Six Months Off...

You'll all be pleased to know that we are not still sitting in the departure lounge of Qantas Domestic Airport. Oh no. A mere twelve hours later, we landed in sunny Perth, hopped on the ferry and arrived at Rottnest Island. For those of you uninitiated, it's a sweet little spot about half an hour from Fremantle by fast boat. It's been inhabited by aboriginals, used as a penal colony, played a military role in World Wars One and Two, but now is purely for lucky visitors like us who get to lap up the great weather, beautiful beaches and lack of cars (they're not allowed). It's also the official home of the Quokka - a small, hoppy marsupial a bit like a tiny kangaroo or a possum on springs - which populate the island and aren't at all scary, although one did try to break into our house and my brave husband had to sweep it out with a broom. So manly!
Michael spent the week training for his triathlon in France with frequent and fierce sessions of swimming, cycling and running, with a little sea kayaking for a break. Hah. I, on the other hand, read a trashy book, slept, drank champagne and, when all those girly, glamorous holiday things wore a tad thin, I went fishing. Now, I know this is more than a slight departure from my usual profession of prescribing lipsticks, wrinkle cream and hair gel to devoted marie claire readers, however as the saying goes, "a change is as good as a holiday", and as I was already on holiday, it should have been extra good. And it was. There is something tres caveman-chic about catching one's own dinner - I'd like to think more Racquel Welch in One Million Years BC in that cute little fur bikini than actual neanderthal man, however. Anyway, I was good at it, and most evenings Dad and I could be found covered in fish guts out on the rocks overlooking Geordie Bay. Plus, fish oil is tres anti-ageing so it was a nice beauty tie-in, too.
After a week of living simply in shorts, bikini and bare feet, with fresh fish and lobster for dinner every night, it was hard to get back on the boat to wave farewell to Rottnest (especially since the sea was quite rough that day), but Hong Kong was calling, and who were we to argue with the travel gods. So it was "Seeya Layda" from Rotto and "Jo San" (or Hello in Cantonese) to the fragrant harbour.

In the word of Edina Monsoon, of Absolutely Fabulous fame, "It's hardly a hiccup, sweetie, more like a giant belch with a little bit of sick in it". And that's how Day One of TOL seems to be shaping up.
D1 started well enough: we managed to jam our lives into our three small(ish) bags, wrestle Michael's bike into a really rather giant cardboard box and squeeze into a maxi taxi bound for Sydney airport. First stop, Perth! Wrong...first stop, the check in counter, where I was politely informed that my luggage was "over". While I smiled sweetly and tried to will my suitcase to look light, Mike muttered something about backpacking and how I clearly wasn't cut out for it. Which, I might add, is precisely why I didn't buy a backpack in the first place - much too constricting. After I extracted my toiletry bag (which embarassingly weighed five kilos), and stashed it in one of the sensible packer's sensible sized bags, we were through. But before our sighs of relief were fully exhaled, the plane broke. I've heard these stories on the news and thought, "Poor suckers, glad that wasn't me". Well, now it quite clearly was me, and no amount of complimentary gin and tonic was going to change that. So, as you wait with bated breath for news of travel adventures, amazing scenery and gourmet delights, all I can give you is what the inside of the Qantas Club looks like - beige - what the airport food is like - bland - and what it's like to be perched patiently in Terminal Two, with a minimum four hour wait ahead, the only reward being to board a potentially busted aircraft for a five hour flight - no need for elaboration there.
What's a little hydraulic fluid leaking from the fourth engine between friends anyway?
...until next time, when hopefully we will have at least left the state...

Cardboard boxes, garbage bags, half-empty bottles of shampoo, tomato sauce, wine... OK, maybe not so many half-empty bottles of wine, they are mostly all empty. You'd be forgiven for thinking it's a ghetto or slum we've stumbled upon on our travels. But, no - it's our once-pristine Paddington apartment.
Our departure for the Trip Of a Lifetime (hearafter referred to as TOL) is in four days and counting. The removalists show up in just under 36 hours and we're in utter chaos. Suddenly TOL seems a frivilous and downright ridiculous idea. We have too many beauty products for one thing. We need to rehome our potplants and adopt out our car. We need to cram five years worth of Sydney life into a storage unit that's smaller than our bathroom. Do we make it? Do Emily and Michael foil the troublesome Packing Gods, pack their suitcases sensibly and make it to the airport on time? Stay tuned...

Completely random yet utterly sublime holiday moment: Waking up on Monday morning before the alarm and realising it's not even set, that I don't need to do the hour-long comute to the office, that it doesn't matter that I can't be bothered to wash my hair today. Because I'm not going to work today. I'm not going for six whole months.