work/life balance

I've posted enough nice pictures of Sydney, so here's one of the floor in a bar during Mardi Gras.

Anyway, anyway, I am nearly two weeks into my 'normal' life of working here. It is all going pretty well I guess. The job pays enough for me to pay the bills and enjoy myself, and it is not particularly difficult or stressful. I did start to yearn in my first few days for the challenge I get from working in the UK, but that soon faded away.

Why have any hassle? I turn up at 9. I dress smartly. I do my work. I leave at 5. I forget about it and enjoy life. Easy.

It's strange, but I've spent so many years frowning at people who have jobs like this. I'm used to leading my worklife in a very similar way to the way I lead my social life - unpredictably, challenging convention, having great days and awful days, being consumed by the intensity of it all. Giving everything one day, feeling drained the next. Impressing one day, disappointing the next.

Time will tell which I prefer, but I suppose I should explain why I've traditionally been down on people who run out the door at 4.59 and 59 seconds. It's because I've been lucky enough to either work in jobs which I find interesting, or work for organisations where I consider there to be some actual worthwhile meaning attached to me being in the office. I gave a lot of my life, energy and emotion during my three years at the Communication Workers Union because I was always acutely aware that what I did ultimately - even in the tiniest way - could actually help improve the lives of other people.

Of course, I am rather over-playing things. The people who ran out the door at 5 probably weren't as hungover as me in the morning, and quite possibly just managed to do their bit for the class struggle in their contracted hours...

What I am trying to say in my usual long winded way is that although I don't have the same passion in this job, I do have a life. I can do stuff I enjoy instead of heading to the boozer to wash the stress away. Tonight I've read a lot, typed this, had some food and I feel good. Normally I would be leaving work late, eating crap, and feeling tired.

I'm looking forward to the next few months working here. Not so much for what I'll be doing, but for the perspective it will give me when I return...

Mardi Gras

It's been a while since I last updated this thing. This is because in the last week I have started my new job, moved home again and been off my tits over the weekend at Mardi Gras.

I'll talk about work when I can summon the enthusiasm to spend my spare time writing about it. As for the new home, well let's just say my original decision to move to the suburban hell that is Chatswood was a moment of madness. My Clapham Common of this trip.

If ever I got a reminder of why living slap bang thank you mam in the middle of Sydney was a far better option, it was this weekend. Before I go into more depth about mardi gras, I will briefly summarise my movements...

Got up Saturday morning. Blisteringly hot. Walked into the city. Did some shopping. Walked to the harbour. Drank outside the Opera House. Walked through the Botanical Gardens and home. Sunbathed with a bottle of wine in the park over-looking the harbour just outside my flat. Had a doze. Walked to the Mardi Gras parade. Walked to the after party. Walked home from it. Slept. Walked to the pub. Walked home. Slept. Walked to work.

I'm not walking everywhere because I've discovered a new hobby. Just about everything I need, want and do is just a stroll away. After so long suffering London public transport, this is a godsend to my overall quality of life.

Anyway, back to mardi gras. As I have posted on here before the Sydney event takes on far greater significance than it does in London. Here people travel from across the world and Australia to be part of it. Here it is the highlight of the year for gay people - something they talk about for ages and reminisce about for longer.

In London it has become something of a let down. The parade starts too early in the day, nobody goes apart from a few Peter Tatchell-esque militants and lots of Japanese tourists look on in bemusement. This is then followed by an over-priced party, normally in Finsbury Park, which is basically just a day out for people in the provinces. London-based gay people increasingly shun it, complain about it and resent how clubs use it to ramp up prices in the evening. To my mind it has ceased to be an event that has any meaning to gay people living in London.

Whilst that sounds like I'm being down on it and bigging up the Aussie equivalent, it is in a perverse way almost a positive thing that it has got to this. I won't pretend for one moment that Britain is some kind of liberal haven that events like mardi gras don't matter any more. What cannot be denied, however, is that things are a hell of a lot better than they are in Australia.

The Aussies have a pretty poor record on gay rights compared to comparable nations. There is more to fight for here. A lot more. And I don't just mean legally - Sydney is the only city with a large gay scene in Australia, and yet it is far, far smaller than even Manchester - let alone London. Picture being gay in a city like Brisbane, the third largest in the country and with a population of more than 1.5 million - bigger than anthing outside London in the UK - and yet with a scene that actually has less going on than is the case in Norwich. And picture being in a country so fucking huge that to even get to the nearest vibrant scene you have to board a plane for several hours.

Everyone will have their own opinions, but to my mind it is this sort of environment that gives the Sydney Mardi Gras its special place in the calendar and that increased sense of importance to people.

I have a good time, although the after party is a pretty atmosphere less affair at the Murdoch owned Fox Studios next to the Sydney Cricket Ground. And it's $130 a ticket - roughly 50 quid.

This party also gives a very obvious indication of how drug fuelled the scene is in Sydney. And by that I don't mean people having a few pills here and there. The drugs of choice here are Crystal Meth and GHB. I'm not saying these aren't big on the London scene, because they are, but I have never seen so many people carted off in ambulances as I do at this party.

Later I am told the OD rate had been tame by comparison to previous years...

Every loser wins

Well, that has to be perhaps one of the shortest stays in a new home on record. After plumping for a house with a nice garden and pretending that I would somehow we satisfied with a surburban lifestyle, I have realised this is utter bollocks and will be moving into a flat in the city - just over a week after moving in (and for most of that I wasn't even there).

I guess I was mindful of what annoyed me so much in London - the full-on, work/party lifestyle that I could never get out of. Obviously I felt a nice house still accessible to the city was the best option. Truth be told, it isn't that accessible really. Front door to work/bar is 45-50 minutes...

Anyway, here's how I broke it to my house mates (for all of a week). They were, thankfully, fine about it all. Maybe they'd had enough of me already too...!

---------- Forwarded message ----------From: Matt Nicholls Date: 26-Feb-2007 16:52Subject: confession timeTo: Joshua Booyens Hiya Josh

Hope your Monday back at work was ok - it was my first day working for five weeks, so imagine how I felt!

Anyway, I hope you get this e-mail before you leave for the day as I wanted to explain something in depth before having to face you guys and explain it. I'm very, very sorry about this, but I am going to move out of the house before the end of the week. I honestly didn't expect things to work out like this. In order to explain why this has happened, I need to put the decision in context...

Two weekends ago I promised myself I would make a decision on which house share to go for based on the six places I had viewed. I was anxious to move out of hotels and get the matter sorted out - not least because at this stage I didn't have a job and wanted some kind of security.

My first choice was an apartment in Potts Point. It was my first choice because not only was it a great home, it was ten minutes from the city, Oxford Street and everything else. I could walk to wherever I wanted to be, more or less. In my mind it was my first choice when I came to meet you and Joel that Saturday in Newtown, but I still wanted to meet you guys before deciding finally.

I'm not just saying this, but you guys were by far and away the soundest people I had met to share with. The house also sounded great (it is!) and so I was genuinely very interested.

The next day I still had not heard back from the guy in Potts Point as he was still showing it to other people. It was also the day before my job interview, and I guess I was a bit on edge. I craved the stability that would come from a home and a job so I could relax and enjoy life living in Sydney. So, in the evening I rang you and accepted the room.

The next day after my interview, I had a message from the guy in Potts Point - the room in his apartment was mine if I wanted it. For the rest of the day I went round and round in my head about what to do. The place in Potts Point was my first choice, but I had accepted the room in Chatswood and I didn't want to go back on my word. This sounds silly now, but I really didn't want to let you guys down after saying yes. I was also convincing myself that Chatswood was the best option, that it would give me the space and environment to chill out away from city life that I so craved in London.

When I moved into the house, my emotions were mixed. The place is absolutely amazing, but I just didn't feel comfortable in Chatswood itself. It just isn't 'me'.

I should stress that there is no problem whatsoever with you, Joel and Margo. None at all. I do feel, however, that a more 'settled' person would be better for you to live with. I don't know how long I'm going to be in Australia - I certainly can't afford to start buying lots of furniture that I would ahve to leave behind when I do eventually go. This may sound convenient, but i just feel it would be better for you guys to have somebody there who could make a better contribution towards making it a home.

The time I spent in Byron gave me the opportunity to make the decision. By co-incidence, I received a text message from the guy in Potts Point on Friday asking how I was getting on. I mentioned that I felt Chatswood was not for me and that I had made a mistake. He replied that the room at his place was still available. We met for a drink yesterday, talked about it, and I agreed to move in.

I am so very, very sorry to have mucked you around like this. It goes without saying that I should have accepted the Potts Point apartment before moving my stuff into your place. I hope you appreciate that one of the reasons I didn't was because I was reluctant to let you guys down - even though I have now ended up doing precisely that.

I can't afford to spend the reminder of my time in Sydney regretting things - which is what I would have done every day I walked up the hill to Chatswood station and stood on a crammed train into the city, or every time I had to get a cab home from a night out. All the time I would have remembered that I could have been living within walking distance of everything had I not made the decision to live in Chatswood.

Anyway, I will doubtless discuss all of this further when I get home later. It goes without saying i will do anyhing I can to help you find a replacement.

Matt

Time to pack my things up again...

Back to life, back to reality...

Pictures like the one above are now officially a thing of the past. For at least the next few months. Bugger.

Yes, after five whole weeks - five glorious weeks - of not working, and not really doing anything of any note, it has to end. Tomorrow (Monday) I start work with the NSW Fire Brigade press office. I have my own tax code, employee number and all the other mundane crap associated with having to work. The holiday is over. I am no longer a tourist in Sydney. I have a home here, a job, a bank account etc etc etc...

It would be out of character for me to not whinge about having to work. Truth be told, I made the decision to make this trip more of a living abroad - as opposed to travelling abroad - experience. I am intrigued about what will confront me when I start work here tomorrow, how I will feel on a day to day basis - how that will compare to back home, how it will compare to when I first got to Australia a month ago...

Right. Tonight I will be sensible and prepare myself for tomorrow. Who knows what will happen if this job goes well? Time to iron the shirt and trousers (hopefully within a few weeks I can dispense with these) and remind myself not to burp in the office or use four letter swear words.

Oh, and best not to think too much about the fact you're about to move out of the house you've just moved into, and how this may upset the people you're living with. Let's leave that until tomorrow...

vgbvjkbgvu

My stay in Byron Bay is a very pleasant experience. I am awoken every morning by my neighbours on the lake island - sometimes that's birds singing, on other occasions it's a chav bellowing some kind of bollocks like 'Come on Steve, let's get by that fucking pool!'

I do little of any great note while I'm here other than enjoy the surroundings, eat lots of nice food and read books. Oh I may have had the odd cheeky beer or two as well.

Byron is near the border with Queensland and roughly 750km north of Sydney. It's still in New South Wales, but this is a very different part of Australia to the sprawling suburbs of the state capital.

On Thursday I hired a car and drove up the coast a bit further. Some of the beaches are jaw droppingly gorgeous. It's funny in a way, I was sightly worried the sight of another stunning stretch of golden sand might start to wear off after a bit. It is true that these sights do mean more when you're on a two week holiday, when you can sense how the moment is only temporary and how good it feels to contrast it with the banality of home. But I'm still loving it...

I also drive up to Brisbane, Australia's third largest city with a population of 1.5 million. I don't know if it was the fact this place has a suburb called Ipswich that put me off, or just that cities are cities at the end of the day, but I effectively get there and then go again. I'm sure it has a lot to offer, a lot to see and all the rest of it, but to me it just seems like a scaled down version of Sydney as a drive through. Sydneysiders are also very down on Brisbane as a place, although mind you they are down on every other major Australian city in comparison to their own.

Part of the reason for my attitude is that I don't have much time to spare there, another is that I arrive in a bit of a funny mood. I didn't really meet anybody in Byron to have a drink with etc, and a few days of not having conversations with anybody other than to buy stuff can send you a bit loopy.

Although Byron is very much an archetypal traveller town, there is a different atmosphere here to what I have experienced in similar places in Asia. For example, when I was in Goa last year it was almost a physical impossibility to go out and not have someone strike up a conversation and invite you to join them for a drink. There does not appear to be much of that in Byron. Just lots of locals and my fellow countrymen getting very drunk, and saying over and over again how very drunk they are. And how very drunk they were last night.

There is still an extremely relaxed and friendly vibe oozing through the place, however, and I can see myself coming back here again.

Bernard or Byron?

It's the final week of freedom (for a while) before I start work, so I'm away from Syders and up to the East Coast at the beautiful resort of Byron Bay.

It's something of a relief to escape the city for a while, to be frank. Byron is a renowned idyllic retreat, popular with backpackers, older holidaymakers and locals. The beach is stunning and there are plenty of shops, restaurants and bars to entertain without it ever giving the feel of being busy.

I am staying at the Arts Factory Lodge - http://www.artsfactory.com.au/ - which I guess you could describe as typically untypical. Facilities include a buddha garden, recording studios, hot tubs, spas and a cinema. Accommodation includes anything from dorms to tepees, indeed I am staying in a tent on an island in the middle of a lake. Although this sounds primitive and, er, it is I suppose, I still have my own double bed and basic enough facilities to make this very comfortable. The perfect chill out retreat.

Most of the crowd staying here are young British travellers. You just can't escape them! Well, you can, but they just seem to have this habit of visiting the best places to go...

The sight of so many early 20s backpackers, many of whom on a gap year after finishing uni, makes me think back to when I had the opportunity to do the same thing, but ended up working opposite a turkey slaughter house. You did just read that correctly.

Wind back to the summer of 1999, and when I graduated with a 2:1 in History and Politics from the University of London. I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do next. None whatsoever. I had applied for a graduate management position with a Felixstowe haulage company, but only because it involved periods of living in Holland and Italy.

The desire to spend time abroad was with me back then. It would have been the perfect excuse to use some savings I had (gained through inheritance payments) to see the world. Unfortunately I wasn't that well travelled, I certainly hadn't been abroad alone, and I was just too daunted . Nobody I knew was heading off backpacking - well, at least nobody I wanted to travel with anyway. I just didn't have the resolve to do it. Plus, what if the mighty City won promotion to the Premier League and I missed it? (That was a serious consideration. No joke)

I was also hacked off with being skint. By the end of my final year, I had to borrow money so I could put petrol in my car and drive my stuff back up home. All my friends who had jobs wore better clothes - I hadn't bought a new shirt for months and looked like a skank. They would snap up the latest albums released, whilst I had to make do with the same CDs I'd been listening to for years.

All I wanted was enough money for a night out. I just couldn't handle scrounging off family and friends for a minute longer. The first thing I did therefore was to switch this scrounging to the state, and sign on. My parents were distinctly unimpressed with me during this period. Part of it was down to the fact I didn't want to be back living with them - they used to shout about the way I stacked the fucking dishwasher - but part of it was down to the fact I wasn't really doing anything. Things reached a particularly low point when I spent an entire week's dole money in one afternoon on the piss in Norwich. It didn't help that when I turned up at Mum's work to get a lift home, I was passed out on the floor next to her car.

The problem was not that I was naturally a benefit scrounging alcoholic, it was that I did not know what I wanted to do career wise. I put off making the decision whilst at uni, consoling myself that I'd work it out at some point, by which time I'd have a degree and everything would be fine.

I quickly discovered that an arts degree on its own is practically worthless. It has to be backed up with some kind of experience in the field you are looking to enter, whether that be additional qualifications, unpaid work experience and so on. I had spent my summers between uni terms mainly working for my Dad, who would pay me a fiver an hour to strip old fire extinguishers of stickers and sand them down. It was a piss easy job - and life. He was never in the workshop. I would get up at 9.30 every day, drive to North Walsham, do about three hours' work (claiming for five), listen to Radio One and eat sandwiches whilst 'working', and then drive home again. By the end of the week I had more than enough money, but ultimately nothing that would benefit me in the long-term.

My first job after uni was temping for Norfolk County Council. It was dull, but I was taking home roughly 200 quid a week and not paying any rent, so I was better off than I had ever been. Having cash to go out, eat in restaurants (something I only ever did previously on special occasions), buy clothes and watch lots of Norwich games seemed to vindicate my feeling at the time that all I needed was a fairly well paid job, and everything else would follow from that.

For some reason, I certainly can't remember why, I decided originally on Marketing as my chosen career path. I don't think I even really understood what it entailed. That might go some way to explaining why, when I wrote off to every marketing company in Norfolk asking for at the very least some work experience, nobody offered me anything. Helps if you can market yourself if you want to get into marketing.

Meanwhile, I was busy applying for any other job that would pay me in the region of 20K a year. I thank God none of these 'opportunities' ever came to fruition and I cringe about what could have been. Jobs I was interviewed for included a recruitment consultant position based in Slough, and a place on a car rental firm's graduate management scheme. In Newmarket.

However the piece de resistance of crap jobs and narrow misses has to be my experience working for the king of the turkey farms - Bernard Matthews. I enquired - and this is fucking difficult to type, trust me - about the possibility of a position within the company's Marketing department. Yes. I asked if I could help spread the word of the turkey twizzler worldwide. Unfortunately (!), there were no jobs available, and instead I was offered a temporary job working in their purchasing department.

The job basically involved buying equipment from suppliers needed to maintain all the turkey farms Bernie owned, supposedly at the best price. I wasn't very good at it. I don't know if it was my lack of motivation, or the fact I regularly used to go out clubbing in the evenings and crawl in after about three hours' sleep, but I never took to this role. One of the farms I bought equipment for was Holton, where there was an outbreak of bird flu a few weeks ago. It would be somewhat ironic if the virus spread because of dodgy insulation caused by me buying the wrong equipment eight years ago...

Eventually I decided on journalism as my career path. I had been put off the idea because of the low wages new entrants 'enjoy' in this profession, and because I would have to return to college for around six months to gain a specialist qualification. All of this was preferable to life with fat Bernie the turkey man.

Eventually I resigned from BM, even though I didn't have another job to go to. It was when I pulled people in clubs and had to answer the 'where do you work?' question that I had to jack this little number in. People would actually laugh.

By September 2000 and the time of my departure to Sheffield to undertake a journalism course, I was desperate to get away. It had been an awful year work wise, a combination of data input for the council and looking out the window at the sight of a turkey getting its throat slit. I also performed the whole 'coming out' gig during this time to friends and family, so it had not been without its emotional difficulties either.

If you are still reading this, you may be wondering why I've just taken this trip down memory lane. The reason is that I am debating with myself whether I would have sorted out my career direction and personal life had I spent the year travelling. I know from my time in Australia that it is very easy to dodge the difficult stuff when you are in this kind of environment. Why torture yourself with boring stuff when there's beer to drink, a sea to swim in and a good book to read?

As I have said, sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better. Who knows? Maybe Bernard was better for me all those years ago than Byron Bay would have been...

I've just realised what I said. You are a twat, Matt...

Oh, such a cute little doggie...

Am awoken in the middle of the night by a text from Mum - Norwich lost 4-0 at Chelsea, despite having played quite well. Not really anything in that message to get excited about one way or the other really, and I fall back asleep.

Today (Sunday) is 'Fair Day', another part of the Sydney Mardi Gras celebrations. It is nothing more than a few stands, food outlets, couple of beer tents and a main stage offering pretty uninspiring entertainment. Still, it's a sunny day in the park and so well worth popping along to. I am struck by the amount of locals who are obsessed with keeping themselves in the shade, desperately trying to avoid the sun. Struck because it isn't even that hot - 26 degrees max. Maybe they're taking heed from the official Mardi Gras web site, which advises sensible exposure to the sun and warns against attendees ending up "looking like a Christmas Pommie on Bondi Beach". It's always refreshing to see the organisers of a festival with equality supposedly at its core resort to racial bigotry :)

A big feature of 'Fair Day' are the various dog competitions, not to mention the desperate attempts of various animal charities like 'rescueapuppy.com' to get gullible gay couples to leave the event with a new addition to the home. Owning small dogs is another aspect of gay life I don't seem to be able to get. I mean, call me old fashioned, but whatever happened to just fancying members of the same sex and leaving at that?!

Movin', just keep movin'...

Today I finally move out of the whore ridden Kings Cross area and move my stuff up to the new abode in Chatswood.

I also take advantage of next week being my last of freedom for a while and book a flight up the east coast to Byron Bay, where I will stay for five days. This is renowned for being one of the main sun/fun seeking traveller destinations, and has won rave reviews. In other words it will be full of 21-year-old beered up British boys, along with boring couples 'doing the whole travel thing' before they get married and generally being annoying. Without wanting to launch into another tirade, I have to say I find it easier to get on with the locals than my compatriots. I recall not long after I arrived a conversation I had in a bar with a 19-year-old lad from Northampton (no I was not and no I did not, by the way). I asked him his thoughts on Australia...

"Yeah, the weather's wicked mate. Bit hot though. There is one area where the Aussies really fall down though."

"Where's that?"

"Well, there ain't that many McDonalds out here, are there?"

"Well, they have got them and other places like them," I retort in a slightly disconcerted voice.

"I know, but I don't like having to walk so far when I've got me Big Mac fix, man."

For the record, young Glenn is a trainee chef back in England.

Anyway, I'm afraid to say that those who were hoping I would face financial flagellation after the incident with the car yesterday (where I nearly sent the fucker tumbling down a valley) will be disappointed. The young Italian guy from Budget who inspected the car didn't see the scratches and so I got away with it. Hehehe. Perhaps he fancied me and just ignored them in a desperate bid to win my heart...

Or perhaps not.

My beloved Norwich City are in action today against Ch***ea in the FA Cup. As I type this it is 5pm here, but it will only be 6am at home. We're taking 6,000 fans down, including a fair smattering of my family and friends. It does feel slightly odd not to be part of the pre-match build/piss up as normal and the general banter (notice I talk of the socialising element of it all and not about watching the game).

Anyway, I'll get Mum to text me the score. Who knows? At 4am here I could hear of a famous upset and run naked through the Bush singing On the Ball City...

What goes up...?

There are a lot of people who subscribe to the school of thought that things have got to get a lot worse before they can get a lot better.

I am one of them. This time last year I was deeply unhappy, a relatively new job was not going very well at all. I wanted out. I told everyone that - even my boss. I wanted a new direction, but didn't know where to turn. I was fed up with London, wanted to go somewhere else but didn't know where to fling to.

In the end, I stuck with it, not least because I knew that for every bad hand that is dealt, a better one more often than not soon follows.

And so it transpired. The sunshine of Australia, a new job, a new home, new friends, new opportunities - even a renaissance from the bloody cricket team. I suppose things had to turn back to the worse at some point...

Ok. Maybe I've built this up so you're expecting disaster stories now. That isn't the case. Ish. But, erm, things have been a bit difficult for the last few days.

My camera, bought a few weeks ago in Tokyo, is now officially buggered. I have no idea why. There is a picture at the top of this post, but it was taken two weeks ago. Bugger. Pictures do make a holiday, career break and even nowadays a blog. So this is a bugger. Bugger.

I was due to be paid again this week by the LGA for outstanding work/holiday. I was. Only it was a thousand quid less than I budgeted for. Buggery. Without lube.

Given that I start gainful employment from Feb 26, I have decided to use my spare time between now and then to do some interesting stuff outside of Sydney. So I'm booked to fly up to Byron Bay near Queensland on Monday for five days, where it is very sunny and the nightlife is described as amazing. Nice buggery. Maybe with some poppers.

I decided in the meantime to hire a car for three days and explore the area around Sydney, and also to help with my move into the new house on Saturday. On Thursday I drove up to Sydney's northern beaches, including Palm Beach - where they film Home and Away. I was always a Neighbours fan aged 11-14, so it didn't bring back much childhood resonance. And the camera was buggered so I couldn't take any buggering pictures. Of anything.

On my way back I stopped off at the new home to meet with my new house mates, pay deposits and general dreary nonsense. The house is truly amazing - we have rooms that we have no use for. Hell, we even have a wine cellar!

We also have spiders. Big fucking spiders. And I don't mean the kind that you used to see crawl unexpectedly out of the video recorder when you were eight tears old. I'm talking large, strange looking fuckers that make an Englishman very scared indeed.

It's ok. The one's in the house are harmless. They're big, but they couldn't harm a butterfly. No, it's the ones that live in our garden that are my personal cause for alarm...

Have you ever heard of the Funnel Web spider? For those of you who have not, here's what the Time Out guide to Sydney has to say: "It is a nasty, aggressive creature native to the Sydney bush. Reddish-brown and hairy, it lives in holes in the ground. If bitten, apply pressure and immobilise the wounded area, using a splint if possible, and get to hospital immediately."

I spend the entire night having nightmares. There are killers in my garden. Fuck me, I might as well have bunked up in a house share with Ian Huntley and that bloke who strangled the hookers in Ips***...

In the morning I compose myself. All this worrying is silly. Everything is fine. There are no spiders here. I decide to deal with this moment in true 21st Century British fashion - by going to IKEA to buy some furniture.

I need a bed. One I can snuggle up in and er er GET RAVAGED TO DEATH IN BY A SPIDER ... FUCKING STOP IT MATT!

It's pointless buying a proper bed as I'm only here until July, so I buy a cheap sofa bed that I can also fit in the car. As it takes up a lot of room in the car, I decide to drop it off at the house today (Friday) before we all move in properly tomorrow (Saturday).

The road leading to our house is as steep as anything I have ever seen in my entire life. You practically need fucking ski's to get down it. It is a struggle walking, let alone driving.

No worries. All I need to do is keep the wheel straight, go down gently and then unload the stuff at the bottom. What could be simpler?

Within two minutes, the back end of the car is lodged half way inside a forest and half on the drive, I'm sweating like a paedophile in a nursery - desperately applying the handbrake to prevent it tumbling into a valley and eliminating several breeds of species (fuck, could have done for the spiders...)

I steady the car. Ok, let's get the heavy bed out of the car and remove some weight. It can be pushed down the slope in its box, of course!

All the contents of the car is removed, locked in the house and ok. I then go back up to the car. It is perched on the slop like a piece of ice about to fall off a mountain (or something like that) and I'm shitting myself. Oh, it's also 32 degrees, humid and my paranoia about spiders is coming back.

Only one thing for it - get in the car, perform a perfect set off with loads of revs and perfect handbrake control. You'll be up that slop in no time.

Within 30 seconds the area was resembling a scene from the Dukes of Hazard, with smoke booming from all parts of the car and it going, erm, precisely nowhere. Fearful of some unfamiliar smells and smoke, I retreat to the house. Let it cool down and try again in a few minutes.

After a while, I go back up to the car. Should I try again? Or should I call for help? Will I - most importantly - have to pay the $2,750 excess with the hire company if I fuck it up?

True to form, I bottle it and ask one of my new neighbours to help me. They've got steep drives too and must be used to this...

"You want me to drive it? Well, I could, but it's your car and i don't want to be held responsible," says the old looking guy from next door.

"You'll do a better job than I've been doing," I meekly retort.

"Ok..."

Within two seconds he crashes into the barrier with an almighty thud, smoke bellows all over the place, before he eventually pulls the bugger to blighty. I survey the damage - he's left two small scratches, but most of it is mud.

"I've scratched your car, but it was your bloody fault. You shouldn't have got so close to the barrier!"

Thanks. For that. Cunt.

Let's find out tomorrow what those lovely people at Budget Car Rental - and if you're reading this guys, I really do love you - think of all this...

And the winner is...

A decision has been made. I am moving to Chatswood in the north of Sydney with my new house mates Josh, Joel and Margo.

This rather remote location was an outside bet at the start of the search. In footballing terms it was Reading - not fancied to begin with, but able to win you over with impressive quality . I plumped for this home because it is very, very nice and the people I will be living with are extremely friendly. The one thing that was deterring me was the location - 15 minute train journey to the city - when other places were within walking distance of the jobs, shops and bars. Still, you don't get many inner city homes backing onto a protected nature reserve like this one does...

I was also won over to Chatswood by an old argument I have used for years in debates with people about which is the superior place to live in East Anglia. Proponents of Ipswich or Cambridge over Norwich always point to superior transport links and closer proximity to London, which has always struck me as being a rather perverse argument to make. How can the ease with which you can leave a place - to go somewhere else completely different - be viewed as one of its attributes? If it's so fucking good, why leave?

Anyway, in the house hunting stakes in Sydney world what I am basically saying is that I decided a home had to be more than what it was close to. A decent home with decent people are ultimately what matters more than being able to stagger back home from a low rent night out with a low rent one night stand.

God. I am almost starting to sound vaguely mature. Oh, on the subject of which, I got the job! I start with the NSW Fire Brigade on Feb 26, which allows a bit more time for generally being rather immature before the serious stuff starts.

It was a big relief to get the job - and something of a surprise to beat off competition from six Aussies for it. Whilst I was waiting to hear if I had got it on Monday and Tuesday (which co-incided with the first spell of indifferent weather there has been here since I arrived) I did start to worry a bit. What if my experience gained in the UK was always going to be outweighed by local knowledge and contacts? Would I have to spend every bloody day in internet cafes or employment agencies looking for work?

There were other short term consequences. If I didn't get it, the search would have to be stepped up for work. If I did get it, not only would the security be there, but it would also leave nearly two weeks to travel around and see more of the country. Mountain drives or boat trips to desert islands, anyone?

Fortunately I can now plan these very trips until the shirt and tie has to come out again. Oh, and before I forget, England defied the odds to win the one day series against Australia. Watching and reading the astonished Aussie pundits give credit to the 'resurgent poms' has been very edifying indeed.