

Oh, and the film! Excellent! Just excellent! It was so, so different. Like the past 20 films never existed! In fact, the best thing - and what I won't spoil - is just how wildly it varied from what one expects in a Bond film. Structurally, thematically and tonally, it just continued to surprise, neatly leaving enough loose ends and an enticing set-up for the sequel (due 2008). And Daniel Craig turns in probably the best Bond performance ever.

What an amazing night!

I hate getting my hair cut. I hate it more than going to the dentist, I hate it more than drivers who fail to indicate when turning and I hate it more than any film starring Ryan Reynolds. I would even go so far as to say I hate it more than Britain's notorious Frosties ad (watch it and you'll know just how serious I am in my disdain for hairdressers).

Honesty, I can't think of a more unpleasurable experience. Everytime I go, it feels like a brutal interrogation. You're planted in a chair, given a black robe which is only a few white stripes and a serial number away from a prison outfit and are promptly surrounded by people brandishing scissors, razors, combs, hacksaws and God knows what other kind of gruesome weaponry.

Worse, surrounded by mirrors and copious amounts of unnatural light, no move goes unwatched. There are just so many opportunities to come across as a freak. Can't remember a joke and crack a smile to yourself, can't pick your nose, can't taunt the small child unhappily getting their mop chopped in the chair beside you; freak, freak, freak!

Personally, I have the minor problem of being extremely ticklish. Whenever they wrap that bit of paper towel around your neck to stop renegade hairs tumbling down your shirt, I squirm and giggle like a schoolgirl, an image endlessly reflected throughout the funhouse of mirrors that is the hairdressing salon.

My most recent trip was particularly torturous. I was first led to a basin where my hair would be washed for me. Ghastly episode! Water and shampoo in my eyes and ears and nose, an experience compounded by the fact my hairdresser failed to specify that my head should sit resting on the rim of the sink and not thrust face first into it.

Next I'm lead to the cutting area (I'm sure they have proper names for these places, right?). No part of this is easy. I can never succinctly convey how I want my hair cut ("shorter" was my most recent response), and if they botch it, that's it. There's no going back; you can't uncut one's hair. What's more is that you can't even tell them how you feel (trust me on this: I once did so as a child, much to the poor hairdresser's horror and subsequent severe depression).

Then, simply because I'm me and this is my life, the power cuts out. So we're suddenly without a functioning hairdryer, razor and funky jazz music. Oh, and light. Yep, she's cutting my hair in the dark. All too conveniently, she tells me she's finished, leaving two thirds of my fringe conspicuously uncut.

Unfortunately, the fact she was unable to blow out the remnant hairs with a hairdryer caused me my worst grief on the tube on the way home. As the air rushed through the carriage, the people behind me were promptly showered with hair. As I seemingly balded at a furious rate, my fellow passengers were subjected to arguably the sickest ticker-tape parade in history, waving off airborne hairs like flies or spitting them out as they interrupted numerous conversations.

Perhaps life would be easier if I really was bald.

Went to the circus last night. Billy Smart's Circus, to be precise.

I really do have mixed feelings about the whole charade. I love the spectacle of the circus. Trapeze artists, contortionists, extreme acrobatics, fire-eating, magic acts, juggling, ridiculously overpriced food and beverages... only someone incredibly out-of-touch with the human body and its potential for feats of physical achievement would fail to be in awe at the sight of a Ghanaian artiste bent and twisted in such a way as to be able to play his own buttocks like a pair of bongo drums. Couple this with the absolutely essential purchase of a seven-foot tall stick of fluffy, sticky, sugary candy floss, and it seems like a fun night out!

But here's the thing: it's the zaniness that I can't handle. Anyone who's known me long enough to get me tipsy and confessing that I have a fear of clowns will know that I have a fear of clowns. And not just "Oh no, it's a clown"; I'm talking a total run-out-of-the-circus-screaming-maniacally-about-the-apocalpyse phobia. It's a fear that, despite what all you clown-adoring naysayers will tell me, I feel is entirely founded. I mean, seriously, these are grown men going to bizarre lengths to hide themselves! The face paint, the baggy pants, the big shoes, the fake nose, the unfashionable chequered shirts... I mean, it's just too zany! It's weird! What have they got to hide!?

So when the opportunity presented itself last night to visit a circus, you can imagine my trepidation given that the show will inevitably present its audience with a clown of some description.

Sure enough, we walk into the Big Top, and Chico is there, warming up the crowd by flailing his arms wildly, accentuating bald men's baldness and comically fawning over any woman, young or old, within eyesight. I breathe calmly and let the little chap do his thing. Throughout the evening, he continues to interrupt considerably more spectacular segments with his weird clown-fuelled antics.

Watch Chico - kitted out in a chef's hat - madly spinning plates to the thunderous sounds of Aram Khachaturian's Sabre Dance. See Chico - wearing a bathrobe - use an audience member as a human antenna so he can watch Coronation Street on his faulty television. Witness Chico - inexplicably sporting a sombrero - select the five biggest, toughest, leather jacket-wearing blokes from the audience and have them holding hands whilst skipping around the circus ring. Weird, weird, weird! But I somehow manage to keep my composure.

Having made it through to intermission without the anticipated breakdown, I treat myself to a couple of raffle tickets, which, in light of the prize being an oversized plush pink elephant toy, I happily did not win.

Suddenly, a massive spotlight comes on, shining directly into my eyes! Fearing permanent blindness, I recoil in horror, before realising that the spotlight is actually on Chico, who has positioned himself directly behind me. He moves a couple of steps down, before, in a suitably unnatural fashion, swivelling to face me. From nowhere, he extracts, with a murderous glint in his eyes, a medium-sized box of popcorn (circus retail price: £49) and thrusts his stumpy clown-arms directly at me.

I freeze, convinced that if I fail to move, he won't actually see me (it worked with the tyrannosaurus in Jurassic Park). Oddly, it seems to be successful as he promptly withdrew his hands. I let out a sigh of relief and move to turn away before I feel a piece of popcorn hit me in the side of the face. I look back to find him lobbing kernel after kernel at me. I soon realise I am supposed to have my mouth open so that he can manage to throw one in. Conveniently, my mouth was already gaping in sheer horror, so no action was required on my part (just as well, as I was too scared to move).

The clown was a lousy shot, with each kernel bouncing wildly off various parts of my face. Eventually, he tires of the whole affair and tosses an entire handful at me. Unfortunately, my face had adapted substantial adhesive qualities from the metric tonne of candy floss I had messily eaten earlier, resulting in much of the offending popcorn sticking to my face as Chico bounded around to the raucous applause of the audience.

Future blog entries may appear sporadically as therapy will be occupying a significant amount of my time.

Tonight, I'm going to a charity screening of Maria Full of Grace in aid of human rights, which I trust will be considerably more clown-free.

Phew, what a hectic past month... and no, I'm not just saying so to justify my absence from this aptly-titled piece of webspace. Don't believe me? Well, here for your reading pleasure, is a serving of delicious and easily-digestible bite-size morsels of food- er, I mean information... yes, it's lunchtime...

• A little over a month ago, I moved home to South-East London (or as it's more commonly referred to, Souf-Eas' London). Have to say, it's an absolutely gorgeous flat in an old Victorian-style home, even if the area's not that great. That having been said, I've not sustained any life-threatening injuries in my daily hundred-meter dash to the train station (the trick is to keep your head low, and go, go, go). I'm now sharing a flat with two British girls and a Scottish guy. I think I may have to pick up my own personal Union Jack next time I'm out shopping...
• My parental units came aaaaall the way from the Land Down Under to pay me a two-week visit, during which we travelled throughout the UK (that being England, Scotland and Wales). Was absolutely great to have them over and prove that not only am I surviving with relative ease in this country, but that I can also successfully cook myself pasta for dinner (I cooked my first stir-fry for dinner the other night, but they'll never believe me). Having been welcomed with open arms by family and friends in Manchester and Newcastle-upon-Tyne (and a more generic greeting from B&B owners elsewhere), it was wonderful to see some more of this country as well as, of course, to catch up with Mummsie and Daddy once again (and for the love of God, stand on the right-hand side of the escalator!).
• I've been promoted at work! Yes, all that hard(ly) work(ing) has finally paid off! So long to the world of ministerial correspondence. Nowadays, someone had the courage to entrust me with Parliamentary questions and briefings (it just sounds important, doesn't it?). Last week I had my first meeting in Whitehall, London's own CivilServantown. Better still, I get to keep my awesome riverside view of the city, which I will get around to taking a picture of sooner or later. Oh, and it comes with more pounds!
• As if that wasn't big enough (and even if it was), this final nugget will blow your mind, for it has changed my life in an unimaginable way. No, I didn't learn to ski, or skydive or even take a commercial flight into outer space. This was much bigger. Brace yourself: I saw the Hoff. I understand if your eyes have secreted pure, concentrated excitement, thus blurring your vision, so I'll say it again: I saw the Hoff. I was playing tour guide when my folks were over here, when we happened to stumble upon the UK premiere of Click, in which Mr Hasselhoff stars alongside Adam Sandler and Kate Beckinsale (whom I also saw, but, let's face it, are small fries compared with the Hoffster). And there he was, in all his glory. I saw the Hoff. It's all downhill from here (blurry photo of his right arm coming soon).

Now do you believe me?

There's this unavoidable part of human nature whereby if someone hands you an item when you least suspect it, you instinctively reach out and take it before even contemplating the situation. Unfortunately, I've caught myself accepting all sorts of objects on a whim; copious amounts of overdue paperwork, winning lottery tickets, recently-fired weaponry... you name it, when I'm least suspecting it, and I'll take it.

So I'm sitting in Hyde Park yesterday, enjoying the remaining morsels of the British summer, when a couple of elderly ladies motion for me to move along the park bench to allow them to sit together. Ever the gentlemen, I stand up, tip my top hat and whip out a clean handkerchief with which to dust down the space where I had been sitting. Capping the entire act off with a amicable smile, I shift a few feet along the bench.

Engrossed in my Sudoku (it's a shameful addiction and I'm not proud of it), I'm soon interrupted when the ladies thrust some sort of French baked good in my direction. Instinctively, I snatch it. But it doesn't look that appetising, and I couldn't help but remember my parents' advice on accepting food from strangers ("Only take it if it looks good.")

Mercifully, the ladies (bless their cotton socks for being so kind in the first place) didn't turn to me with anticipation to watch my reaction as I devoured the somewhat stale snack. However, it left me in the sticky situation of having to keep a handful of these biscuits concealed until they left. Easier said than done, as they subsequently produced the equivilant of a five course banquet, offering more and more food every step of the way.

As I sit there with one hand grasping a pen, another nursing my newspaper and another clutching the biscuits, I realised there was no easy way out of this. The time had long since passed where it was acceptable for me to eat the biscuits, so I couldn't produce them now. It was then that the brilliant idea came to me of wedging the crackers between the pages of my newspaper! All in all, a smooth transition as I gently slid the provisions between World News and Finance.

Only when the geese arrived did my plan come undone.

As their beaks - the perfect height - leafed through the pages of The Evening Standard resting on my lap, I pondered how I could explain my way out of this state of affairs. Somehow "I suppose the birds want to see how their stock is doing" just wasn't going to cut it.

At that point, I had no choice but to leap from the bench and charge through the sea of pigeons, seagulls, ducks and crows that had since accumulated around the young man who possesses the inability to simply say "no". Fortunately, the trail of crumbs I left behind were promptly devoured leaving the old ladies with no hope of following me home to offer dessert.

Amongst the many other benefits of life in London, including the British staples of red buses, mailboxes and phone booths, is the wonderfully diverse mix of people out and about in the Big Smoke.

When I'm not responding to crackpots writing to our department about baldness, Nazis or the Loch Ness Monster (or Creature, as our paranormally-enthusiastic correspondent would prefer it be known), I've become a shameless participant in the sport of people-watching.

At the risk of morphing into a snooty decaf-cappa-frappa-mocha-cino latté-sipping snob (on skim milk, please), the, admittedly, exceptionally lazy activity of meeting someone for a coffee and absent-mindedly observing passers-by at a distance is sadly highly addictive. There's such fun to be had in weighing up whether to tell the lady wearing the bright yellow dress that there is a road going unworked-on around the corner, or to point out to the bloke with the ponytail that, well, he has a ponytail.

What, might you ask (were you somehow aware of the topic of this blog entry before it was published), prompted the origins of my penchant for people-perceiving? It all began just a few months ago as I was standing at London Bridge station during peak hour. The experience was not unlike Godfrey Reggio's superb film, Koyaanisqatsi (a plotless sequence of time lapsed and slow motion scenes). An absolute sea of people flooding in and out of the Tube station every minute, each oblivious to one other, save for tripping over someone's briefcase or being rammed in the heels with a stroller. Each wave of people is rushing, racing, never stopping. Yet despite the chaos taking place before my eyes, it was, for me, as if time had stood still. Seeing the manic pandemonium that was, in reality, no more than "just another Tuesday" was a strange, surreal feeling that has since prompted me to, every now and again, stop, pause and take stock of each moment before it passes.

Occasionally, people-watching becomes a contact sport, often in the most bizarre manner. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting at King's Cross Station with a friend, when we were approached by a man carrying a large bag over one shoulder.

"Excuse me," he tells us. "I'm half-blind and I was wondering if you can help me out."

"But of course," we say, ever the Good Samaritans.

"Do you see any arms hanging out of my bag?" he asks us with a wry smile.

Without an alternative, we reply with a strange look and a simple "no".

"Any legs?" he poses.

"No," we answer, unable to mentally comprehend a response longer than two letters.

"Any dripping blood at all?" he pushes.

"None," we reply in unison, having realised the two-letter responses were not removing us from this bind.

"Thanks, folks!" the fella says with a cheerful wink, and off he bounded.

Narrowly beating the time some chap tried to steal my newspaper (relax, I got it back, though the trauma remains), it's one of the strangest interactions I've had since I left home (such an exchange would seem much more normal in some of the less scrupulous parts of Nerang).

I'm paranoid now.

If I see anyone walking around a train station carrying a bag, I have the uncontrollable urge to twitch and shout out, "If there's a body in there, I don't want you anywhere near me!" (I get some odd looks, but they're the ones carrying around the bodies).

But it's these character-building experiences that truly make you pause to take in everything around you. Amidst the horde of people flowing around you like water through a river's delta, you get lost as you stand still, thinking, musing, pondering.

And then you lose all train of thought as someone rams you with a stroller.

I'd like, if I may, to make a non-European diversion on my humble slice of the Internet to talk about an issue that is near and dear to my heart. Last week, I had the honour of seeing a little-known picture right in the heart of London's cinema district, Leicester Square. There was, quite frankly, nowhere else I wanted to have this experience, than where so many of cinema's greats have fronted up at the premieres of their latest films.

Friends, family, random Internet browsers... I'm talking about Snakes on a Plane.

Yes, arguably the greatest film to hit screens since Plan 9 from Outer Space has finally slithered our way with all the fanfare of a post-Under Siege Steven Seagal picture. Having been an Internet phenomenon for nigh on a year, Samuel L. Jackson's self-proclaimed ultimate B-picture is a piece of pure, unadulterated cinematic hedonism.

With a title that conveniently doubles as a plot synopsis and gives a darn good indicator of the genre (would you expect a romantic comedy or, to make this blog entry relevant to Europe, a British period drama to possess such a monikor?), you know exactly what you're getting. Throw Sam Jackson into the mix, and honestly, where can you go wrong?

The movie plods along, merrily checking off a list of every disaster film cliché you can possibly conceieve:

• token unwilling leading character, who finds himself in a situation beyond his control - check
• token flight attendant making her final flight before a career change - check
• token flamboyantly gay flight attendant - check(?)
• token motley cast of passengers: stuffy businessman, unhappily shafted from first class; stuck-up socialite (complete with yappy dog in handbag); rapper with wisecracking sidekicks; kids taking their first flight alone after their soldier Dad farewells them at the airport; honeymoon couple keen to join the mile-high club; and so on, and so forth - check
• token love interests all 'round - check
• token moment where flight attendant bursts out of the cockpit and asks, "Does anyone here know how to fly a plane?"
• several token "there's only one man who can get us out of this situtation" situations
• and, of course, our token hero: Samuel L. Jackson as the awesomely-named Neville Flynn, a man who can take charge of any situation with enough manliness to make the great Chuck Norris look like a ballet dancer (only kidding, Chuck's the man)

All present and accounted for!

Only one thing missing: 500 improbably and ingeniously provoked snakes released onto a passenger jet as part of an equally improbably and ingeniously concocted mob scheme. Each of these beauties is shot in such a way that the real snakes and the seemingly half-heartedly rendered computer-generated snakes possess all the glorious cheese of a fine block of Swiss cheddar.

You don't sound too convinced, no? Sounds like rubbish, right? Well, that's where you're wrong!

Each ingredient is daintily added to the mix, ever with nothing but sheer self-awareness of the whole affair. Even the snakes have their own typically amusing Jaws-esque theme that pipes up everytime one of the slithery suckers offs a cartoon character-like passenger. The whole mixing pot is lovingly tossed and turned with nothing but the utmost appreciation for B-grade cinema and ultimately left to simmer for an hour and a half, resulting in the most fun I've had at the cinema in years and the best disaster spoof since Airplane!.

And for those of you even-slightly acquainted with this cinematic gem, I can proudly say that yes, the moment does come where Sam, God-like, proclaims to an audience waiting with baited breath, "Enough is enough! I have had it with these muthaf***ing snakes on this muthaf***ing plane!"

This, folks, is what cinema is all about!

May I leave you with Sam's words of wisdom, as he presented this year's Best Film award at the 2006 MTV Music Awards:

I'm here tonight to present the award everyone's been waiting for: best movie. Now, this award holds a special place in my heart because next year I'll be winning it for 'Snakes on a Plane'. Now I know, I know that sounds cocky, but I don't give a damn. I am guaranteeing that 'Snakes on a Plane' will win best movie next year. Does not matter what else is coming out. The new James Bond... no snakes in that! 'Ocean's 13'... where my snakes at? 'Shrek the Third'... green, but not a snake. No movie shall triumph over 'Snakes on a Plane'. Unless I happen to feel like making a movie called 'Mo' Muthaf***ing Snakes on Mo' Muthaf***ing Planes'.

Too true, Sam. Too true.

Move over John Robie, Thomas Crown and Ocean's Eleven; none of you managed the epic heist I pulled off at Amsterdam's world-famous Rijksmuseum, the Dutch national museum, home of masterpieces by such artistes, as Rembrandt van Rijn, Johannes Vermeer and Frans Hals. Nor did I require such trickery as suspension from the ceiling, à la Topkapi, makeshift Trojan horses or token red laser beams. Nope, nothing but my own ingenuity to land the below-pictured masterwork.

Yes, this artwork, commonly mistaken for a baggage card, is most likely of the mid-1990s era. Enveloped in a single shade of opulent red, with the letter A, number 61 and a simplistic, yet effective outline of a suitcase engraved lovingly on its matte-finish surface, this plastic card could easily fetch 50 pence on the black market, or, failing that, eBay. Nonetheless, for the sheer thrill, and obviously, the money, this prized possession of the Rijksmuseum was mine for the taking!

Just one of many highlights of my weekend trip to Amsterdam, dubbed the Venice of the North (so named because of the fact it has canals and, well, is in the north).


Like last fortnight's trip to Paris, it was another totally absurd 4:00am start (the price to pay for trotting the globe), and soon enough, we were on the bus to Holland! Travelling south through England, we wound up at Dover, famous for the White Cliffs of Dover (title self-explanatory), for the ferry across to France, from where we travelled up through Belgium to the Netherlands, arriving just in time for tea!

Staying at the far-classier-than-we-were-expecting Casa 400 Hotel, just outside the city centre, we soon made our way into the city for the first item on the itinerary, a tour of Amsterdam's famous (...or so I hear...) red-light district. An eye-opener, to say the least. Makes Surfers Paradise seem like the playground at McDonalds. What's interesting is that much of what occurs in the red-light district is illegal. Whilst prostitution and the various similarly-themed live shows that take place are lawful, contrary to what the city's many, many, marijuana-scented coffeeshops would have you believe, drugs are not. It's just that the laws are rather lax. Nonetheless, after completing our (strictly observational!) tour, the rest of our first evening was spent, rather tamely, with a pint of cider relaxing by one of the city's many canals.

The next day, we were treated to a tour of the city (interestingly, approximately half of the Netherlands - which actually means "low lands" - is less than a meter above sea-level, whilst much of it, including Amsterdam, is actually below sea-level; indeed, many of the city's buildings are built on wooden piles to counter the land's peaty subsoil), before taking off to the fishing town of Volendam, a gorgeous place with more character than you can poke a stick at.

On the way, we stopped off at, perhaps my favourite point of the trip, the cheese and clog factory. Yes, that's right: just the one factory for both. Where else but in Holland?

There is no greater agony in life than deciding whether or not to purchase a pair of clogs. I know I will never wear them. I know I will complain perpetually about having to lug them around with me. And I know they, frankly, look ridiculous. But on the other hand, they're clogs! After much, much agonising (I was in the queue with my credit card at the ready), I decided against such a frivolous, yet desirable purchase, settling instead for a miniature pair (the non-buyer's remorse is unfathomable).

Later that evening, I pulled my unforgettable heist (go on, admit it: how many people do you know who have flogged something from a world-famous museum?) before taking a wonderfully-relaxing boat tour through the canals of Amsterdam and later, spending a similar evening sitting by the canal and sipping cider until the wee hours of the morning.

After an all-too-brief weekend, it was time to head home, but not before a stop-off at a genuine Belgian chocolate factory (all photos of which, unfortunately, did not turn out due to a chocolate-smeared lens) and lunch in Bruges, consisting of genuine Belgian waffles! Having worked up an appetite climbing the 366 steps of the Belfry of Bruges, an 83-meter tall belltower in the town's centre square (worth it for the unparalleled view of the surrounding town and countryside), the waffles were swiftly inhaled.

And so, after a brief stop at a French hypermarket (like a supermarket on steroids), and a lengthy stop on the highway into London (which only served to appreciate just how relaxing Amsterdam really is), my third trip out of the country in six weeks came to a close. An absolutely amazing time, even if I'm still positively heartbroken over my decision not to purchase that incredibly comfortable pair of clogs. These things take time, but I will move on...

(Oh, and for those of you who want to know the specifics of my heist: in actual fact, I left my backpack in the Rijksmuseum in the afternoon, and upon returning to collect it during closing hours, forgot to hand back the card... a flawlessly- and accidentally-executed scheme worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster!)

Where else but in Paris could you be stung €13 (just over $21AU) for a one-litre bottle of Pepsi? Glass of milk? That'll be €4.50 (about $7.50AU). I was a cheapskate and settled on a €6.60 sorbet (a mere $11AU). Fortunately, it was the best sorbet in the world. I know I said that about Harrods, but, well, I'm fickle. Sue me!

Funny, then, that a day in France turned out so ridiculously cheap; aside from a handful of tolls and the trip through the Eurotunnel, the rest (including petrol and plenty of Coke, which was kindly covered by our mate, (Coca-Cola sales rep) Keith!) of the costs were a pittance!

The day kicked off, unlike most Sundays, at the ungodly hour of 4:00am, and within an hour and a bit, we were on our way to France! The trip to the British border is quite short, whilst the Eurotunnel is one of the more unusual sections of the trip. For the uninitiated, as I was, the Eurotunnel is a massive tunnel (duh) under the seabed, through which a train containing everyone's cars travels... best not to think of the ol' claustrophobia. Soon enough, we popped out the other side and made our way through the French countryside to the capital.

After meandering through the streets, observing a lengthy procession of sponsorship floats and experiencing the aforementioned Parisian bargain cuisine, we made our way down to the Seine and tapped our toes impatiently as we waited for the Tour de France competitors to cycle their way past us.

And in the blink of an eye, they came... and went. A blur of brightly-coloured lycra, which, based solely on their speed and attire, may well have been a group of superheroes on their way to work (the obvious lack of capes made me conclude otherwise), whisked past us at an incredible rate.

And so it was to the Champs-Élysées, the 2km stretch of road directly in front of the Arc de Triomphe, where we witnessed the cyclists ride approximately six laps, before ultimately concluding the fifth and final stage of the race (Aussie Robbie McEwen was overtaken in the final seconds of the day's stage!).

Then, it was back to London (in bed, believe it or not, by midnight). Paris is a lovely city, where I'll definitely be heading back to. It was great to give my French another run (which went flawlessly until the moment I asked for a glass of milk and was given a single plum floating in perfume served in a man's hat), but I obviously was there for the race and not sightseeing. I did get to have the token photograph-with-the-Eiffel-Tower-in-the-background (albeit taken from a distance), however the Musée du Louvre (with the exception of its surprisingly classy Metro station) and the Arc de Triomphe were left unexplored. However, as Arnie, recently seen schmoozing with my boss, Mr Blair, once said, I'll be back.

In the meantime, it's off to Amsterdam for a long weekend! Windmills, clogs and cheese, here I come!

The atmosphere was electric. As a 605kg bull charged through a sea of brave locals, foolish tourists and sluggish drunks, a colosseum full of spectators went wild. The more stupid people attempted to agitate the bull by slapping or hitting it, whilst the more astute participants clung to the stadium's rim, praying that the massive animal would not come bounding in their direction.

Welcome to the San Fermin festival in Pamplona, Spain, home of the Running of the Bulls!


The 11-day, 24-hour festival kicks off with a massive foodfight in which everyone's traditional white shirts and trousers, red waistbands and scarfs are promptly covered in all kinds of ketchup, mustard, whipped cream and drinks. The festival is the kind that 99% of the town would absolutely adore (the other 1% being the council cleaning staff, who may as well be rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic, their efforts are that fruitless).

The atmosphere is amazing, and whilst the festivities, at their worst, make Schoolies look like a Family Fun Day in the park, what's truly wonderful is that everyone gets in on the act. Babies in prams, elderly women breakdancing in pubs, people in wheelchairs, singles, families, rowdy Aussie tourists, all kitted out in the same, traditional, food-soaked dress... the sense of togetherness and community, whether you're in a massive Rio-style conga marching down the street, or passed out in the middle of the Town Square, is unlike anything I've ever seen. Incredible!

The bull-running kicked off the next day, as a crowd of runners partake in a three-minute sprint through Pamplona's streets with half a dozen bulls in tow (in the above picture, the quicker runners are waiting for the bulls to catch up). Whilst the animals tend to stick in a herd, it makes allowing the bulls to run past you - the make-or-break moment - exceedingly difficult, particularly as the track enters Dead Man's Curve, a bottleneck just before the arena. Hairy stuff!

Ultimately, everyone winds up in the arena. The massive amount of people who run is never truly apparent until this point, where everyone is packed wall-to-wall into a relatively large space. What happens next makes the run look like a walk in the park.

One-by-one, the six bulls are released into the arena purely to go ballistic against the brave souls who dared accompany them on their brisk jog through the streets just minutes earlier. People are trampled, beaten, thrown into the air and gored as the bull makes its way through the crowd with crazed efficiency.

However, the main event is the bullfight that evening. With tickets going for €25 a pop, typically sold out days in advance, we were lucky to obtain some for our last full day in town. The whole event is done according to tradition, with bands, horses, the whole shebang.

Eventually, the six bulls are released into the ring, one at a time, where a group of bullfighters do the hard yards as the bull is slowly and, one can only assume, painfully brought to the brink of death (the more faint-hearted of you may wish to skip over the following pictures).

Whilst the bullfighters are professionals, accidents can and do happen. The creatures themselves are immensely powerful and often unpredictable (more than once, they attempted to - and came close to - jumping over the fence separating an angry bull from thousands of spectators).

After a gruesomely drawn-out process, the matador is brought out to deliver the final deed. The goal is to try to kill the bull with one swift motion of their sword, straight between the eyes, which is easier said than done, as the beasts have incredible stamina, especially given the circumstances.

Whilst I'll spare you the gory details, the whole event - roughly clocking in at two hours in length - is bloody, primitive and is as strong and shocking as a cup of black coffee first thing in the morning, yet you are unable to tear your eyes away. The sheer spectacle, the sights, the sounds and, as the spectators pile into the arena afterwards, the smells are phenomenal. This is a culture unlike anything in England or in Australia (I'll spare judgment on some of the less scrupulous parts of Nerang).

This, after all my reservations, is why I am here; this is what this trip was all about!

All in all, a terrific five-day jaunt in Spain, complete with plenty of bull-running, bull-fighting and other bull-related shenanigans, all mixed up in a gloriously alcholic Spanish beverage called Sangría (not literally, obviously; that would require a glass of ridiculous proportions). Good times!

Tomorrow, Paris! Seriously. Just going for the day. Le Tour de France, you see. Au revoir!

Just so you all know, I'm off to Spain on Wednesday. Yeah, Spain.

Y'know... last-minute thing.

That's all; just thought I'd rub it in!

See you when I get back!

...jealous?

Remember me?

It's been just under a month since my last update, and I'm finding myself in a home with a new job! How times change!

Two weeks ago, our lease expired and the time came to spread my wings and move out on my own. Have moved into a wonderful place in South London (my boss' sole piece of advice: shoot first (only kidding; no need to stress, parents (you stand a better chance if you just sprint))). I'm living with a South African girl and an Aussie couple (from Sydney and Melbourne), all of whom are frequently away, so I have the place to myself a lot of the time. Either way, I'm very happy, loving the independence, and haven't been mugged once!

Meanwhile, yesterday I finally heard that I have scored a permanent job in Defra, doing exactly what I am now, only with a decent payrise, good benefits (lots of holidays!) and all those Government perks (flexitime!). Yay for stability!

Aside from that, not a great deal of news to report, surprisingly. Spent an extra long weekend in Manchester (pictures coming soon) with my grandmother's cousin's son, and a day in Brighton, a decent-sized seaside town roughly an hour and a half south of London. Imagine our beaches with massive turquoise waves crashing onto endless stretches of gorgeous white sand. Now picture a misty, rather dull ocean with waves rarely larger than a foot high lapping gently on a sprawling expanse of rocks ranging from the size of pebbles to stones the size of your fist. Welcome to Brighton! Still, it's the closest thing I have to Kingscliffe or Surfers Paradise, so I'll take what I can get! In its defence, it does have a wonderful pier that stretches a few hundred meters out to sea with carnival rides and pubs. Good English fun!

Anyhoo, apologies for the lack of updates, but it's been a decidedly hectic month! Be sure to check back soon for my thoughts on London's wonderful underground transport system (warning: will contain copious amounts of sarcasm).

Tally ho!

Welcome to the second monthly nothing-to-report-except-I'm-still-alive blog post!

I've applied for a permanent post at Defra, so fingers crossed on that one. My visa may be the only hitch, but we'll see how that goes. I have contingencies should I not land the job.

Went to the ANZAC Day dawn service on, well, ANZAC Day, which was really good. Close to 2,000 people gathered at Wellington Monument (at Hyde Park Corner) for a really moving service. No public holiday to go with it, so I was absolutely drained for the following week, but it was worth it.

The weather's really warming up over here this past week, so I'm spending many an afternoon in Hyde Park by the lake with a book and my iPod. Very relaxing! It doesn't get dark here until almost 9:00pm, so there's plenty of time to do stuff after I finish work at 4:00pm. It's awfully funny to see headlines proclaiming Heatwave wilts tube services knowing full well that the temperature never creeped above 30°C. Still, it's pleasant enough for us Aussies, even if the Brits are roasting!

Other than that, everything else is plodding along as usual. Falling into a usual routine here, which is making things a bit more like home (trips to the movies and the like) and plenty of trips out to British pubs and clubs and- ah, who am I kidding? I have no real news so I think I'll just leave it there (no news is good news, as the saying goes).

Ciao!

Happy Easter everyone!

Hope The Bunny gave you all plenty of chocolate!

Just a quick check-in with some birthday photos. Thanks to everyone from home and here in the UK who sent birthday greetings / wishes / presents in one form or another. Helped make my first birthday away from home that much easier!

What did I get up to? Thanks for asking! Well, aside from the aforesaid birthday drinks on Maundy Thursday, I went out for birthday drinks on Good Friday with fellow Gold Coaster and Defra employee, Julia.

Then came the big day, Saturday, when I was treated to my favourite brekkie (pancakes!) and a load of pressies (including Hugo Boss cologne and an Yves Saint Laurent polo). The morning was spent exploring the Portobello Markets, the world's largest antiques market (although they contain far more than that). It famously appeared in Notting Hill, which was shot the next suburb over from where we live.

That afternoon, I had a serving of the best sorbet in the world from Harrods. And not only did they botch my order and give me more sorbet on the house, but we were given the wrong bill and scored it cheaper - with the manager's blessing! Still set me back about $AU11,000, but hey, it was my birthday!

And in the evening, we indulged in dinner at our favourite Italian restaurant (in England; relax, parents!) before heading out for a few classy drinks.

All in all, a wonderful day, on which I was spoilt rotten! A big thank you to Vera, Derek and Karla (Vera's Mum!) for making my 21st so special - and a big thank you to all at home for your thoughts on Saturday!

So... I'm 21 tomorrow. Ancient, huh?

I know, I know, you're all thinking, "But 21 is so young!" (well, except for those of you younger than me, in which case I'm a dinosaur), but I feel I've hit the downhill point so far as birthdays are concerned. Still, I'll be trying to make the most of this one, as, as I'm so frequently told, I'm in London.

Incidentally, work were very good, insisting on taking me out for (many) drinks on Maundy Thursday (a half day, so we moved from work next door to the pub around 12:30pm... and didn't leave for many hours) before presenting me with a card signed by everyone I know in the office (and plenty of people I don't).

Hmm, birthday... umm... change of topic... went to Foyles this week, where Young Bond author Charlie Higson did a talk and signing to promote the release of Blood Fever (fantastic book, for those who like adventure novels). He was very entertaining and informative, as all well-known comedy writer and performers should be. The bookstore itself is also worth mentioning. Where else can you find a guy on stilts outside promoting a chocolate fountain, magician and pirhana tank, all of which lie within? Why London, of course!

Just a brief note to let you all know I'm still alive and kicking.

Nothing real big to report, but here's some space-filler anyway.

Work's plodding along, and with the first case of Avian Influenza breaking out in the UK, even if I don't land one of the 12 permanant jobs within the Department, I could well be in a job for a while.

Still doing all the British cultured stuff. On Saturday, we paid a visit to the renowned Tate Britain art gallery, which is directly across the Thames from where I work. There's plenty of ridiculously old artworks and other relics there (it's strange to look at a book knowing it's almost twice as old as the country you're from). The modern art, on the other hand, is, well, modern art... I needn't say more (not being a snooty British person; it really is that awful). Sunday, meanwhile, was spent kicking a football (a soccer ball, for you folks at home; yes, now I'm being a snooty British person) about Hyde Park. And today, Monday, I'm aching because I had no idea how woefully unfit I was. It's bad when it gets to the point you need a five minute break just from the backswing of a kick.

Anyhow, it's go-go-go, so right now I'm off to ten-pin bowl. Or ice-skate. I haven't yet decided. But for £2, it's the most fun you can have without lashing out for today's newspaper.

Ciao!

It's funny how life works out.

Two and a half months ago, I was your typical Australian student. Now, I'm responding to Prime Minister Tony Blair's mail. Yup.

(Although, in fairness, two and a half months ago I was actually frantically packing my bags for this trip.)

As part of my new job (which is going well, thanks for asking), I have to respond to a portion of mail addressed to Mr Blair, concerning issues of animal health and welfare (as well as mail addressed to numerous other ministers and Lords). Very strange!

The work isn't too dissimilar to what I was doing at home, which is a plus, even if, after less than two months in the UK, I'm not yet familiar with the subject matter. There are some permanant roles coming up for grabs soon, so with any luck, I'll nab one of those and be on the big bucks.

Incidentally, for those of you wondering, today's selection of pics are from our lunchtime trip to Austria. More on those later.

But yes, back to work. As I said last week, I'm working for Defra's Central Communications Unit (although from Monday, it's the Customer Correspondence Unit, or some such thing). The unit goes "live" on Monday, so I expect the already-hectic workload to pick up further. Specifically, I'm working in the Animal Health and Welfare division, so I get to read and respond to all sorts of mail from tail docking, the culling of badgers and avian influenza to fish dyeing (not dying - dyeing).

Anyhoo, on with the photos.

(1) The restaurant where we had lunch in Austria. Very nice pasta dishes. Try it, if you're ever in the area!

(2) The restaurant's interior. It's got such a great atmosphere, with modern interior design but antique furniture. Très classy!

(3) The view from the restaurant. During summer, it's a park area where people take their dogs and sit on the benches, and such. There's a deer farm just behind it.

(4 & 5) Shaking one of these trees as you walk by with someone following you never ceases to amuse me.

(6) A gorgeous still lake... wish I could say more.

(7) Oh yes, it has swans.

(8) Not from Austria, but Vera and I outside Edinburgh castle.

I'll report back soon - with more photos!

First couple of days at work went well. Everyone is friendly, there's room for promotions, and I have one heck of a view of the Thames from my desk!

There's even a girl there from the Gold Coast (she went to St Hilda's; TSS's sister school, for those of you unaware). Small world!

A quick photo update today with a selection of piccies from our time in Germany. If it looks cold, it's because it is.

(1) It was so cold I got frostbite and my head fell off.

(2) The trick to successful tobboganning is to stay on the board, jam your right leg deep into the snow as you reach peak speed, and brace yourself for impact.

(3) Just a streetscape picture. You've got high expectations if you

expect a witty caption to this.

(4) Horses. Obviously. Don't remember where this was or why there were horses there, but I like the photo. So there.

More pics soon!

Well, I have a new job.

Tomorrow morning, I start work for the Department of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs' Central Communications Unit. It's an ongoing full-time position in Vauxhall, right on the Thames, on the same street as MI6 and a whole pile of other Government offices. It's a bit out of the way of Bayswater, where we live, but it looks to be a pretty good job, which is very similar to what I was doing back home! Am very excited!

We're actually toying with the idea of staying a little longer in London, since we're all slowly but surely, landing jobs in our chosen fields that pay adequately. The original plan was to stay here for a few months and then travel in Summer, but if we're all making money and getting experience, we're considering staying here for possibly six months (which will take me through to when Mum and Dad pop over for a visit).

Other than three weeks of uninteresting data entry, there's not much else to report. Tried my feet at ice-skating last week and let me say that I put those alleged athletes at the Winter Olympics to shame (I've perfected my own manoeuver in which I leap spectacularly into the air, click my heels not once, but twice, and land gracefully on my rear end, my arms splayed out behind me... such a beautiful move it makes a swan look uncoordinated).

Did a wee bit of sightseeing yesterday and today with another couple of visits to Leicester Square, a trip to Buckingham Palace and even scoped out the secret location of the offices of Eon Productions, who produce the 007 films (I know, I'm a geek). Only in London!

Hope everyone is safe 'n' sound throughout the wild weather at home!

Two months.

Two whole months.

How time flies.

I suppose there's still an element of surrealism about being here. Whilst the incidents are less frequent than earlier this month, I still can't help but find myself dropping everything and thinking to myself, "Hold on... I'm in London..."

Yet at the same time, the stress of finding employment, paying rent, calculating bills, taxes and other expenses, triple-checking prices to try and find the best deal on three tea-towels (£2.98 for future reference)... well, it's enough to shock some reality into you.

I don't think I've ever been as simultaneously stressed and relaxed in my life (to all you naysayers who said I'd be able to stop worrying about everything for the next 12 months, you weren't exactly right).

That said, at the end of two months, it seems like things are finally falling into place. We've got a great flat, work is chugging along (first paycheck comes Friday!) and-

Hold on... I'm in London...

By (un)popular demand, a (very small) photo update.

Given my next three months' worth of posting will be rehashed whining about my data entry job (see Thursday's post), I'll throw up a handful of pics every day to tie you over until I have more exciting adventures than locating lawyers for people during my lunch hour.

Hopefully, I'll have the proper photo gallery up and running again soon, but until then, I'll simply upload them here.

Enjoy!

(1) Me 'n' the scorpions in Singapore. The only thing stopping them from going absolutely bananas was a 60-watt bulb. I hope it gets changed regularly. (2) Soaking up the sun before heading to heat-deprived Europe (if Mum and Dad are reading, those are non-alcoholic beverages; if not, the name "Singapore Sling" says it all).

(3) Said heat-deprived Europe. This is actually a fountain situated outside Marienplatz, a spectacular old building in the city centre of Munich.

(4) Snow angels!

(5) The view from our first stop in Germany; the ice at the top of the picture is hanging down from the roof (and, pardon the pun, it was just the tip of the iceberg).

More pics to come!

...is it the weekend yet?

I know, I know, I only started work four days ago, having come off almost two months of unemployment, but I'm only human!

New job's going fine, but anyone who's done data entry in the past will know the nauseating dullness of an eight-hour shift of copying and pasting. Aside from the four ways in which one can do this (I'm optimistic I'll eventually find a fifth), there's frighteningly little variety in the everyday routine.

I'm working in Soho, which is one of the more expensive regions in London, which is a bit of a thrill, except when it comes time to buy lunch and a humble baked potato sets you back somewhere in the region of $AU12.

I'm working in a team of five temps, several of which are Aussies, which is cool (although I'm running out of diplomatic ways to answer the question, "Are you bored yet?").

Perhaps the most exciting thing that happens during the work day is when the phone rings. Y'see, the number of the line on my desk (complete with extension) happens to be the phone number of a service listed in the Yellow Pages as Locate-a-Lawyer. I'll leave it to your imaginations to figure out where I'd love to tell callers they could find one (fortunately, I don't get many calls; I assume that's because no-one out there really wants to find a lawyer).

Anyhow, time's ticking away, which means two things: my time in this Internet café is almost up, and the weekend is now twenty minutes closer... hooray!

I have a job.

In London.

A job in London.

Wow.

I didn't even have time to walk home from the recruitment agency (Office Angels) today before they phoned me with an offer to start work on Monday for Total Jobs.com, an online recruitment agency.

The position is an ongoing temporary one, which is ideal, and pays decently. It's a data entry position, which probably won't be a thrill-a-minute, but it pays the bills and shouldn't be too stressful. Strange, considering I've never done data entry before, but I think I nailed it on my recruitment evaluation this afternoon. Better still, it's about a 20-minute walk from our new flat (near the green section of the Monopoly board), so transport costs have been slashed! Hooray!

Speaking of which, we move into our flat tomorrow... can't wait!

Not much to update, aside from that.

Peace out!

If someone had told me, even as recently as three months ago, that my first home would be on London's Hyde Park, I'd have probably told them where to go.

Yet, two days after signing the dotted line on a lease, here I am.

Yep, from Friday, we'll be living in a wonderful, modern apartment no more than a minute's walk from Hyde Park, Whiteley's Shopping Centre and a stone's throw from many other London highlights (including, but not limited to, the entire green section of the Monopoly board; yes, that's the second-most expensive one). The rent is a bit on the pricey side, but considering the area, Bayswater (one of London's more upmarket suburbs), and its proximity to much of the city, it's a fantastic place. Pics to come soon (I'll be uploading a tonne over the next week or so, I hope; apologies for the lack of updates on that front).

After staying in a few dives over the past week, we're all excited about settling down somewhere we can make our own mess, as opposed to wading through everywhere else's.

In fact, it's funny how your idea of "swanky" changes over time. On the weekend, we stayed in a hostel room with a creepy, oafish-looking guy who silently paced the room cracking his knuckles (we wisely opted to change rooms before he went postal) and a hotel in which the shower was situated conveniently on a wooden crate in the living room / bedroom; the shower, meanwhile, had to be running for the sink taps to work. Yet both of those places seem like the Hilton compared to our current accommodation. The foyer had us all fooled with its royal blue carpeting and gold lettering on everything in sight. However, the façade was shattered when we discovered the pile of dishes perpetually sitting in the kitchen sink (beneath a sign kindly asking patrons to clean up after themselves), the communal cutlery set (singular) and the room that once housed a double bed, but is now home to a cramped eight bunks.

Surprised we're keen to move into our swisho new apartment?

Job-hunting's on the go-slow, but now we have a home locked in, we'll knuckle down and find some work. Went to a temp agency today, who seem to be shaping up alright, and I hope to be signed up with another tomorrow. The pound is knocking my savings around something chronic.

Of course, one upside of moving back to London is the commencement of The Monopoly Challenge™: 22 photos of me on each of the Monopoly streets. Let the mayhem begin!

Oh, and it snowed today! And it was sunny! At the same time! In London! Crazy!

Anyhow, thanks to all of you who've emailed. It's great to hear from you all! Hope all's well for everyone back home!

How things change.

After an unfruitful two-week search for work and accommodation in Edinburgh, we've reached the decision that the only way to live comfortably whilst actually saving pounds, is to head back to London to work.

Not an easy decision, by any means. We'd all decided we love Edinburgh on our first day here; the city has such character. But the figures didn't stack up. Work here, which, in our field, is difficult to come by, pays an absolute pittance, and living costs aren't a great deal lower (if any). Meanwhile, in London, pay is considerably higher and there is much more work available.

So tomorrow, we're jetsetting back to the UK capital, where, hopefully, we'll settle down soon and earn some cash. We'd all established we'd rather stay put, but the sums just weren't adding up in our favour. Given the plan is to travel all through summer (right now, it's just too freaking cold!), the less we dip into our savings at this point, the better.

Otherwise, Edinburgh life is good. Today we paid a visit to Edinburgh Castle, which offers an amazing glimpse at the kind of history we couldn't even dream of in Australia. The castle itself has some gorgeous architecture, whilst inside you'll find relics from all kinds of battle-related aspects of Scottish history. On the outside, you can squeeze into a space between the numerous cannons strategically positioned around the castle's exterior for a breathtaking view of Edinburgh and the surrounding city.

No doubt we'll be back at some point - after all, I still have to visit Loch Ness and bag me a monster - but I can't help but feel sad that I'm leaving a little earlier than I'd hoped.

One week on in Edinburgh, and not much has changed.

Still living at the hostel.

Still on a very strict rotation of clothes.

Still eating far too much food.

That said, things could be worse. On the work front, I'm signed up for temp work (my visa isn't valid until later this week, so I'm not surprised it's been slow-going 'til now) with a recruitment agency here in the city. Meanwhile, I'm keeping an eye out for retail stuff as well, which pays similarly and requires much less stress and responsibility; wages here, on the whole, are pretty lousy, which isn't encouraging, but there's not much that can be done about it. Given our limited time here, I think I'd sooner enjoy myself at a low-stress job than worry about an office job where I know I have no future.

Today we began looking at apartments where we can temporarily reside, at least for a few months, whilst we work to earn some pounds; the awful exchange rate is ensuring my savings will have a short lifespan in my bank account. There have been a couple of nice places, which haven't been too expensive. It'd be great if we could find somewhere by the week's end, thus cementing our decision to stay here in Edinburgh.

Took my first photos since arriving in Edinburgh today, which is a sign that sight-seeing has been non-existant over the past eight days. Walked the short distance to Edinburgh Castle this morning (but not inside; something for a later day), from where you get fine views of the city's surrounding areas, including Firth of Forth. It's a gorgeous place.

Ciao for now.

Well, we're here.

The temporary end-of-the-line.

Having cruised through Singapore, Germany, Austria (albeit briefly) and England, we have arrived in Edinburgh, where the hunt for work and a place to temporarily reside (I refuse to call it "home") has begun.

It's slow-going at the moment, with work looking a bit slim and the salaries a little lower than we'd anticipated, but it's only been a couple of days, so we're far from giving up hope yet. We've decided to see what work's available so we can work out a place to live (and rent) accordingly.

The plan is to find work here for a few months (depending on how many pounds we're raking in in what will no doubt be fantastic jobs) before heading off for some more travel. But for now, I think what we're all looking forward to more than anything else is to settle down somewhere, stop living out of a backpack and to be able to leave personal belongings strewn recklessly over the floor without fears of them going walkabout.

As for Scotland itself... I love it. It's more laidback than the occassionally-stuffy London but most people still act more responsibly than they do back home. It's a good balance. We're staying at a hostel right near The Royal Mile, Scotland's main stretch, right in the heart of Old Town (New Town is just a hop, skip and a jump away). There's plenty of old architecture and history nearby (within walking distance is both the church from the climax of The Da Vinci Code and the cafe where JK Rowling wrote the first 'arry Potter novel). The sun is out today and I'd guess it's a comfortable 10+ degrees.

I'll be in touch soon to keep you updated on how the employment search is going!

G'day on this surprisingly sunny London afternoon!

Having a very enjoyable time in London, and have covered at least half the Monopoly board over the past five days. On Tuesday, we wandered along Oxford and Regent Streets (I had a hotel on Regent Street once, before I went bankrupt), which was an all-day affair; endless rows of department stores, selling everything under the fleeting London sun. Backpack restrictions, however, meant I left with nothing (not to mention our Aussie dollar equalling something approximating £0.000000001).

Yesterday we took the tube down to Leicester Square (that's in the yellow section of the Monopoly board, for those of you playing at home) and spent the afternoon at the theatre. Got some great (and fairly cheap) tickets to the stageplay of The Producers, which is even better as a stageplay than the recent movie remake. Well recommended, if you make it to London and fancy a jaunt at the theatre. A very cultured affair, even if it's a play about gay, singing Nazis that leaves no race, religion or gender unoffended ("Springtime for Hitler and Germany, Winter for Poland and France; Watch out Europe, we're going on tour").

Tomorrow, we're trekking over to the opposite side of London to check out the big tourist sites, such as London Bridge, Big Ben and MI6.

Not a great deal else to report; definitely off to Edinburgh on Sunday. Soon after that, we'll be looking for somewhere to rent and settle down for a few months, find some work and fit in some sightseeing during our spare time.

Just passed the three-week mark for this trip (in some ways it feels like I haven't even left yet, and in others, like I've been gone an eternity). In any case, I'm enjoying myself a great deal, even if I'm very much missing you all at home.

I'll report back soon!

Before I fill you in on what's going on in London, I have been informed I have to report that I inadvertently filed my previous entry from a gay Internet café (not that there's anything wrong with that). After signing off and heading outside, the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place: the overly friendly owner, the same-sex couples seated throughout the café, and finally the name of the café, Coffee Fellows. All a learning experience.

On our last day before flying to London, we went to Austria. For lunch. That's it. Just lunch! Very cool! Austria's lovely. Similar to Germany, but possibly even more picturesque. We went to a wonderful little café with a modern, but classic atmosphere. Thoroughly enjoyable!

After a delayed flight into Heathrow, thanks to a very foggy London afternoon, we made our way to the adequate Royal Court Apartments in Paddington. We're here for seven nights, but haven't seen much of the city yet (where the temperature is a scorching 5°C). Today we went for a brief wander through the city to Hyde Park, where we caught the King's Troop Royal Horse Artillery 41-gun salute to celebrate Queen Elizabeth II's accession to the throne. It was a typically British affair with lots of horses, cannons, overdressed participants and plenty of dignitaries in top hats. Jolly good show!

This evening, we've wandered the streets of London checking out the shops, etc, and snagged a few books (including, at long last, The Da Vinci Code) for those wind-down days. Over the next week, we'll do all those touristy things London things, and hopefully catch a matinée of The Phantom of the Opera.

After that, it's off to Edinburgh!

I can't believe it hasn't even been three weeks yet. In so many ways, it feels like much longer, but at the same time, I still can't believe I've left. Homesickness is fleeting, but it was inevitable. Under the circumstances, it's not too bad.

I'll have some pictures uploaded soon, as it's getting a bit out of hand on my camera.

Hope that all is well with everyone at home and abroad!

Dear family and friends,

It is with deep regret that I inform you I am a changed man. The Matt you all knew is gone. I have arrived at the realisation that, replacing the clean-cut, well-groomed, employed man you're familiar with, is a mere shadow of him.

I am now unemployed, sporting an unfashionable belly and desperately need a shave. I'm living out of a backpack, wearing the same clothes over and over and crashing at various people's houses and find myself, each day and night, eating a truckload of food and drinking copious amounts of beer, wine and other alcoholic beverages. Sounds pretty grim, right?

Wrong.

After an ill few days in Munich (jetlag, no doubt), things have taken a total turn for the better. I attended the opening night screening of Steven Spielberg's new film, Munich, in Munich! The next day we headed down to Passau, a city near the German-Austrian border, where, soon after arrival, I indulged in my first snowball fight. We've been tobbogganing on multiple occassions (including in the backyard!). I have been exceptionally well-wined and dined, trying a range of German foods and many, many German, French, Austrian and Italian beers, wines, champagnes and schnappes. I went for a refreshing barefoot walk in the snow (which is excruciating at the time, but afterwards gives the impression you've just dunked your feet in a trés expensive tub of champagne). We visited the Salzburg Saltmine (a massive saltmine that has been operational since the early 1500s; once entering, you travel down on a series of trains and 40-metre slides (as in slippery-slides) until you end up in the deepest part of the mountain, where you drift across a salt lake on a raft 140 metres below the surface). On the way to the saltmine, we had the opportunity to zip down the famous autobahn at a cruisey 220km/h, with a couple of detours through Austria on the way (current country count: 3). Yesterday we visited the Spiegelau Glass Factory, where glasses are all hand-blown the old-fashioned way. And today we're simply wandering the streets of Passau, before heading off to a beer festival tonight. Did I mention I've been exceptionally well-wined and dined?

In Munich, we stayed at the Euro Youth Hotel, a decent little hostel near the city's shopping centre. We didn't see a great deal of Munich due to illness, but no doubt we'll be back at some point. Since arriving in Passau, we've stayed with two exceedingly welcoming families (understatement of the millennium) who've been kind enough to keep us very, very well-fed and have been showing us the sights of Passau. Incidentally, I love this city. It's got Bavaria plastered all over it, with the architecture, food and customs all indicative of what to expect of South German life. Oh, and today it's a chilly -9°C (during the day).

On Sunday, it's off to London, which I'm really excited about. My cockney accent may need a brush-up, but I've got a few days.

Cheers and German beers.

I don't believe I'm sitting here on this train, writing this journal, drinking this coffee, wearing these clothes, taking in the view of these snowy mountains. It is both so real and surreal.

In addition to this blog, I also keep a written journal of my personal thoughts, what I'm feeling, etc; something more for my own benefit, rather than this, which is a diversion out of your busy lives at best.

But today, perhaps the result of sleep-deprived delerium (as I type this, I'm approaching 40 hours without sleep, thanks to some awkwardly-timed flights and train trips), I had the epiphany I've been waiting for. After an absolutely excruciating 13-hour flight, we took the slightly more relaxed train trip from Frankfurt to Munich. The trip was amazing, with views of increasingly mountaineous and snow- and ice-covered scenery, the further we went along. As the train sidled to one of the few stops on our trip, it began to snow. I am not ashamed to say I was in awe, like a kid at Christmastime.

And that's when it hit me. Singapore was such a Westernised country, with a warm climate, where I was hanging out with friends, and where most people speak barely-adequate English (like Australia!). But here, only select people speak English and the weather is freezing! My point is, this finally feels like something significant, rather than a brief holiday away. Of course, this means the excitement has increased tenfold, but so too has the reality that I'm so far from home and it finally feels like it. Perhaps most pressing in my mind is the return of the cloud of uncertainty that's been hanging over me ever since I started to consider this trip. I'm sure I'll find my feet soon enough. But for now, I'm in this very opaque state-of-mind.

Forgot to mention our trip to Sim Lim Square yesterday as well (where shopping is a baffling ordeal). Haggling is the name of the game here, and the tactics used by some of the shopkeepers are shifty to say the least! Sim Lim Square is a massive five-story (I think) shopping complex specialising exclusively in electronics. Needless to say, it's utter pandemonium, but an experience to wander about, and avoid people offering you reams of catalogues, people attempting to sell you ridiculously overpriced goods (pre-haggle) and people trying to sell you said ridiculously overpriced goods if you so much as touch it (as per the, you make contact with it, you bought it store policy). Oh the hilarity!

Thanks all for your comments on the blog! Much appreciated! I'll be checking in soon!

Caveat: German keyboards are zany.

At Singapore Airport waiting for the next two hours to pass before our flight (13 hours; can't wait!).

Not much to report today (these daily entries are an anomoly, I assure you). Spent a quiet one by the pool, after a bit of shopping.

Sad to say the most exciting thing was hotcakes at McDonald's this morning. Honest to God, they are some of the best pancakes I've had (and they dump all over Macca's back home). They have this rich, creamy butter that just melts in your mouth! Delish!

Yes, you just read correctly. I'm in some exotic locale raving about fast food. We all have our off days.

My bag is now substantially lighter that I'm carrying around the many layers of clothes I anticipate I'll be wearing once we hit Frankfurt (and later tomorrow, Munich). We'll be spending a few days at a hostel in the city (my first hostel experience; should be interesting!) before heading out to Passau for a week and a bit.

Anyway, the clock is ticking on this infernal machine and I need to log off. Best wishes to all, and I look forward to chatting to you soon!

Spent today at Sentosa, a sprawling island resort with numerous attractions scattered across it.

With lots of pizza and a Rasa Sling (midori, triple sec, pineapple juice, strawberries and ice) resting contentedly in my stomach, the afternoon was spent lying on the bright, white sand of Siloso beach, soaking up the sun and listening to the rhythmic beats of island music interspersed with the lapping of the waves on the shore behind me. Can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be. Bliss!

The beach was our last stop on the island, following a trip up the Carlsberg Sky Tower (Singapore's tallest observation tower) and refusing to pass up the opportunity to allow four venomous scorpions to crawl all over me (pictures to come, for those of you who don't believe me). Oh, and we got to visit (and climb) the Merlion, a massive stone statue that has been moved from another island in the area.

We (window-)shopped late into the night last night; if there's one thing Singaporeans know how to do, it's shop. Open (and packed full of people) well into the night, each shopping complex is bigger than the last, but if you want a bargain, one of the many markets on the street is the place to go. I'm now the proud owner of a genuine cheapy Singapore watch! Trés thrifty!

Tomorrow's our last day in Singapore; we fly out late tomorrow night to Frankfurt (approximately 13 hours) and from there we're immediately catching a four-hour train ride to Munich. I'm eagerly looking forward to wearing 17 layers of clothes simultaneously and consequently freeing up some space in my already-bursting-at-the-seams backpack.

I'll be checking in in Germany!

Here I am in Singapore!

Can't get my head around it, to be honest. In fact, this, my third day here, is the first where I actually feel like I'm in Singapore. As a country, it's very Westernised. Virtually everyone speaks English and a great deal of the stores - Starbucks, McDonalds, KFC - are all places you'd find in Australia (or indeed, most Western countries). This, coupled with the warm weather and familiar company over the past few days, is making this trip feel more like a holiday than anything substantial (I 'd say everything will come crashing down once we reach Germany, where the weather is literally freezing and no-one speaks English).

After a couple of minor hiccups upon arrival that saw us moved to another hotel (the lovely Peninsula Excelsior, from which we were offered amazing views of the city, including a birds-eye view on Chinatown, which is decked out in all kinds of lights and decorations for the impending Chinese New Year celebrations), we were able to get into more of a routine the next morning at the Parkroyal.

Yesterday morning was spent recovering from the gruelling eight-hour flight, but in the afternoon I was fortunate enough to catch up with Nick (who has been taking great delight in the fact he's technically the last person to see me before I go to Europe) at the Shaw Centre for a spot of shopping Singapore-style (think endless labarynthine corridors of shops that would be no more than a metre-and-a-half wide each). After a superb complementary buffet dinner at the Parkroyal, we braved the Singapore markets to check out hundreds and hundreds of stalls selling essentially the same three things (cheap clothes, knock-off watches and counterfeit CDs). Absolutely packed with people, of course, all hoping to pick up Elton John's latest burnt CD or the new Beverly Hills 90210 merchandise.

Today has been the most exciting day yet. Taking a taxi to the outskirts of the city - from which you can see the Malaysian skyline - we paid a visit to the amazing Singapore Zoo. By far the best zoo I've ever seen, it houses almost every animal under the sun - otters, zebras, polar bears, penguins, seals, elephants, and yes, lions, tigers and bears (oh my!). Oh, and primates! Primates as far as the eye can see! It's not hard to believe the zoo houses the largest collection of primates in the world. I even got to ride an elephant and have my photo taken with an orangutan (try guessing which one is which; I think you'll be pleasantly surprised!). The zoo had it all (including not one, but two of its own KFCs!).

Otherwise, the past few days have been spent with lots of R&R; the hotel has an amazing pool area that looks like it belongs in Tahiti. Singapore's an amazing country, which, for its size (approximately 46km x 26km) and population (approaching four million people), is unlike anything else - I'm really beginning to warm to it, actually.

Obligatory weather remarks: it's hot and humid, but not as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, I think the heat was at its worst when we stepped off the plane. Since then, it's been tolerable, with most places having air-conditioning (except this blasted Internet café!).

Tomorrow, we're off to Sentosa, dubbed "Singapore's Island Resort". Plenty to see and do, which should be an all-day affair. Then one last day here and we're off to Frankfurt and then, Munich (current temperature: a summery -3°C).

Apologies also for not replying to emails; something's funky with the web set-up here and it won't let me log on. Hope to be able to contact you all via email once we get to Europe.

Hope all's well down under!