Crazy Bag Lady

I am a plastic bag hater. I do not need to list the reasons why – unless you have been living in an underground bunker since the nineties, you will have read, seen, heard the undeniable facts proving that our love of plastic is irrevocably harming the planet. When it is so easy to take your own, far sturdier, less painful to hold when heavy, more stylish, re-usable bags to the shops I really don’t understand why people walk out with a trolley-full of ugly, animal-killing plastic ones. In Thailand, you were looked at weirdly by everyone – shop-assistants and customers alike – for bringing your own bags (read my blog ‘Plastic Fantastic’, Jan 14th 2010, for more on that). In a country where many people struggle to make ends meet, rejecting something for which you don’t have to pay a single baht is unthinkable. Why would you not stock up on shiny, new and completely free plastic bags, and as many as the cashier is willing to dish out at that?


Australians are far more environmentally aware (and wealthy) than the Thais and their shops welcome reusable bags. Shop assistants here don’t look at you as if you have just admitted to a penchant for eating pet cats if you do forget to bring your own bags (like many in the UK do), but they often check if you need a bag rather than just assuming that you do and they are happy to take your bags to pack your shopping into. Like Thailand, the supermarket assistants in Australia pack your shopping for you, which does sometimes cause eyes to be raised when I hand over my odd assortment of fabric bags. Back in the UK it didn’t matter what weird and wonderful bags I produced at the till as you are expected to pack your own bags – I knew which items fitted best into which bags and I had a system. Here, when I pull out my bags received free in magazines, given to me at organic fairs and bought at other supermarkets, I can see the till person fight not to roll their eyes and sigh. At that moment they know that I have just made their job that little bit harder. My bags of different shapes, sizes and materials don’t all fit perfectly onto their bag-holders and I feel a twinge of guilt as I look round at other tills where customers have handed over their spacious supermarket-own reusable bags that are designed specifically to fit onto the hooks at the till and hold dozens of items. The cashier yesterday lined my bags all up on the counter and gave much thought to which items should go into which bags. I was there for quite a while and more than one person in the queue behind me gave up and joined another, where people were using the right bags.

It may have taken longer but at least I returned home bearing not a single plastic bag. And my bags are far more original than the supermarket own ones. They are bright, colourful, madly patterned and doing their bit to save the planet. I may look like a crazy bag lady but I don’t care.

Spaced Out

So it turns out that The Parents actually rent their parking space and have been since they bought their current apartment. The previous owner sold their home but not their precious parking space, a commodity more valuable than gold in Hong Kong. As strange as that probably sounds to many of you, this is actually not such an unusual arrangement in urban Hong Kong. This is a city that is smaller than many Australian farms but with more than three times the population of Western Australia - it is one of the most densely populated areas in the world and land is at a premium. That means that in the city a parking space does not simply come with the price of the apartment – either you buy one or you rent it from someone else. What with the exorbitant price of petrol, toll fares and of course the cost of buying an imported car in the first place, owning and running a car in Hong Kong does not come cheap - the reason that it is such a status symbol there.


After renting the space in their car park for a number of years, The Parents have made the big decision to buy one of their very own. At the weekend, they went to view one – yes, just like you wouldn’t buy a property without first viewing it, it would be unthinkable to buy a parking space on a whim without the proper research. And, just like property, it’s all in the location, location, location. On what floor of the multi-story car park is it? Is it near the lift? How far from the street exit is it? All points one must consider when parking space-hunting. After several viewings, The Parents have found The One – it fits the brief and they snapped it up at the bargain price of HK$550,000 (£45,400 or AU$78,600). A steal really. No, really, it is. They also looked at one on the same floor which is on sale for HK$880,000. The reason for the huge difference in price? There is absolutely no reason. The owner simply, and rather cannily, thinks that he can get that amount because the figure contains two eights, a number considered by the Chinese to be extremely auspicious because both the Mandarin and the Cantonese word for it sounds like ‘wealth’. Double eight means double fortune. I expect that he will get it, too.

I sometimes sit here in our roomy house in Karratha, with our big drive (most here are big enough to fit your boat or caravan), speaking to The Parents on the saviour that is Skype, and contemplate just how far removed we are from their world. Or our old world for that matter. We, too, often had problems parking on our Victorian terrace-lined street. We didn’t have to part with a small fortune to buy one but not one house had their own off-street parking space so there was often a fight for a good space, or sometimes just for a space on the street at all – there were occasions when we had to park a street over. The Husband took to curtain-twitching out of the window in our front room, waiting for the car parked in the space outside our house to move so that he could race out to our car and promptly park it there. I would then not be allowed to take the car out until at least the next day. Space is definitely something to cherish out here, even if there is slightly more space than is strictly necessary. Several UKs and Hong Kongs more space really.

An Alternative Love Story

With the last dying breaths of the hen do on Sunday morning came an injection of pizzazz, a boost of energy, a burst of joie de vivre... drum roll please for the arrival of The Husband! You may not think that a person who has just travelled for thirty hours straight, on three different flights and across England in a car would be in any way sprightly but I can assure you that The Husband was. He was grey of pallor, with shopping bags under his eyes but was beaming from ear to ear and full of energy. Too much energy. It was akin to someone being mildly intoxicated – you know, that happy buzz you get when you love everyone and are the life and soul of the party before you crash and burn, ending up slumped on the floor with your head in the toilet. I was slightly concerned that he shouldn’t be driving in his sleep-deprived, delirious state but as he was the only one insured on the car, there wasn’t much I could do but smile and make sure that he kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the steering wheel. Besides, there was no way I could have persuaded him to part with the keys of his beloved new toy. Having been told that the VW Golf he had ordered was not available, he managed to blag himself a sweet deal on a VW Scirocco, a compact sports car that, in technical terms, can go very fast very quickly. And he certainly made sure that he made full use of that ability. Even if we were only going a couple of hundred metres to the next set of lights, he would power through the gears, sending my head crashing against the head rest each time.

And thus the joy and excitement, hugs and kisses, upon seeing him again after three weeks apart descended into arguments within about five minutes of being in the car with each other. I tried hard not to, I really did. After all, he had just travelled half-way across the world on the journey from Hell but had immediately jumped in a car and driven all the way from Heathrow to Bath to pick me up. But honestly, if you were getting thrashed about in a car first thing in the morning (or, let’s face it, any time of the day) would you not have something to say to the driver? “But it’s fun,” he argued, looking at me with puppy dog eyes, “I never get to drive a car like this.” Oh well, I eventually thought, let him have his fun, he’ll get bored of it after a couple of days. Let me tell you something I have now learnt about men – they never tire of putting their foot down hard on the accelerator. Fact. They also never tire of showing off their pride and joy to other men (even if it is only a hire car and therefore not technically theirs). Every male friend and relative we stayed with got a personal guided tour of the car and, as a treat at the end, they even got to sit in the passenger seat. The passenger seat I hasten to emphasise, never the driver’s seat. If they were really lucky, they even got a drive in it – again, with The Husband driving and not under any circumstances them. I am not exaggerating when I say that The Husband was obsessed with this car. If he could have divorced me and married his Scirocco he probably would have done. As it was, he merely had a two-week passionate affair with it. He quite openly said to me that he would rather buy this car than have a baby.

Men are strange, unfathomable creatures.

The Husband's Bit On The Side

Hen House

Possibly the most important job as Maid-of-Honour (certainly the most time-consuming) is the unenviable task of organising the hen party. Firstly, you have to get the hen to work out who she wants to attend and then persuade her to send you their contact details. Ok, for most hens this wouldn’t be that difficult but if you have read Monday’s blog (Honourable Duties) you will understand that The Best Friend is not most hens. It took her a couple of months to compile a list and send me email addresses. By this point it was April and the hen was due to take place on the last weekend of July somewhere around Bath – to clarify, this would be the second weekend of the school holidays in a popular area for families to holiday. I was more than a little stressed. Organising accommodation, activities and meals suitable for ten girls is hard enough. It is harder still when there are some you have never met and you are on the other side of the world. And it is much harder still when the hen realises after you have booked the accommodation that fits ten that she has missed someone off the list. So it was far from a stress-free job, not helped by the fact that I am a meticulous planner and need to know that every option has been examined before I make a choice on anything. However, the months of research and organisation paid off, the nails bitten to the quick were worth the pain, as the weekend went swimmingly.


Having been forced, by the rather large obstacles of two continents, an ocean and several seas, to book everything online, I was just slightly nervous that the ‘impressive Grade II listed pre-19th century castellated lodge’ would in reality be more Travelodge than luxury lodge. You can say anything on the internet, after all. However, after getting lost in Bath and taking a myriad of winding country lanes that seemed to lead to nowhere but fields and farmhouses, we drove up to a magnificent set of intricate wrought-iron gates, flanked on either side by Cotswold stone lodge houses. I had been warned that the main house, where we were to pick up the keys for our lodge, was 1.5 miles from the main gate down a narrow drive. It turned out that Gloucester Lodge was then a further 1.5 miles down this drive, taking us at one point across a golf course – I was very glad that it was not my car although, as it was the groom’s I suppose I should have been worried that the wedding could have been called off as a result of a rogue golf ball through the windscreen. That rogue golf ball could also have flown straight into the bride’s head so perhaps I really should have been more worried. I was more preoccupied with the growing anxiety that this couldn’t possibly be the right way. Until, that was, we crested a hill and saw in front of us, in all its grand Gothic glory, Gloucester East and West Lodges. They were truly spectacular and I swelled with pride for having found this little gem.

Inside didn’t disappoint either. An oak-panelled sitting room complete with vast inglenook fireplace, a kitchen with island and Aga (my dream), Victorian-style bathrooms with claw-footed, roll-top tubs (another dream) and lovely bedrooms with views over the grounds. Best of all, we had our very own turret! We could all pretend to be queens of our own castle for the weekend. The only problem was that accessing the turret involved climbing two sets of almost-vertical ladders. I could just see one of the girls slipping after her fourth glass of wine and falling three stories down to the flagstone floor below. That was not going to happen on my watch so I enforced a strict one drink policy. It doesn’t often occur that I am the sensible one but I was taking my Maid-of-Honour role very seriously indeed! At 6.30pm (half an hour after official Drink O’clock and therefore high time we started) I poured bubbly into five glasses (the others had not yet arrived) and we climbed the rickety ladders up to the top. For the next half an hour we surveyed our land, drink in hand, and imagined that it was all ours.

After the allocated one drink had been drained, we moved the party downstairs and outside into the garden where a large table lay under a fruit tree (which was lovely except when said fruit fell from said tree and hit one of us on the head, which happened more than once). Gradually, more and more girls started to arrive and much whooping, screaming and cheering was unleashed into the quiet rural surroundings. It was definitely a good thing that we were in the middle of nowhere, a mile and a half even from the main house. By 9pm we were awaiting just one and she had set off hours earlier. We were all chatting away when we heard a quiet “hello?”. Looking up, we saw a small bodiless head by the garden wall. There was a brief moment of silence until The Best Friend realised that she did in fact know this apparition and jumped up to greet her. The look of relief on this girl’s face was palpable and she visibly slumped.

Fortified with a reviving and relaxing glass of wine, she soon revealed that she had been driving round the area for an hour and a half. Now, we had all had a little trouble finding the place, as remote as it was, but an hour and a half? She had apparently just been driving round and round in circles until, at one point, she even turned up at someone else’s hen do. She had spotted a car full of girls and thought she was extremely clever by following them. “Follow the youth!” she exclaimed to herself, “after all, how many parties of twenty-something women could there be on a country estate?” It was a fair assumption to make but unfortunately, defying all odds, there was indeed another hen party on another part of the estate. She rocked up to the house and called out “hello!” in an excited and exuberant fashion. The group of girls turning to look at her were all unknown to her but it’s a hen party, there are bound to be girls you don’t know – these are friends from all the different strands of the hen’s life. Just to be sure that she was where she was meant to be, she said, “I’m here for the hen party.” “Ah,” they said, “you’re in the right place then.” A few minutes went by and she still hadn’t seen our hen so she asked where she was by name. “Who?” they asked. At this point she knew what a terrible mistake she had made and quickly retreated backwards out of the house. “And that is the reason for my tentative ‘hello’,” she explained, “I just couldn’t be sure that there wasn’t a third hen party on the estate.” This girl spent most of the weekend amusing us with such delights as breaking the very expensive chunk of hard cacao at the chocolate workshop and getting stuck between the counter and the door when she was trying to nip to the toilet as inconspicuously as possible.

That night was full of wine, laughter and loud banter – about what you would expect from a party of ten girls. We played Mr. & Mrs., dressed the hen up, gave her the obligatory willy straws (I mean what’s a hen party without willy straws, really?) and stumbled to bed in the early hours of the morning. Big mistake. I had made the schoolboy error of peaking too soon, hitting it too hard on the first night. I woke up the following morning with a cracker of a headache and an inability to walk in a straight line. I would not be going up the turret today. Still, a few slices of butter-laden toast and several cups of tea later and I was feeling much better. Time to hit Bath and, a chocoholics dream, the chocolate workshop. The hen has a huge sweet tooth... and a huge savoury tooth... ok, she just loves food full stop, so this was perfect for her. We were greeted by the chocolate expert and leader of the workshop, the irreverent and exuberant Phillipe, with gusto. “Bonjour ladies!” the larger-than-life Belgian exclaimed, beaming. He was large in both personality and belly (and bum crack, which he inadvertently revealed to us every time he bent over) and obviously loved life. Giving us each two kisses on each cheek (he assured us that this was de rigeur in Belgium), he then gave us all aprons and chocolatier hats and began by giving us a history of chocolate. All any of us could think about, though, was the massive chocolate machine churning away deliciously, velvety, richly, perfect chocolate. I was sat right next to it and the urge to put my head under the waterfall of chocolate was almost too hard to resist. Before we could try any though, we had to temper it and we all sat there salivating as we watched the hen swishing about a pool of chocolate on the worktop. Sensing that the group of sweet girls before him was quickly turning into a rabid pack of wolves, Phillipe brought out cups of the richest, thickest, most chocolatey hot chocolate I have ever tasted.

Having had our chocolate fix for the moment, we were able to start creating. We made chocolate marshmallows, elephants, strawberries, shells, hearts, guitars, a giant hen, and of course chocolate willies of varying sizes. It wasn’t long until we were desperate for more chocolate again and we resorted to the behaviour of naughty schoolgirls, picking scraps off the growing chocolate mountain every time Phillipe turned his back. I’m sure he knew what we were doing as he quickly brought out the chocolate marshmallows that had been setting in the fridge and gave us each one, as if we were small children that needed to be kept quiet for a while. The wonderful afternoon was capped off with a glass of Champagne, served to us by the very Belgian Chinese girls that worked in the shop. Chinese girls talking furiously to each other in Cantonese, working in a Belgian chocolate shop – this, I am sure, was the true English experience that the many tourists who popped in were searching for when they came to Bath. Given that the hen is a half-Chinese, half-Australian girl marrying in England, I thought that was quite appropriate.

Get Some Cider Inside Her

Amazingly, I managed to get off the train at the right stop without either falling over or vomiting. The world was still slightly fuzzy but I could cope with that – in fact, my blurry vision acted to soften the drab greyness around Bristol Templemeads station so really it was an advantage. Bristol is for the most part a lovely city but, like all cities, it has its dull Seventies office buildings, of which there seemed to be a plethora around the train station. The Girls were slightly concerned when they found me slumped over their car but I assured them I was still up for shopping – after the disappointment of the previous day’s shop, not even double vision and the strong possibility that I might spontaneously and without warning vomit was going to prevent me from spending some money. It proved to be a wise decision as I didn’t collapse, walk into stationary or moving objects, or bring up the BLT bagel I had earlier consumed. Best of all, I left with armloads of carrier bags! Other than the boy that cycled past me and randomly shouted ‘bitch’ in my general direction, it was a wonderful day.


By 8pm the hangover had all but vanished and I was ready to drink again, which was a good thing as we were going to a party on a farm and I was anticipating there being copious amounts of cider – we were in Somerset after all. Indeed, we had been there mere minutes when a full cup of urine-coloured liquid was thrust in my face by an unshaven, ruddy-faced man in a plaid shirt. “Get that down yer!” he said with a thick West Country accent. Sipping my cider, I looked around at the motley crew assembled. It was like being at some sort of farmers convention, which was unsurprising given that the party was on a farm, hosted by a farmer who had invited most of the village locals, most of whom were in the agricultural industry. I was chatted up by one such charming local who must have thought I would impressed by the brand new, state-of-art tractor he had recently purchased. “Tha’ ere tra’or is the best money ‘n buy and I got meself one!” he enthused, throwing in a wink for good measure. He seemed perplexed when I didn’t immediately pounce pull him to me and passionately snog him. That chat-up line probably always works for him in the local pub. He later grabbed my me for a dance and proceeded to feel my bottom not once, but twice. “Sorry,” he said, not seeming sorry at all, “ but I’m single and from Somerset.” Oh, well Ok cider-drinking, tractor-driving Somerset yokel, that’s fine then, feel away. For a minute there I thought you were just a perve. Phew, I’m glad we got that cleared up. But then the band started playing a Wurzels song - it had been almost ten minutes since they had sung one and people were starting to get antsy, so presumably it was sing ‘I got a brand new combine harvester’ or be killed by an angry mob of cider-fuelled Somerset farmers. Casanova threw his arms up into the air, whooped loudly and completely forgot about me. The entire field was filled with the sound of dozens of yokels singing. “I got a brand new combine harvester and I’ll give you the key, oh I got a brand new combine harvester, won’t you come with me?” Worried he might use this to serenade me, I slipped away and poured myself some more cider. Getting drunk again was the only way to survive this night.

City Living

A visit to England wouldn’t be complete without a girly trip to London, especially when you have been living in the outback for months on end. A shopping spree in Karratha consists of a circuit round K-Mart, picking up a Jason Donovan CD, a set of tools and an egg timer (ensuring that you avoid the gardening section at the back of the store that reeks of damp and something as yet unconfirmed but definitely decomposing), a quick stop in Thingz for a sparkly key ring or some other similarly essential item, and ending up in Woolworths for the highlight of the day, the food shop. A visit to The Tav to see the skimpies in action is about as cultural as you can get in Karratha and I don’t need to mention the lack of nightlife that doesn’t involve two fat drunk men starting a fight. I thus had to fit in shopping, culture and a night out into my short time in London but have no fear, dear reader, I managed it with aplomb!


With the painful memories of my previous journey across London, laden with luggage and struggling without help to haul it around the Tube, still raw, I packed a small holdall this time and gave myself a pat on the back for making such a wise choice. The journey was transformed. No longer was it taking me ten minutes just to change trains, no longer was I sweating with anxiety and sheer effort, no longer was I bringing every turnstile in the station to a halt as I jammed my case in a barrier. No longer was I an object of pity. I instead looked at others, largely foreign students with gigantic cases, with pity. No, more than that, I regarded them with empathy, with the understanding that only one who has been through such a traumatic experience can. I could imagine precisely the sort of pain they were going through and, knowing how glad I was of it when the one man offered to help me with my case, I proffered help whenever I thought it needed. Despite the relative ease of the journey, I was relieved when I reached my destination. Luggage or no luggage, the London Underground is not a pleasant place to be in the summer given its lack of ventilation, crowds and sticky seats. The cool evening air that greeted me as I left the station was more than welcome.

After a quiet night in, The Cousin and I were ready to expand our minds and so we headed across to the Victoria & Albert Museum, the world’s largest museum of decorative arts and design. Possibly my favourite museum in London, the V&A is vast, covering 12.5 acres, 145 galleries and spanning 5,000 years of art from Europe, North America, Asia and North Africa. Best of all, it’s free! We spent a wonderful morning wandering around just one of the galleries before heading down to the fashion section where we had bought tickets to see a temporary exhibition featuring Grace Kelly’s legendary wardrobe, including couture dresses, hats, shoes, jewellery and the original Hermès Kelly bag. Suitably inspired, that signalled the end of the culture section of our day and the beginning of some serious retail therapy. Oxford Street proved to be too busy, however, and we spent most of our afternoon battling crowds and waiting in endless queues for the changing rooms. Being a tourist mecca, it is also one of the worst places in England to while away your time by eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. I heard more European and Asian languages than I did English, so my attempts at prying into other people’s lives proved fruitless.

After a long day pounding the mind and the feet, I was in need of some vino so, having met Cousin 2, we hot-footed it to Sainsbury’s to stock up on the essentials – wine, hummus and pita bread for the evening, and bacon, eggs and bread for the morning after. We then retired to The Cousin’s flat and began the fantastically female process of getting ready which, in my opinion, is one of the best parts of a girls’ night out. Three girls squashed into one room, choosing outfits, straightening hair, putting on make-up, all to some cheesy pop with a glass of wine at arm’s reach. I have definitely missed that. It was a brilliant night, starting with bubbly and nibbles at the flat, dinner at an Italian, cocktails at a lively bar, followed up by a spot of dancing. And didn’t my head know about it the next day. Hauling myself out of bed later than intended (when I first woke I was definitely still slightly inebriated so I judged it wise to get a bit more kip), I hurriedly showered, dressed, packed my bag, and said my goodbyes. Staggering out into the sunshine, my eyes automatically averted themselves from the sky. I was dreading getting onto the sticky, sweaty, crowded Tube in my condition but at least it would be dark. I looked out through foggy eyes and kept seeing two of everything. There were several moments on the train that I thought I might collapse but I somehow managed to get myself off at Paddington and onto the train to Bristol. This was not boding well for the planned shopping trip ahead of me.

Honourable Duties

My week in Oxfordshire wasn’t just spent lazing about in a rural idyll. Oh no, I had important duties to undertake in my role as Maid-of-Honour (Ok, technically Matron-of-Honour but that ghastly word conjures up images of uptight, frumpy women past their use-by date so I refused to take that title). Because of course let’s not forget my primary reason for travelling half the way around the world - The Best Friend’s upcoming wedding in the Cotswolds. Now, I love The Best Friend very much. She is my oldest friend and as such we have been through it all together. But, and I am sure she won’t mind me saying this as she will be the first to admit it herself, she is one of the most disorganised people I have ever met. In some respects this proved to be a good thing as she was also the most relaxed bride-to-be I have ever met. However, her easy-going attitude towards her nuptials had meant that her husband-to-be had organised most of the wedding so far. He did however, unsurprisingly, draw a line at flowers, hair and make-up. I therefore dutifully (and happily – having been thousands of miles away from The Best Friend during the majority of her engagement I relished the opportunity to get involved) accompanied The Best Friend to a cake shop, the florist, her hair trial, and her make-up lesson at MAC.


Bearing in mind these appointments were a mere three weeks before the wedding, she really was cutting things fine. As a bride-to-be myself, I had files and records, check-lists and spreadsheets. The Best Friend did not even have a pen and notebook with which to write down anything important. It was thus up to me to note down questions she needed to get back to the florist about (because, of course, there were many things for which she needed to check with the chief wedding-planner, her husband-to-be!), helpful hints and suggestions, the exact make-up procedure, and all else deemed essential information – I watched as The Best Friend smiled and nodded, knowing that she wasn’t going to retain half of what was said to her. It worked well though – The Best Friend got to be completely relaxed about it all and I got to feel needed and helpful! There were moments when I did wonder whether she had helped to organise her wedding at all – when asked by the florist how many tables they were having so as to calculate the number of vases needed, The Best Friend crinkled her nose, deep in thought, before thinking out loud, “Now, is it eight tables of ten or ten tables of eight?” Thank goodness she has married a man that can organise her!

Despite my later wedding-planner prowess, I didn’t actually get off to the best start as Responsible and Organised Maid-of-Honour. I was to meet The Best Friend and her cake-maker (a friend who bravely volunteered for the job) by the cake shop in Oxford’s covered market but as I was waiting for them I spied a rather wonderful looking shop opposite it. Ten minutes later and I’m in my undies in the changing room when I get a call on my mobile. “Where are you?” asked The Best Friend. “Uh, I just spotted a nice dress and I’m trying it on,” I said, sheepishly, as I peeked over the saloon-door of the changing room, through the shop window and out across to the cake shop, “won’t be a minute!” Yes, sadly not even the heavy weight of Maid-of-Honour responsibility could tempt me away from a dress/bag/shoe shop. I did walk away with a fabulous dress though, so I think you will agree that it was definitely worth it!

Age is Just a Number

Before I continue with my account of the Tour of Britain, I must first return to what can only be described as The Worst Jet Lag Ever. Fact. Rather than getting better, sleep seems to be alluding my deprived body more each night. Last night, our third back, I managed only sporadic sleep from 10.30 until 12, finally falling asleep at around 5, only to wake at 6. If this goes on for much longer I will need a crane to lift the bags from under my eyes and I will be in danger of setting the kitchen on fire. If anyone out there knows of a good way to get over jet lag, please, I am begging you, leave a comment at the bottom of this blog and tell me before I go insane!!


Anyway, crazy person rant over, I shall continue where I left off, feeling warm and content at The Grandparents’ cosy Oxfordshire house:

The arrival of The Mother the following day merely increased the warm feeling of belonging, of familiarity and history and shared memories that is missing when you’re away for a long period of time. We spent a wonderful few days walking around the village and through the surrounding fields, sitting out in the garden, eating in country pubs and visiting National Trust houses. As well as guiding at the world-renowned Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, Granny has guided for thirty years at a National Trust property a mere twenty minutes from their house, a splendid Renaissance-style château designed for the Rothschilds in the 1800s called Waddesdon Manor. We used to go often as children, mainly to play in the vast grounds, and more recently, since returning to England ten years ago, I would go in December to see the house dressed for Christmas. I hadn’t been in the summer, when more rooms are open and the house is without its Christmas decorations, for years so The Mother and I decided to get some use out of our National Trust cards and pay it a visit. We were wandering over to the main entrance when a tall, stocky woman in her seventies came towards us. She was like every other elderly woman here, handbag placed in the crook of her arm, wearing pearls, a silk blouse tucked into a tea-length skirt, stockings, sensible shoes, a hint of lipstick and... stubble?? A cross-dressing elderly man at a National Trust property? How scandalous! Trying to keep the shock from our faces until we had passed the transvestite OAP, we turned to each other open-mouthed and wide-eyed, before bursting into a fit of giggles. What made it particularly strange was that he hadn’t bothered to shave or attempt to do anything with his close-cropped, thinning hair. The house and its collections were spectacular, the gardens beautiful, but that cross-dressing old man really made the day memorable!

As we turned into the lane on which The Grandparents live, the smell of burning assailed our nostrils but it wasn’t until we drove up to Stranger’s Drift to find ourselves immersed in a cloud of thick smoke that we realised just where that smell was emanating from. Do not worry, dear reader, the smoke was not pouring from the house but from the far corner of the garden, where Grandad was burning the forest he had chopped down a few days earlier. I had seen it heaped up in the corner the day before and he had told me that he had been up a ladder chopping down the tops of trees and bushes that needed taming. Now, take a moment to consider this. He is in his mid-eighties. He was armed with a saw. He was perched precariously on top of a ladder hacking down a virtual forest. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great that he feels he still can do these things, that he hasn’t just given up on life, seeing out his days slumped in a chair staring into space. However, I’m really not sure that he should be on top of ladders armed with dangerous tools doing the job of some young, fit gardener. Granny is no different. She tends to a large garden without help and can often be found hunched over her beds, pruning, picking, weeding and watering. The Mother and I were at one stage watching Grandad chopping things down while Granny was weeding the vegetable patch. Yes, we were sitting on the swing seat watching our elderly parents and grandparents work away in the garden. I did feel a slight twinge of guilt but they enjoy it, honestly! I suppose, at my age, I am lucky to still have grandparents at all, let alone such sprightly ones (my other set of grandparents are just as active – this definitely bodes well for my dotage!). Their minds are just as active, kept fit by daily crosswords, religious viewing of Countdown, heated conversations, and reading book after book after book. Never challenge them to a game of anything that involves using your mind – they will undoubtedly win!

Home Away From Home

It is officially daytime and I am back at the computer. I did eventually go back to bed and managed to get perhaps an extra hour’s kip so obviously I am firing on all cylinders now. Um, what day of the week is it today? Sleep or no sleep, one must not waste the day and so here I am, sitting in front of the computer, trying to peer at the screen through bleary eyes whilst clutching a vat of coffee with shaking hands. It is a good thing I do not have to drive or operate heavy machinery today. I shall instead attempt to take you through some of the highlights of the mammoth Tour of Britain, though as almost every day was a highlight for me, I am anticipating that this will take the form of multiple blogs. We return to Blighty mid-way through my first full week, when I have left The (not-fire-breathing-dragon) Mother-in-law and have just arrived in North Oxfordshire to visit The Grandparents.


Granny and Grandad were waiting for me on the platform when I disembarked from the train. Granny gave me one of her special stranglehold Granny Hugs, clasping me to her with the strength of ten young men and pressing a long kiss on each cheek. Grandad gave me an old school perfunctory kiss and a quick hug and tried to take my case from me. He is eighty four. I had to practically wrestle him to the ground to prevent him from taking it. Luckily, it didn’t quite get that far – pushing my elderly grandfather to the ground wasn’t quite the reunion I had envisioned.

The drive from the station to their house really was a lovely homecoming. We flew down narrow country lanes flanked by wildflowers, trees and hedges. We passed through quiet little villages full of chocolate box cottages, ivy-covered pubs and walled gardens. Fluffy sheep, fat cows, muddy pigs and free-range chickens all occupied the hedge-lined fields. This is England, the England I miss. Lush and green, it is a million miles away from dusty Karratha in every way. All this I took in between bouts of fear and mild panic as Grandad braked suddenly, completely missed a car pulling out in front of him, or accidentally put his foot down too hard on the accelerator. I feared for my life more than once on that journey. I can see now why so many people believe that once you pass a certain age you should be regularly tested to ensure you are still competent to drive.

As we pulled into the drive at Stranger’s Drift, I felt a wave of euphoria rush through me, and not just because we had miraculously made it there without a visit to hospital. Driving up to their converted barn felt like coming home. This is the house that was the one constant for me growing up – we used to come here every summer when we were in Hong Kong – and it is reassuring to know that some things never change. Wherever I am in the world, Stranger’s Drift will always be here, just the same as it always was. The large garden with its vegetable patch, rose bushes and beds bursting with colourful flowers, the outbuildings with the dartboard and croquet set that used to make an appearance every summer, the old house itself with its creaking floorboards and wonderful smell of ancient wood. The rituals of a stay with The Grandparents were equally comforting. Tea at 4.30pm out of a china pot, with matching china cups and saucers, accompanied by homemade cake and biscuits; gins and tonics at 6.30pm with a selection of nibbles, followed by a hearty meal (butter on everything!) and ending with a game of Yahzee. The routine never changes and, when you live abroad and things are constantly changing and new and different, that’s like snuggling up with an favourite old blanket.

Limbo-land

It is 4am. I have been awake since 12.45. I have had just two hours of sleep. Jet lag is a bitch. Correction: jet lag combined with a head-hurty, sore-throaty, nose-runny cold is the real bitch. I’m in this weird limbo-like nether-world, somewhere between night and day, sleep and wake. My eyes sting, my head is floating... what time is it? 4.30am. It has taken me half an hour just to write those few sentences. I can’t sleep, yet I’m not fully conscious either. This has to be the worst jet lag I have ever had. Thirty hours of travelling will do that to you, I suppose. We left Solihull at 7am on Monday and arrived back at the house in Karratha at 7.15 pm on Tuesday, essentially losing two days of our lives to cars, planes and airports. My mind and body just can’t quite catch up with where I am now. On these long-distance, constant time-zone changing flights, time becomes meaningless, mealtimes confusing – drinking wine when my body is sure it is early morning (not that that is the first time that’s happened to me), eating a fish curry when my mind is telling me that I should be spooning cereal into my mouth. I tried to sleep during the hours that it was night-time in Karratha, but my body fought it, desperately persuading me that I was in fact trying to nap in the middle of the day – I never was much good at kips.


What made this journey even worse was that the further round the world we flew, the more my cold intensified. It started off with just a couple of sneezes back in Solihull, progressed to a mild sore throat, then the eyes started to become heavy, the headaches began soon after, and eventually I felt totally rotten. Right now it is just about as bad as it can get and all I want to do is curl up in bed and sleep it off but I can’t. I know that all that will happen is that I will become more and more frustrated as sleep continues to allude me. The clock will click away the minutes and I will watch with weary resignation as light gradually begins to creep into the bedroom and the day begins without me having fallen back to sleep. They say Margaret Thatcher flourished on just four hours sleep a night – I’m going to have to see if I can merely survive on half that amount.