Blood on the Fridge: A Cautionary Tale

It was like something from a horror movie. There was blood everywhere. It splattered on the work-top, the floor, the fridge, me. It was gushing out of my hand, streaming down my wrist, collecting at my elbow and dripping onto my legs like some sort of mobile Jackson Pollack painting. Except I wasn’t very mobile at that moment. I was rooted to the ground, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at the bright red blood pumping out of my hand at a frightening rate. It felt like hours, but in reality probably lasted for about three seconds. As soon as my brain caught up with my eyes and my nerve endings, the screaming started. Howls of pain and disbelieving shock. I could think of nothing but the gaping wound on my hand at that moment, but musing on it now I am surprised our neighbours didn’t come round to check we were alright. I sounded like I was being torn from limb to limb but heard not a peep from them. It’s good to know that if I am ever brutally attacked I can’t count on them to save me.


But back to the slasher movie: The Husband ran out to find me clutching my hand, eyes wide, rooted to the spot amidst a splattering of blood. “What have you done?” he cried. I tried to tell him but the wrong words tumbled out of my mouth. I tried again but a mish-mash of words came out, all in the wrong order. Defeated, I pointed to the knife lying on the work-top where I had thrown it, stained with warm blood. Quickly taking in the situation, he led me to the sink and turned on the tap, forcing my hand under the water. It hurt. And did nothing to stem the steady stream of blood gushing out of my hand. “There’s a lot of blood,” he said. Yes, I can see that, I felt like screaming, so now what? He grabbed my uninjured hand and placed it on the wrist of the slashed one. “Hold tightly and lift it above your head,” he ordered, as he disappeared into the bathroom. I screwed my eyes shut, not wanting to see my own blood anymore. With my vision gone, my other senses were heightened. I could feel my hand steadily throbbing as it pumped blood out of my body. I could smell the warm, wet scent of iron. I could hear a drip, drip, drip. Thinking that the tap hadn’t been turned off properly I opened my eyes momentarily and realised that the sound was not water dripping from the tap but blood dripping from my raised hand. The blood combined with the water in the sink to form a rusty coloured puddle that made me feel nauseous. I shut my eyes again.

The Husband seemed to take an age and all I kept thinking was that with every second he was gone, I was losing more and more blood. He eventually reappeared armed with antiseptic wipes, a huge wodge of toilet paper and a thick roll of bandages. By this point, there was so much blood it was hard to see the wound but I could tell from the grim look on The Husband’s face that it wasn’t good. He pressed the toilet paper to my hand and wrapped the bandage around it, pulling another bandage tightly around my wrist in an attempt to cut off the blood supply to my hand to allow it to clot. I sat meekly on the sofa, arm propped up above my head, the tears having abated, shock starting to set in. The Husband brought me his hoody as I began to shiver. I started to lose feeling in my hand and my fingers were turning blue. It freaked me out. “My hand is dying!” I cried. “No it’s not,” The Husband replied. “You’re killing my hand!” I insisted. Grim-faced, barely containing his irritation with his frightened patient, he unwrapped the bandage. The wound started to bleed again. “You’re going to have to go to hospital,” was his sombre analysis, “I think you need stitches.” “No,” I countered, furiously shaking my head, “no, no, no, no, no”. I didn’t want to spend my evening in a hospital waiting room but, more than that, we are off to the Ningaloo Reef tomorrow for a snorkelling holiday and stitches and water don’t really mix. I wasn’t about to shelve my dreams of swimming with whale sharks. “I won’t complain that my hand’s about to drop off,” I promised, “and I’ll stop wiggling my fingers just to check they still work. Wrap her up again!”

Half an hour later and the bleed had stopped. The Husband loosened the bandage slightly and I went to bed feeling very sorry for myself. A restless night followed and I was awake when The Husband got up. As I am normally comatose at this ungodly hour of the morning, I knew something had to change. I begged him to take the bandage off and felt better with each unwrapped layer. When all that remained was the plaster, I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt free again. The good news was that the wound hadn’t bled, the bad news was that my hand had a definite blue tinge. No wonder I couldn’t sleep. I was probably in self-preservation mode, my body ensuring that my hand didn’t fall off in the night. I am pleased to report that I think I’ll live. My hand is gradually regaining its colour and it seems to be working (I keep wiggling my fingers just to make sure). The horror movie is over. As if to remind me never to wield a knife towards my body again, I found a spot of blood on the fridge this morning, which is just what you want to see at 5.30am.

Lessons learnt? Knives are dangerous. Especially when they have been sharpened the night before without your knowledge. You can never rely on your neighbours to come to your aid in a potentially lethal situation. And your hand won’t drop off if you bandage it tightly. But it will hurt a lot.

The Expat Wife's Prerogative

I don’t often take full advantage of the fact that I have no set working hours and can take time off whenever the mood takes me, but on Friday afternoon I luxuriated in one of the benefits of life as an expat wife. I set aside the entire afternoon to chilling out in the garden with a fellow Expat WAG and my good friend, Sauvignon Blanc. There’s got to be some benefits to living in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles away from friends and family, and this is certainly one of them. This may surprise many of you, but I hadn’t indulged in such an afternoon before – I suppose I have always assumed that I would be assuaged by the guilty knowledge that I was enjoying myself with gay abandon whilst The Husband was hard at work. I did have a few guilt-ridden thoughts of him slaving away as I leant back against the cushions and sipped my vino but I figured, as the one who washes and irons his clothes, cleans the house, cooks all his meals and does all the shopping, on top of trying to launch my own career as a writer, I was entitled to a bit of me-time. And, being Friday afternoon, it was practically the weekend anyway. Who really works on Friday afternoons?


It also meant that I was extra-specially nice to him when he came home. He was treated to a hug, a kiss and a beaming smile at the front door when normally he gets a shouted ‘hello!’ from the other side of the house. There’s no lipstick touch-ups or ribbon in the hair for him normally (or ever, to be honest – he’s lucky to find me with even a slick of mascara most days. I live in the desert – who’s going to notice?!). So I started the weekend early and had a lovely afternoon with a bite of lunch, a bottle (and a half) of some very nice wine and a good three and a half hours of girly chat. I'm not going to feel guilty about it - sometimes a girl needs that, especially in Karratha.

Ad-hurts

I think I could get a job making regional TV ads in Australia. Seriously, I do. I have never seen ads quite like the ones they show on the telly here. Picture this: the ad starts and you see a shop-front. A couple then walks in through the door hand-in-hand, smiling so much you’d think they were going in to buy an engagement ring or pick up a lottery win. But the camera then focuses in on the sign above the door and it’s an estate agent. Thrilling. You then get a montage of shots of them talking to the smarmy looking agent, being shown around a house, picking up the keys, all the while smiling so hard their jaws are going to hurt for weeks. Played over the top of this is a jingle of the type that I sing to The Husband about myself . Yes, I often sing about myself, him, the two of us together, often adding in what I’m doing - “I’m cooking very nice things, yes I’m a wonderful cook, Matty is so lucky, oh I am such a great catch” – those sorts of things, and all to some spontaneously made-up tune. You can imagine how good those songs are. Well, the jingle accompanying this ad is of the same calibre, if not actually below par – my songs are at least upbeat and catchy. This is sung by a man with an incredibly annoying, whiny voice, with these inspired lyrics: “We’re the real estate people in your neighbourhood, in your neighbourhood, in your neigh-bour-hood; we’re the real estate people in your neighbourhood...” – you get the drift. You end up wanting to throw something at the TV.


Another one of our favourites is an advert persuading indigenous women not to drink, smoke or take drugs when they’re pregnant. The acting is appalling – I think they must have literally grabbed people off the street to do it. It’s so bad it’s like they’re intentionally acting like someone who can’t act. “Con-grat-u-lations. You. Are. Pregnant. That. Means. No. Drinking. Smoking. Or. Drugs.” The best part is when the expectant mother comes in for a scan (after the camera has already shown her drinking a can of JD and Coke – product placement, anyone?) and it’s bad news. “Oh. No. Your. Baby. Has. Brain. Damage. It. Will. Need. Care. For. The. Rest. Of. Its. Life.” The lack of emotion in her voice is brilliant – she’s telling a woman that her actions have permanently harmed her unborn child and it sounds like she’s just going through the motions and she’s actually thinking about what she’s going to have for lunch.

I know these companies and organisations won’t have a lot of money to splash on making a top-class ad but they can still be clever or funny (and not the laughing-because-it’s-so-bad kind of funny) or at least involve actors that can at least act half decently, even if they are pulled off the street. They are memorable, however, and at the end of the day that’s what they’re trying to achieve. It’s not necessarily good to be memorable for the wrong reasons though. I certainly wouldn’t risk stepping foot in that estate agents in case they all break out into that dreary song. “We’re the real estate people in your ...” Oh no, it’s stuck in my head now!

It's Crud for K-Rudd

It’s the big news of the day – hell, the year – in Australia. The country of kangaroos, surfers and a woman called Matilda who just loved to waltz has a new prime minister, and not just a new prime minister but Australia’s first ever female prime minister. It’s a huge thing for the women of this country and a historic day for Australia. The only thing is, I didn’t think they’d had a general election. Well, that’s because they haven’t. Labour, Australia’s leading party, have done just what their British cousins did and have elected a prime minister of their own choosing. The difference is, Kevin Rudd did not step down because he knew the public wanted him out. The former prime minister of Australia was forced to resign because of lack of support within his party – his own party wanted him out. They went to Julia Gillard, asked her to stand against Rudd, and she agreed. Rather than force a ballot, as he knew the numbers were against him, he saved himself the embarrassment of being voted out by his own party and gracefully stepped down this morning.


Of course, you can’t separate the public from this. The main reason so many of the Labour party wanted him out is because his popularity with the people of Australia has plummeted over the past few months, largely due to his backing down on a massive climate change initiative that was key to his environmental strategy and, more recently, his hugely unpopular mining super-profits tax. With a general election looming towards the end of the year, Labour was terrified that the public was increasingly showing support for the Opposition. They thought that they would fare better at the election with Julia Gillard at their helm.

So, what do the public think of all this? The leaders of a country are supposed to be serving their people, after all, not their own party’s interests. The general consensus seems to be that people like Julia Gillard, that she will be a competent leader, but that they would have preferred to have made that decision for themselves. Many people feel betrayed by the fact that the system’s factional leaders and union bosses have overturned the votes they cast at the last election. Whatever they currently think of Kevin Rudd, they voted him into leadership, not Julia Gillard. They wanted the opportunity to decide whether to get rid of him and vote in a new leader. They now have a leader, making decisions for their country, that they did not elect and they are angry they have been left out of the process. They are angry that this could happen at all. It will be very interesting to see what happens in the upcoming election when the people of Australia do get to decide. Will they see Gillard as a backstabbing bitch who shafted the man she was supposed to be loyal to, or as a strong female who saved the Labour party and can lead their country to greater things?

I do feel sorry for K-Rudd. Ok, so he made a few mistakes but he also did some great things for this country, most remarkable of all perhaps was keeping Australia largely out of the recession that has mired most of the rest of the world. And we mustn’t forget the historic day he apologised to the Stolen Generation on behalf of the Australian nation for the terrible sins of the past. Australia doesn’t often make it into international news but that was something that the world paid attention to. Since then, he has tried to close the wide, gaping gap between indigenous and white Australians. His departing speech, which listed these and the many other achievements of his since winning power just two and half years ago, was emotional and he struggled to fight back the tears. I’m not surprised – he has had a horrible 24 hours. For not only the majority of your party but your deputy, who is supposed to be loyal to you, to stab you in the back like that must hurt. It would be like a member of your family horribly betraying you. And yet the astonishing thing is that he has maintained that, rather than go on the public speaking trail where he could not only get out of all that political in-fighting but also earn huge amounts of money, he will remain in the Labour party. He must be crazy. Maybe his party were right to oust him after all!

Has the Google Generation Gone Gaga?

Google is a wonderful thing. As both consumer and journalist, I don’t know what I’d do without the ability to search for any piece of information I need by simply typing it in and pressing ‘enter’. I can still remember the days of reaching for one of the big red books in our Encyclopedia Britannica collection for help with homework or, failing that, persuading mum to take me to the library to search for it there. Of course, neither of those options would help with current, up-to-the-minute news and information. To be able to access a world of information at home, at the push of a button, is truly a remarkable thing and you’d have therefore imagined the ‘now generation’ to be more knowledgeable, with their ability to be constantly informed about breaking global news events, scientific discoveries, important governmental decisions, the views of countries around the world. Of course, that would actually involve searching for those things – it all depends on what you type into that search engine and the incredibly scientific research I conducted into this made for some interesting reading.


To gauge what three developed countries – Australia, the US and the UK – felt were the important matters of the day, I wanted to know the information they were most desperately seeking. I typed in ‘is’ followed by the space bar to bring up the ten most popular searches on each country’s Google directory page and what I found was somewhat alarming. The top search was the same for each country, indicating that it is a matter of deep concern for the people of those nations. It was this - ‘is Lady Gaga a man?’ Yes, that’s right, the developed world is desperate to seek the truth of this matter of international importance. In fact, ‘is Lady Gaga a hermaphrodite?’ ranks as the third and fourth most searched for question in America and Australia respectively. Perhaps it should be discussed on Question Time.

The US appears to be a nation of hypochondriacs – both ‘is bronchitis contagious?’ and ‘is tonsillitis contagious?’ makes it into its top ten. Our American friends also seem to share an obsession with Justin Bieber with the Aussies, but whereas Australia just wants to know whether he will be visiting their country, the US wants to know if he is bi-sexual. Bieber fever obviously hasn’t hit the UK yet but there does seem to be a lot of rumours going around about celebrity deaths. The eighth most popular search is ‘is Leona Lewis dead?’, although apparently we Brits are far more concerned with the fate of the huge star that is Barry Chuckle. Yes, the question of whether Barry Chuckle, of the Chuckle Brothers fame, is dead is the second most popular search on google.co.uk. I have to confess that this intrigued me so I clicked on it and up popped dozens of sites claiming that the ‘to me, to you’ star has been found dead in a brothel in Belfast. But fear not, Chuckle Brothers fans, this shocking revelation appears to be an elaborate hoax, or at least that’s what the official Chuckle Brothers site (yes, there really is one) states – according to them, it’s a hoax that has been around since 2008, more recently resurfacing this year.

I do find it rather alarming that out of the top ten searches in what are supposed to be three of the most educated countries in the world, not one is of serious international importance. And no, I do not consider Lady Gaga’s gender or Justin Bieber’s sexual orientation a globally pressing matter.

What is perhaps most worrying is the search that ranks eighth and fifth in Australia and the UK respectively – ‘is it wrong to sleep with your sister?’ Maybe I should go and live on a boat in the middle of the ocean with The Husband after all.

Yo-ho-ho And A Bottle Of Rum

As The Husband was working on his birthday, I decided to organise something special for the following day, something we definitely couldn’t do in Reading. We, and eight friends, set sail aboard Spinifex Spray, a magnificent 12-metre ketch, complete with pirate flag fluttering high above us. As we would be later told by the skipper, a typically crusty old barnacle of a seafarer, the skull and crossbones is in recognition of the founder of the island we were sailing from and the first Englishman to set foot on Australian soil, the pirate (or ‘profiteer’ as he preferred to be known as) William Dampier.


After a false start, whereby we hung around the wrong jetty and were almost taken out by a launching vessel, we finally made it to the correct pontoon where the sailing boat was standing proud in the water, masts reaching up to the sky. Unfortunately, our skipper was nowhere to be seen. Ignoring the urge to call, “ahoy there, matey, permission to step aboard your vessel?”, I shouted, “Hellooo?” and managed to sound like a nosy neighbour instead. A few seconds later, Brad popped his head up from the cabin. Rather than the young, tanned, ripped blonde surfer-type I had imagined from the name, Brad turned out to be a silver-bearded man in his late fifties with leathery skin and a muffin-top. He was, however, incredibly friendly in that relaxed Aussie way, as well as impressively knowledgeable about the history of the area. He welcomed us aboard and we deposited our snorkelling gear, bags and eskis before settling ourselves at the front of the boat as we set sail out of the harbour towards the Dampier archipelago, a group of 42 islands off the coast of Dampier and nearby Point Samson. It’s a world of white sandy beaches fringed with coral reefs in crystal-clear waters, where turtles, dolphins, whales and a host of other marine life can be found. If it wasn’t for the constant presence of the huge gas and oil projects on the Burrup Peninsula (the whole reason we’re here, of course), we could have been sailing through some Caribbean islands. It was stunning and, with the gentle rocking of the boat, the wind in our hair, and a deliciously blue sky above us, completely and utterly relaxing.

Our first port of call was Malus Island which, like all the islands around here, was completely deserted. If this was Queensland, the bay would be rammed with tourist and private boats alike but we had it all to ourselves in this little-visited spot of Australia. Brad docked the boat within swimming distance of the beach so we donned our snorkelling gear and jumped into the refreshing, transparent water. I was so busy packing my stuff into a bag to put into the little motor boat and then getting my gear on that I didn’t think about the Things That May Kill Me in the water, and it wasn’t until I was jumping in that a flutter of nerves hit my belly. I tried to comfort myself with the fact that with such great visibility, I should be able to spot anything nasty – I shouldn’t just be suddenly confronted with something appearing in front of me from the gloom. With so much beautiful coral and such an array of dazzlingly colourful fish to see, I actually barely gave thought to the nasties of the sea. I just made sure that I stayed near to one of the boys so that there was a reduced chance of me getting attacked first!

All that swimming gave us an appetite, so we waded around to a cluster of rocks that was home to a plethora of oysters. I am not normally a fan of the slimy creatures but when this fresh they’re actually pretty good. Brad armed us with a hammer and we happily opened up the shells and popped the molluscs straight into our mouths – you can’t get much fresher than that. It was then time to hop into the small boat – I managed to fall into it backwards, legs akimbo, in a very lady-like manner – back to Spinifex Spray. We spent the rest of the day cruising around the archipelago, stopping at another beach, and generally totally exhausting ourselves. It was a tough day.

People can diss Karratha all they want, but we’re incredibly lucky to be able to do something like that on a Sunday. The worrying thing now is that The Husband has decided that we are going to buy a boat and spend the rest of our days sailing around in it. That would be fabulous for a week or so but I’m sure the lack of a proper power-shower, a push-button flushing toilet and a full kitchen would soon set tempers flaring. I wouldn’t mind a sailing holiday – as long as there was someone to do most of the work of course (I don’t want to spend every day of my holiday tacking and winching and tying knots in rope and whatever else sailors do thank you very much) – but living on a boat? Not unless it was a Russian billionaire type with full-sized bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, dining room, sitting room and library. He’d better get saving.

Creaking Into Another Year

It was The Husband’s birthday on Saturday, though I won’t embarrass him by revealing what age he turned. Ok, I will. He is now the grand old age of 29, which means that he is less than a year away from being officially Old. It was his last birthday in his twenties so you’d imagine he’d want a wild party or to go out with a bunch of mates, right? Wrong. It appears The Husband is Old before his time as all he wanted was a meal in with his wife. I suppose it’s sweet that he wanted to spend his birthday solely in my company, though I suspect the real reason, other than the fact that he hates a fuss being made of his birthday, is that he is so exhausted these days that his ideal way to spend his nights off is a quiet meal in and a movie (or, at the moment, a bit of footy) before retiring to bed at around 9pm. Which is exactly how his birthday was spent. We started with ginger mojitos and an antipasto starter, followed by lasagne and sticky toffee pudding (both specially requested by the birthday boy – he’s normally on an enforced healthy diet so he relished the opportunity to be allowed to eat some gut-busting food), paired with a lovely South Australian Shiraz. All of this was consumed to the delightful drone of the vuvuzela as he watched some dreary World Cup game. Immediately following his second large helping of sticky toffee pudding, he staggered into the bedroom and lay on the bed in a comatose state, moaning that he felt sick. Two minutes later he was fast asleep. And thus ended his final birthday of his twenties. He still managed to wake up the next morning with a hangover though – he really must be getting Old.

Whale of a Time

I have today booked something for which many might question my sanity. The Husband and I are going to swim with whale sharks. Yes, actual sharks. And not only sharks but the biggest sharks in the world. You may wonder why a girl who is afraid of everything, both in and out of the water, is paying (and paying a lot – I guess it must be the insurance they need to cover themselves in case we end up as fish food) to seek out and willingly jump into the sea with a shark. In fact, just typing that has made me wonder too. What am I doing?? But no, calm down Emily, you know exactly what you’re doing – you’re embarking on the experience of a lifetime. An opportunity to swim with a giant of the sea, to get up close and personal with one of nature’s most majestic creatures. Or so I keep telling myself. These creatures can reach up to eighteen metres in length, can weigh over twenty tons, and possess hundreds of sharp teeth. I have been assured, however, that they are docile and rarely use their tiny, albeit sharp, teeth, preferring instead to suck their food up into their cavernous mouths like a vacuum - an easy enough job when their main food source is plankton. According to the websites – and I visited A LOT, believe me – whale sharks are completely harmless to humans. Unless, I suppose, one unintentionally whacks you with its gigantic tail fin. As long as you keep a few metres between you and it, you should be fine. So I am going to be brave, I am going to put all my fears to one side, and I am going to jump into the sea with an animal that will make me look like an ant. And I am going to love it. I hope.

Happy Glampers!

I now no longer have to worry about my family killing each other. Yesterday, I agonised over whether to camp or not to camp and the answer proved to be neither. We’re going glamping! For those of you not familiar with this marvellous concept, glamping, or ‘glamour camping’, is a happy medium between basic camping and staying in a room with four walls and private amenities. For years now, glamping has saved many a marriage and prevented countless family holidays from ending in disaster. Glamping is the city dweller’s dream. It allows those of us who would rather sleep in a bed than on the floor in a sleeping bag (and who wouldn’t rather that, really?) to get up close and personal with nature without, well, getting too close. Imagine hearing the sounds of birds, crickets and other wildlife, and smelling the scent of fresh air, all whilst resting your head on plush pillows, on a comfortable bed, under a warm, cosy duvet. Oh, and before you’ve fallen into bed, you’ve had a shower and brushed your teeth in your own private bathroom. That surely beats carefully picking your way across a campground with a torch, juggling towel, toiletries and fresh clothes in your arms, showering with ten other people, sharing a sink with a couple of kids, picking your way back across the campground, trying not to get your freshly washed self dirty again, whilst flashing your torch wildly around as you attempt to remember where exactly your tent is located. Then of course you have to step over your mum, dad and brother to get to your small person-sized space, before folding your weary body into your sleeping bag on the hard ground. Doesn’t seem like there’s much of a choice to me.


The irony of camping is that you’re invariably outside all day, getting hot, sweaty and dirty, so camping holidays are just when you need a nice, relaxing shower the most. Ditto a comfortable bed. I am looking forward to getting back from a day’s hiking down into gorges and scrabbling over rocks, and stepping into my own shower, being able to stand upright while I dress, and collapsing into a full-size bed complete with comfy mattress and fresh linen. When you’ve been communing with nature all day, it’s nice to come back to some modern luxuries.

Happy Campers?

In a few weeks time, the family will be descending on us. We are meeting them in Exmouth, a small coastal town a stone’s throw from the stunning Ningaloo Reef, where we’ll be able to wade out from the beach to snorkel in waters teeming with marine life. While we’re there we’ll be staying at the fabulous Novotel Ningaloo in a bungalow complete with beach-side terrace with hot tub and barbecue. It will be heaven, pure luxurious heaven. We (minus The Husband, who sadly has to go back to work) then move on to Karijini National Park, a remote wilderness famous for its spectacular waterfalls cascading into the dramatic red gorges which carve jagged slices out of the landscape. And herein lies the dilemma. Being a national park in the middle of the middle of the WA outback, there isn’t much choice in terms of accommodation. Most visitors to Karijini camp – it is the cheapest and easiest way to be slap bang in the middle of the park. When I say easiest, of course, I mean that it is the most widely available accommodation option, for camping would certainly not be easy for my family.


Other than a couple of occasions when I slept in a tent in a friend’s back garden as a child (which I have been informed, more than once, cannot be classed as camping), I have camped once in my entire life. It was whilst travelling around South America with The Husband (although he wasn’t The Husband at the time, just The Boyfriend) and I was so cold and uncomfortable I barely slept a wink. I clearly remember vowing the following morning never to camp again. The Brother has romantic visions of us all sitting around a campfire toasting marshmallows and singing under the stars, although as the park doesn’t allow open fires that dream has already been quashed. The Father insists that he has been camping dozens of times before and knows exactly how to put up a tent but, as The Mother reminds him, the last time the two of them slept in a tent he had sideburns, long hair and wore flares. I can see the problems starting right from the beginning, with the erection of the tent. It will be like one of those reality TV programmes where contestants have to pull together and work as a team but invariably end up fighting, crying and throwing things down on the ground in anger. We would probably be the laughing stock of the campsite, especially in Australia where many families regularly go camping together and whose three year olds know how to secure a tent peg. Then of course there is the issue of the four of us all sharing a tiny space. We haven’t all lived together for ten years, so suddenly sharing a tent could be a recipe for disaster. On top of all of that, there’s the issue of shared shower and toilet facilities. I think I need say no more.

Of course, I could be completely wrong and it could be a wonderful bonding experience. Putting the tent up together, sharing a confined space, laughing about dashing across the campsite in the middle of the night for a wee, it could all create fantastic memories and bring us together as a family. Camping under the stars, waking up to the chorus of birds in natural bush land, hiking right from our tent – it could be a fabulous, unforgettable experience. That’s if we don’t kill each other before the end of the trip.

Skimpies and Scaries

The Husband and I recently visited a delightful establishment, a local gem called the Karratha Tavern, or as it is affectionately called, The Tav. A night of entertainment is guaranteed by all who pass through its doors as it is not only a bar. Oh no, it is so much more than a bar. The Tav is a betting office, restaurant, off-license, bar, dance club and virtual strip joint all rolled into one pleasure palace. Additional entertainment also comes in the form of the inevitable fights that break out between its clientele each night. We were lucky enough to witness one such brawl between two rather meaty men, both clearly inebriated, one of whom was manhandled out of the bar by security with his trousers halfway down his derriere (and quite a derriere it was, I can assure you).

I had a wonderful conversation with a man suffering from a slight perspiration problem who found it difficult to formulate whole sentences and who clearly didn't need the pint he clutched to himself like it was his most prized possession - which at that moment it probably was. The genteel customers that frequent The Tav are entertainment in themselves. It was people-watching heaven, although you have to be careful not to look too much or you might not make it home in one piece. I suppose that just gives a night out at The Tav an extra thrill factor though. A rather large woman (or it could have been a man, it was hard to tell at first glance) bumped into me as she walked past on her way to the bar, and then scowled at me as if it was my fault that her wide load couldn’t fit through the crowd. I wasn’t about to argue with her though so I gave her a meek, apologetic look and quickly looked away. I saw her move on out of the corner of my eye and breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that buzz people get after narrowly escaping death. Adrenaline junkies should definitely experience a night out at The Tav – they’ll never bother base jumping or swimming with great whites again.


I thought I had seen the last of women parading around the local wearing nothing but a bit of dental floss and two plasters in Thailand, so, as you can imagine, I was overjoyed to discover that I can also be served a glass of wine by a pair of boobs right here in Karratha. Oh, but it’s fine because they wear nipple coverings (often supplied by local businesses who brand them – they know exactly where every man’s eye will be) so it’s quite respectable. Apparently skimpies, as they are tastefully known, are common in country Australia, and especially in towns that house a heavy population of miners and other shift workers, here without their wives or girlfriends for weeks at a time. Unlike Thailand, sex is not on the cards – there’s a strict ‘look but don’t touch’ policy – and for most of the girls being a skimpy is not a full-time career. They do it to pay their university tuition, to save enough money to start a business, or to get onto the property ladder. They show (marginally) less than if they were a stripper and they don’t have to lap-dance or swing around a pole, but it’s still sad that some girls feel they have to subject themselves to being ogled by dozens of big, sweaty miners to earn a bit of extra cash. I also think it sad that, in a first world, civilised country, girls barely covering their dignity can serve drinks in a regular bar. This isn’t a dark and dingy basement strip club, it’s a normal bar. You expect that sort of thing in Thailand, but not here in Australia.

So, if your idea of a quality night out is to place a bet, watch an in-house fight, narrowly avoid a fight of your own, and get served by women wearing nipple patches and thongs, then The Tav is the place for you.

No Escape From Footy Fever

Right now, I don’t think there’s a place in the world from which you can escape World Cup fever, and that includes a little town called Karratha in the remote Pilbara. It’s constantly on the box, whether in the form of coverage of the games themselves, or being talked about on morning shows, current affairs programmes, talk shows, the news or even cookery programmes. The supermarkets are all doing football-themed specials, such as deals on beer and crisps (apparently the staple diet of an avid football fan) and you can buy Socceroos footballs, flags and banners. If this is what it’s like here, in a country where several other sports rank above football in terms of national importance, I dread to think what it must be like in England right now. Flags flying from every car and every house, men wearing England football tops to every occasion (or, worse, not wearing a top at all, showing their support instead by shouting terrible England football songs and sporting the flag in paint on their faces), the football blaring from TVs in every pub and bar. There really is no escape.


As I said though, there is no escape from it here either. Fortunately, however, due to the time difference the games are broadcast in the early hours of the morning here so the football can’t impede on daytime or evening plans. We can enjoy a day out together, followed by a nice evening, then when I go to bed, The Husband will attempt to stay up. That hasn’t quite worked out for him so far though. He managed to watch the first ten minutes of the opening game before his eyelids were drooping and he had to retire to bed, and even the England game couldn’t keep him awake – he was asleep on the sofa long before half-time. Considering the result though, that was probably a good thing. We were at a friend’s house and, much to the understandable disconcert of his girlfriend, the boys hung a row of English flags up at the front. Not only is that a rather bogan (English translation: chav or scally) thing to do, in Australia it is downright dangerous. Luckily, the morning revealed that all windows were intact and no walls had been spray-painted. The flags came down pretty quickly though. Aided by wine and cheese, I stayed up to sing the national anthem, wave a flag around for a bit and just caught the first (and only) goal before sloping off to bed and falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I don’t think I shall be staying up for the next one though – I’ve done my patriotic duty now.

All You Need Is Love (but a glass of wine helps!)

It’s amazing what a hug, a ready ear and some gently encouraging words can do. Especially when they’re all from your husband and accompanied by a glass of wine. For various reasons, I had a horrible day yesterday. We all have them; those days where nothing seems to go right and you’re thwarted at every turn, every email, every phone call. One of those things you can deal with but when they all start piling up on top of each other, you start to crumble. I won’t go into the reasons, suffice to say that by the end of the day I felt very fragile. The Husband came home as the printer was playing up and refusing to print the last-minute job I had been forced, through some of the unfortunate incidents of the day, to complete. I was crouching in the half-light – I had been so focused on getting the job done so I could finish for the day that I hadn’t even noticed that I couldn’t see properly – as he came in to say hello, bringing with him the stench of smelly feet (thick socks + safety boots + heat really aren’t a particularly nice combination). Unfortunately, by that time, I really was not in the best of moods and I snapped at him. I was feeling stressed and the assault on my senses was simply too much. He walked into the bedroom without saying a word and left me to finish what I was doing. Eventually I coaxed the printer into doing what it was supposed to and I was able to pack everything away and slump on the sofa, utterly drained by the events of the day.


The Husband re-emerged, showered and smelling fresh, and immediately, silently, went into the kitchen. I thought that he was cross with me for having shouted at him when he only wanted to help but when I looked round at what he was doing, he had brought out two wine glasses and was in the process of pouring a generous glass of deep red liquid, accompanied by that wonderful glugging sound. He walked over to the sofa upon which I lay half comatose, passed me a glass, let me take a sip, then hugged me. Only then did he ask me what was wrong. Now, don’t get me wrong, like any man he can sometimes get it completely wrong, misread the signals and offer the opposite to what I want and need, but yesterday he saved the day. I poured out everything that had gone wrong and he listened. And listened. And listened. Which was exactly what I needed. He didn’t try to fix anything – the usual male response – he just listened and offered understanding noises and nods of the head. And just like that, wine glass in hand, comfortably snuggled up to The Husband, Grand Designs Revisited on the telly (I don’t know what it is about that show, but I always find it incredibly soothing), I began to feel a whole lot better. Nothing seemed too insurmountable, too terrible, too important.

And that’s when you realise how much you lean on each other when you’re thousands of miles away from home. We’ve only been here a couple of months – not long enough to be friendly with anyone enough to just pick up the phone and unload my day onto them. All our closest friends and our family are on other continents. That can sometimes be hard but as long as The Husband and I have each other, we will never feel lonely and we will always be okay.

Work-Out

There’s nothing like working outside. Having previously only had office-based jobs, it’s such a joy to be able to sit out in the fresh air and tap away at my keyboard with a view of my garden. Unlike in air conditioned or centrally heated boxes, I don’t get drowsy or feel the need to step away from my computer for a break and a bit of air. Whenever my eyes start to hurt or glaze over from too long spent scrutinising the screen of my laptop, I sit back in my chair and look up at the sky or at our resident birds whistling to each other in the trees. I don’t need to get away for some fresh air as I am already in it. I can breathe more easily out here than I ever could in a stuffy office. The Husband often comes home feeling exhausted and complaining of feeling unwell and I’m certain it’s because he’s stuck in an air conditioned office all day without a single window open, breathing in recycled air along with everyone else. My conviction is strengthened by the fact that he always feels better after going out to one of the parks for a walk or a run before dinner. Companies should schedule in regular outdoor breaks for their office-based employees – I’m sure they’ll find they have a more productive workforce as a result.


Of course, I’m lucky that I am living in a part of the world that has the weather to enable me to sit outside every day. It’s a luxury that I don’t expect to have when we return to the UK, where the cold will prove al fresco working impossible without thermals, a heated blanket and five sheep’s worth of jumpers, and the rain will just make it impossible full stop. So, for now, I will just enjoy every moment of working whilst a warm breeze dances about my body and I breathe in fresh coastal air rather than the circulated air of fifty of my dearest colleagues.

Rain Stops Play

The forecast for this weekend is for sucky weather. Well, the actual forecast is more something like ‘isolated showers with fresh to strong winds’ but, translated, that means sucky weather. If the forecasters are right (and, let’s face it, often they’re not), we will experience our first weekend of rain. That got me thinking: what on earth do you do in a small town when it is bucketing it down and gale force winds are howling about outside? It has really made me realise just how much of an outdoors place this is. You can go fishing, swimming, take a picnic down to the beach, go hiking in one of the national parks, play sport all year round, but what do you do if you can’t play outside? In the city, I’d wander round a museum or an art gallery, watch the latest film at the cinema or go shopping in a big undercover shopping centre. There are a myriad possibilities in the city when your weekend turns into a wash-out. But what do you do when there is no cinema, no museums or art galleries, and your only shopping centre consists of a couple of supermarkets, a hairdressers, a barbers, and a handful of tacky gift shops?


I suppose we could rediscover the lost art of conversation, perhaps aided by a few glasses of wine. Or we could bring out the Scrabble board, which, considering our competitiveness, may also have to be aided by a few cheeky ones to keep us from initiating divorce proceedings. Maybe we could hire a couple of DVD box sets and catch up on all the shows missed whilst in Thailand. Or curl up on the sofa with a good book. Readers, if you have any suggestions, I’d love to hear them. If we are cooped up in the house all weekend without anything to do we might just kill each other by the end of it.

Park Life

Expat Wife apologises for the lack of blog activity over the past three days but she was enjoying a glorious long weekend with The Husband thanks to Foundation Day – a public holiday only celebrated in WA in commemoration of the state’s first European settlers. As The Husband had to work the Saturday we couldn’t fly off to Perth for some much needed city indulgence, so we decided to go to the other extreme and have some quiet time. We enjoyed meals in – a barbecue, a beautifully fresh marinara pasta (only slightly impaired by The Husband managing to burn the sauce, which he insisted gave it a Creole flavour) and a homemade pizza, all washed down with plenty of excellent Aussie wine -, pottered about the house, lazed in the sun and, on Sunday, drove off to Millstream-Chichester National Park. Only an hour or so inland from Karratha, Millstream-Chichester covers over 770 square miles and is a park of total contrasts. The majority of it is covered with dramatic red hills, stretching out to the horizon and looking like the surface of Mars, but within half an hour’s drive you can be in the oasis of the Millstream wetlands where you’ll come across lush forests, date palms and water lily-strewn ponds.


I was in very good spirits as we pulled away from the petrol station after filling up the car (plus an additional container – you can never be too careful out in the sticks!) and headed out of Karratha, bound for the open road. When you live somewhere small and remote, going anywhere else can make you feel giddy with excitement and I found it hard to contain myself as we hit a previously unchartered road and sped away into the distance. I had the camera out every five minutes and consequently took dozens of pictures which all turned out to be very similar to each other. We were following a road built alongside the railway which takes trains carrying huge amounts of iron ore from the mine near Tom Price, 336km east of Karratha, to Dampier where it can be shipped off. We passed a few of the multi-wagon trains, all so long you couldn’t see any of them in their entirety in one go – they simply disappeared into the distance. I wound my window down to take a photo of one and the driver honked his horn at me and waved, which threatened to send my levels of excitement into hysteria!

After about an hour, the smooth sealed road gave way to red dirt – we were properly in outback country now. Looking behind us in the rear-view mirror, all I could see was red dust and I tried not to think about how much the car was going to need a clean when we got back. We pulled up into an empty car park and, donned in khaki coloured clothing and hiking boots, camel-back at the ready, we hiked up to the top of a mount which gave us an amazing view of the surrounding land – a vast stretch of undulating red hills, dotted with spinifex and snappy gums, with the occasional gorge jaggedly carved out, slicing its way across the soil and rock. After a further hour and a half’s hike to a natural spring and back, during which I became weirdly obsessed with the gigantic termite mounds which frequently rose up from the dusty ground, we drove on to Python Pool, a permanent freshwater pool at the foot of a jagged rust and slate coloured cliff, which soared up to the sky. Our lunchtime entertainment consisted of a couple of guys climbing the treacherous cliff barefoot, attempting to jump down into the pool below. We left before they committed what would have been certain suicide but I didn’t hear of any deaths on the news so I can only presume they decided to use their brains and climb back down again.

After the stark, dramatic scenery of the Chichester Range, it was a wonderful contrast to drive to lush, green Millstream along the banks of the Fortescue River, where we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by trees – a somewhat novel experience in the often desert-like conditions of the Pilbara. After wandering past a gently babbling brook, the water as clear as glass, and through flowering bushes and tall grasses, it was time to head home in order to avoid a dusk head-on collision with a big kangaroo. On the way back, we passed a family whose son had come off his dirt bike. His pride had been wounded but luckily he was okay, which couldn’t be said for the bike. They had no way of getting the bike back and there is no mobile phone signal in the park so they had to wait on the side of the road for someone with a satellite phone to pass. That brought home the dangers of being somewhere so remote – if you get in trouble you can’t just give someone a quick call, you’re stuck. If you weren’t near a road, you’d be in serious trouble.

So yes, yet again, we come back to the risks involved in living in the remote Pilbara. It’s amazing I’m still alive really.

Hang Time

I’m going to sound like a frumpy middle-aged housewife now but one of the things I love about living in Karratha is the fact that you can hang your clothes out to dry on the line in your garden every time you wash them. Yup, life really is all sex, drugs and rock n’ roll out here. Seriously though, don’t you just love that freshly washed, warm, sun-infused smell clothes that have dried outside have? Back in constantly weather bi-polar England we never dried our clothes outside as you never knew when the heavens would open. Even in summer, on a seemingly sunny day, the weather could change in an instant, dark clouds rolling in, blacking out the blue sky and turning day into dusk. You could hang your clothes out on a sunny morning, go to work and return in a thunderstorm to find sopping wet clothes strewn across your flower beds. Here, you’re pretty much guaranteed that in the winter it won’t rain and if by some odd chance it does, you’ll know about it from the moment you wake up. On land as flat as this, you can spot a storm brewing miles in the distance.


In the dry Pilbara heat, it only takes an hour or so for a full load to dry and I actually quite enjoy taking it down as with each unpegging a waft of pure sunshine hits me – that glorious smell of summer. In England, it could sometimes take a couple of days for our clothes to dry on the clothes horses dotted around our old, cold house. I was never a fan of tumble dryers, partly because I’m always terrified that I will turn my favourite dress into doll’s clothes, but also because I dislike the colossal waste of energy produced by the machines when it is perfectly possible to dry your clothes naturally, even if it does take days rather than minutes. Tumble dryers don’t hold a patch on drying your clothes in a warm breeze, and no softeners or fragranced powder can equal the smell of the sun.

It may not be glamorous (not much is in Karratha) but I love the ability to hang my clothes out to dry in the Pilbara sunshine and I will enjoy it while I can.

Qantas, We Have A Problem

I have just been on and off the phone for about two hours and my stress levels are through the roof. It seems Qantas have decided not to fly at midday from London to Singapore anymore, which is just what we were meant to be doing in August, on the start of our long journey back to Karratha following a visit to the UK. It’s not that they have cancelled our particular flight, they are not operating that flight at all anymore. How can an airline just decide to scrap a flight that runs every day and presumably, over the course of the year or even years (it’s possible to book at least a couple of years in advance these days) has hundreds, if not thousands of passengers booked onto it? I booked this flight about a mere month ago – they must have known then that they were thinking of getting rid of it so why let me book it?!


The major issue with this happening on one leg of a multi-stop flight is that changing that single part mucks up all the others. The flights from London to Singapore and Singapore to Perth that they had bumped me onto got me into Perth too late to catch the connecting flight to Karratha. So, taking deep breaths, I dialled the number issued to me, pressed a number of different keys pertaining to a multitude of options and then waited. And waited. And waited. All this while Aboriginal music crackled in the background and a woman told me about how wonderful Qantas was. I had to sit and listen to her for over ten minutes, all the while wanting to scream at her, “no, you’re bloody not!” The consultant that finally took my call might as well not have bothered. She was completely unapologetic and her tone and manner implied that this was quite a common thing to happen. The only alternative she offered me was to fly the day before and, rather than go straight to Perth from Singapore, fly to Melbourne or Sydney, wait all day in one of those airports and then fly to Perth and eventually onto Karratha. So, rather than a hellish twenty four hour journey, we would be making an ‘I’m so tired I’ve even forgotten my own name and by the way which city are we in now?’ forty eight hour journey. Some alternative that would be. The only other thing she could offer was to refund the flight but she couldn’t just refund that leg, she’d have to refund the entire round trip journey, forcing us to search for and book other (probably more expensive at this late stage) flights with another airline. I was fuming but was very English about it and politely said I needed to discuss it with my husband and get back to her. Cue phone call to The Husband that started with anger and ended with tears. Luckily, he managed to get an extra day off work, meaning we could take the flights they had originally offered to us, stay the night in Perth, and fly onto Karratha the next day. Not ideal but better than being stuck in a jet lag nightmare.

So I phoned Qantas again, pushed the keys, listened to the didgeridoo, the small Aboriginal child singing and the chirpy woman assuring me that I couldn’t be flying with a better airline, and was eventually put through to a different consultant. Well, she was different in every way possible. She gave me a number of options, none of which involved sleeping in an airport or doing a tour of Australia. It soon became clear that Qantas hadn’t cancelled every single midday flight from London to Singapore, only those at the weekend so we could keep our original flight times, just fly a day later. I could have cried. Again. What a difference a consultant makes. She put me on hold while she made the booking for us and I was on cloud nine, humming to myself and grinning from ear to ear. And then the call cut out on me. The humming stopped, the smile vanished and I quickly dialled the number again. More key-pushing, didgeridoo, annoying woman, a further ten minutes, and then yet another consultant who told me I should wait an hour or so to see if the other consultant makes the booking before calling back for her to do it. Oh God, not another call to Qantas. I said a silent prayer to the Gods to make sure the booking was made. I couldn’t face more buttons, music and false promises from the Qantas woman. Half an hour later and I get a call from the wonderful consultant that I had been cut off from to tell me it’s all been sorted. I was so happy I almost promised her my firstborn. Now I just hope Qantas doesn’t casually decided to lay off any other flights. I couldn’t go through that again.

Barefoot Barminess

There are a few things about Australia and Australians that puzzle me – their predilection for adding ‘o’ to the end of as many words as possible in one sentence, as in ‘yummo’ (yummy), arvo (afternoon), and ‘bizzo’ (business), the way they refer to everyone by their surnames, also often adding an ‘o’ at the end for good measure (The Husband is ‘Bucko’), and the male love of wife-beaters (that’s singlets to the uninitiated, not men who beat up their wives). But nothing confuses me so much as the Australian obsession with walking everywhere barefoot. Now, I can understand going shoeless on the beach, in a park or in your garden – I always pad around the house and back yard barefoot and whip my flip-flops off as soon as I step onto the sand, provided it’s not roasting hot. There’s nothing like the feel of soft carpet, cool grass or sand between your toes. That, I get, but walking around shopping centres, on pavements in town and on gravelly paths with nothing to protect your feet? I know Australians are a laidback bunch, but seriously! Think about how painful it must be to walk over baking hot tarmac, and how dangerous when you consider the shards of broken glass, rusty nails and God knows what else might be scattered over urban ground, not to mention how dirty such surfaces must be. I once accidentally stepped in dog poo wearing flip-flops and a bit squelched over the side, touching part of my foot . It makes me shudder to think about it even now. It was truly disgusting.


In an effort to try to understand this Antipodean habit (for apparently the Kiwis, too, are fond of going shoeless), I Googled it and was inundated by numerous forums and blogs all discussing and reporting on this phenomenon. Some were as confused as I, but others defended the barefoot movement. I even found one website dedicated to barefoot walking and, yes, it was set up by an Aussie. According to him, “it’s fun and cool to have dirty feet”. What? What is so great about picking up all sorts of dirt on your feet? He insists that it is freeing and allows you to experience senses you wouldn’t normally if your feet were dulled by shoes. But why do I want to experience pain and discomfort from walking on various rough and dirty surfaces? Even horses walking in urban areas are shod! Yes, man was born without shoes and in primitive times went everywhere barefoot but I’m sure that if they had been given shoes they would have happily worn them. Shoes were invented for comfort and protection – why would you not want that? Barefoot fanatics insist that the soles of your feet toughen up after walking without shoes for a while but I actually rather like the smooth undersides of my feet, in fact I pay to keep them that way. On my trawl of the internet, I even discovered barefoot hiking groups. In any country I’d have thought that would be dangerous, with all the hazards of the great outdoors that you might come across, but in a country teeming with snakes, spiders and other venomous creatures, it seems to me to be crazy.

I agree that wearing heavy boots, or any closed-toe shoes that require socks, can be hot and sweaty in the Pilbara heat (I have smelt The Husband’s feet after a long day’s work in his safety boots – not intentionally, you only have to be in the same room and you will smell them once he has extracted them from his shoes – and, needless to say, it is not pleasant) but that’s why flip-flops were invented – they are the closest thing you can get to walking barefoot without hurting yourself in the process. I live in my flip-flops, they ensure my feet are well-ventilated and cool without the danger of returning home with burns, cuts and half the town on the bottom of them. I’ve seen kids have to hop across the car park because their feet are burning on the hot tarmac. Buy a pair of shoes!

Little Vampires

I am one big, red, itchy, inflamed insect bite. I have been attacked by tiny winged devil bugs so many times in the past two days, there is barely an inch of flesh on my body that is not lumpy. I don’t know whether it is because the weather’s cooled down recently or if my blood’s just getting tastier, but there do seem to be a lot more biters around. It started on Sunday afternoon. We had been at the beach for a couple of hours without being bothered at all, when all of a sudden I started to notice little insects flying above me. They were tiny little things and appeared to be white – not your typical sandfly or mosquito – and they didn’t seem to be settling on us so I paid them little attention and returned to my book. Half an hour later and we both started to itch – on our ankles, arms, backs, sides. The sneaky little pests seemed to be landing just where we couldn’t see them – they were stealth biting. The onset of the midges seemed to occur as the tide went out so perhaps it was because, with the drawing back of the water, a greater area of sand was quickly unveiled. This obviously led us to conclude that the little blighters were probably sandflies, meaning that our bites would be itchier and look more unpleasant then other biters. Upon returning home, we discovered several bites and vowed never again to leave the bug spray at home.


Last night at Bootcamp, we added to our collection of bites. Or at least I did – The Husband avoided being midge food as he ducked out of the abs, bums, thighs and arms work on the ground. I had casually said out loud to him that I was slightly worried that I had left the hob on. I wasn’t really that concerned, it was just one of those ridiculous fears like thinking that you’ve forgotten to lock the door or turn the oven off – you know you have, you just worry that you haven’t because the consequences could be disastrous. It happens to me all the time but I just shrug it off and it always turns out that I was worrying for no reason. Maybe that’s just a female thing though, because The Husband immediately went into panic mode. “What?! Are you serious?? The house might be burning down as we speak! You’ll have to go home and check it out now!” When I told him not to be so silly, that I was sure it was a completely irrational thought and that there was no real reason to think that the hob was on, he insisted that if I wasn’t going to go, then he would have to. And so off he went, with his towel and his water bottle, to rush back to the car and speed off home. I think the real reason he scarpered was because he hates the floor work – he always pushes himself too hard during the running so that he can barely move by the time we get to the toning and muscle-building exercises. He’s the one that will be moaning and complaining and writhing around on the floor. “I can’t do any more, I just can’t,” is the usual breathless incantation to escape from his lips after the first set (or sometimes even during it).

Anyway, because he legged it straight after the running he avoided further blood-sucking, as it was at this point that I was practically eaten alive. Being down at ground level, they swarmed all over me and seemed to think my hair was some sort of a nest as many of them flew into it then got stuck and so bit me over and over again as some sort of punishment, as if I was intentionally trying to trap them. When the session was over, I stood up and could not stop scratching all over my head, around my neck, up my side (where one had flown up my top and got trapped, biting my four times before I realised what was going on and killed it) and across my lower back. The worrying thing was that this time I had remembered to cover myself with anti-bug spray. As I sit here, trying in vain to stop myself from furiously scratching my entire body, all I can think is that I’m going to have to get myself some stronger stuff, perhaps some of that ‘so much Deet you are in danger of blinding yourself’ spray – it may be pretty toxic but at least I won’t be walking round the house rubbing myself up against the door frames like a dog scratching his back. And I won’t look like one giant welt, which is definitely a plus.