So here I am, still writing on a website (four years today) and making it easy for old acquaintances to Google and quickly realise that I'm still an idiot so there's no need to get back in touch.

Writing on the internet is easy. Compare the life of an internet writer-type to that of an actor. The actor must go to auditions or to Blockbuster in order to check out the competition, feel inadequate and wonder if they should try and be someone else -- internet writers just have to look at their blogroll. And they can do it without having to put on makeup or underpants.

Also consider the internet reader versus the movie-goer. Internet readers don't have to pay money and sit through what could be a rubbish film -- they can scan the first few lines of a webpage and click away if it stinks.

It's also beautifully easy for everyone to interact. Readers can leave comments or zap emails and their words will wash over the writer, all sweet and warm like a strawberry being lowered into a pot of chocolate fondue. But if you want to communicate with an actor, you have to send a self-addressed envelope to a fan club, and who knows how long it will take for the form letter/head shot to get back to you? It's much harder to give feedback, unless you're really determined like that guy who tried to assassinate Reagan.

Blogging's been a struggle this past year without a job that supports the habit. But the urge to write never wavers; I think in paragraphs while sitting on the bus, lips moving slowly like a psychopath while testing lines of dialogue. This is followed by weeks of mental editing, so by the time I actually write anything down it is no longer relevant, timely or of any interest to anyone at all. When I actually manage to produce something, I feel an enormous, shuddering relief, like an old man on a toilet after a mighty Vindaloo.

I still treat like this blog like an embarrassing secret. I panic when friends discover it. For four years I've been "forgetting" to email mum the address. When I see it on my sister's screen my face burns with shame like a 13-year-old boy caught with a Playboy. Part of me still thinks it's insane that millions of people are all typing words into little boxes and sending them out into ether.

Still, you can't deny the good a blog can bring over the years. They open doors, they inspire and frustrate. They show you how big and small the world is. They lead you to friends you now couldn't be without, even someone to fall in love with. They improve your typing speed.

I know this guy who flew to Bucharest today for a conference. He really wanted it to be DraculAir but it was plain old KLM.

The lucky bastard's gone behind the Iron Curtain. Don't tell me that the Iron Curtain is no more. I won't let you take that evil communist overlord Nadia Comaneci Perfect 10 polyester tracksuit romance away from me.

I've never had a job that required me to go to conferences. One-day seminars run by software companies don't count. They're just for product-flogging and clamouring over Adobe hats and yo-yo's or Macromedia Flash t-shirts that have no hope of stretching across the bellies of the clamour-ers.

Proper conferences are the stuff of telemovies and poorly-written erotic stories on the internet. There's a guy in the hotel bar who's slamming down a bourbon glass and loosening his tie. He looks up and finally notices the lonely brunette in the beige pantyhose, playing with the ice cubes in her drink, briefcase at her feet.

-- So I bet you're here for Air-Con Con '97 too?

-- Oh yes! I can't wait for the climate control workshop tomorrow. How about a drink?

Fifteen to twenty sprawling paragraphs later, they're afterglowing in his suite in fluffy bathrobes. They crack open the mini-bar Schweppes Tonic Water and divvy up the Toblerone and wonder if they'll get away with it

I always thought the Australian edition of Cosmopolitan was gloriously rubbish, but the UK edition has been a revelation.

Exhibit A: The Penis Reader!

Agnes Freeman is the UK's only penis reader. And Cosmo comes but once a month, so only twelve women per year get to unlock the secrets of their partner's privates. For every Verity from Gloucester, there's a million Melissa's from Manchester or Confuseds from Glasgow who are left confuzzled, staring at those strange dangling creatures and wondering what's it all mean?

Clearly there's a labour shortage here. This could be my ticket to a work permit. I'm going to phone the British Home Office and get them to post me a few staff polaroids. Brian is very clean and enjoys photocopying and filling out forms. Left-wing tendencies. He also likes to be spanked. Once I've dazzled them with my skillz, they're bound to let me stay!

Cross-posted to Lost In Transit.

If you want to know how it feels to be Lost In Transit, may I recommend a Working Holiday visa. Over 40,000 people come wandering over from the colonies each year, all leaving behind friends and jobs and families to spend two years in the UK.

The honeymoon period is delicious. Everything you see and do is new and exciting, sometimes scary. Every day is stuffed with opportunity and adventure. With no real committments, responsiblities or money, life is pared down to the essentials - work, drink, shag, travel.

Next comes an equally satisfying period where you feel less of a stranger in your surroundings. You now have friends and work, favourite pubs and restaurants. You have routines and rituals. You know which supermarkets sell Vegemite and which don't. Best of all, you know where the buses go. The city map was once a blur of strange names, but now when you see a Number 9 or 33 or 5678 coming along the road, there's a certain cosy pleasure from knowing that you know whether it will get you home or leave you stranded on a dodgy industrial estate halfway to England.

But after awhile this feeling becomes tinged with unease as you remember your time is limited. I was on a train from Edinburgh to Glasgow recently, off to see Aussie band Powderfinger in concert. There were plenty of my countrymen in our carriage and I couldn't help tuning in to their conversations.

I just don't know what to do. My time is running out. I wonder if they'll sponsor me. How hard is to to get a work permit? I'm not ready to go home. Me either. My visa runs out in June. How much does it cost to send things home? What are you going to do when you get back? Fucked if I know.

If you're not ready to go home, the idea of going back seems devastating. Home is where everything is predictable, where Europe isn't two hours and £20 away, where no one will comment on your accent, where you have to think further into the future than your next meal. It's an unreasonable line of thinking - life doesn't have to be dull just because you're going home. But I always recall my friends who've returned from Working Holidays and spent months or years feeling lost and unsettled.

The gig venue was chockers full of Aussies, all seemingly determined to assert their Aussiness. Accents were louder and broader. Many people wore green and gold football or cricket jerseys. One twat wore an akubra. People were texting friends back home, Gday mate guess wot powderfinger right here in glasgow, scotland, uk, can u believe !?! Even the band went ocker as the crowd screamed for more, the singer drawling, Jeez youse are loud, crikey! Everyone pounded the floor and sang Waltzing Matilda until they came back for an encore. If they pulled that stunt back in Australia they'd be decked, but here in Scotland it seemed okay to be cringily Oz. I guess it's that whole expat spirit - you don't always want to live in your native land but you want the world to know where you come from.

I often think the Working Holiday is nothing but a temporary suspension of reality. Unlike "proper" expats, we're only here for a limited time. You're voluntarily abandoning what in my case was a very secure career and lifestyle, just so you can run amok for two years. So much can happen in that time - you have all sorts of fun and meet all sorts of people and grow very attached to your new life. But the only way to make it your reality would involve a lot scheming and/or paperwork. If only I'd had the foresight (or brains) to be an accountant or a teacher so I could get a work permit! And why wasn't my grandfather English so I'd qualify for an ancestry visa? How bloody unthoughtful of him!

It's an awkward feeling, straddling two continents, not feeling quite at home in either space. Sometimes I want 12-month subscriptions to magazines. I want a fancy winter coat and a permanent job. I want to grow basil in a window box. But you cannae do that, hen! Not when you're getting deported in ten months, just like your bread-stealing arrow-suited ancestors.

The Mothership carted a video tape all the way from Oz so I could see my website on the telly for 0.0001 nanoseconds. Apparently a show called Mondo Thingo did a story on weblogs and flashed a whole bunch on the screen in quick succession. I haven't watched it yet, but it's proudly displayed on the shelf, labelled SHAUNA'S MONDO THINGO in Mum's infamous teacher writing.

This wasn't my first television appearance. My debut was in a 1985 commerical for a local caravan park. The owner of said park wanted a spot on the box to let the world know he not only sold caravans, but also had a merry-go-round and ponies and all sorts of super happy fun things for kiddies.

So he approached his local casting agency, ie. the primary school down the road. Our teacher was more than happy to provide the talent. The audition process was exhaustive:

TEACHER: Kids, would you like to be on telly today?
KIDS: Will we get out of maths?
TEACHERS: Yes.
KIDS: YAAAYYY!

There was cutthroat competition for the lead roles. The merry-go-round turned out to be quite small; it only had five horses and didn't move until you inserted 20 cents. Only the finest actors got a ride. They waved madly to the cameras and went round and round til the money ran out.

Next the owner arrived, dressed up as a magician. He was a leery guy at the best of times, so in top hat and black cloak he was Willy Wonka meets sleazy vampire. We were directed to gather at his feet and prepare to look delighted by his magic tricks. I never understood why he was a magician. Who writes these scripts? Perhaps his prices were magic or he planned to pull a trailer out of his arse.

Trick #1. Rabbit out of the hat.

"Oooooooooh!" We kiddies squealed on cue, even though it was just a stuffed toy.

Trick #2. Fake flower pops out from end of magic wand.

"Oooooooooh!"

Frankly, the magic tricks were rubbish; it was a real stretch for our acting ability. We started to fidget.

The owner grimaced beneath his pancake makeup and reached into the folds of his cloak. This better be good, I thought, or I'm going back to school to do my spelling test.

He pulled out a can of peanuts.

Oh boy! I sat bolt upright. We're gonna get peanuts! We star in his commercial, he pays us peanuts!

You could pinpoint that moment as the start of my lifelong obsession with food. I stared at the can, eyes wide, tongue flapping wildly like a fish out of water. The can was bright yellow and said ROASTED PEANUTS in a fat red font. I'd never seen nuts in a can before but I was open to new culinary experiences. Mum never let us have peanuts. Today I would have peanuts and there was nothing she could do. I longed for the sting of salt on my lips, the greasy aftertaste, all those little bits that get stuck in your molars.

He waved his magic wand over the jar. The kids leaned forward.

Come on come on, you bastard, gimme a peanut!

He flashed a sinister smile into the camera then ripped open the lid.

POP!

A dozen paper snakes sprang out, streamers streamed, red blue green yellow confetti spewed all over us.

"Oooooooooh!" went the kiddies, minus one pissed off redhaired brat.

"Three tickets please," I said to the chick at the ferry office.

"Are you sure?"

"Why?"

"We can't guarantee you a return crossing."

"Oh. Why not?"

She rolled her eyes. "Severe weather warning from Iona."

"Isn't it just five minutes across the water?"

"Things are different over there. So do you want the tickets?"

"Do you think we should?"

"That's up to you."

"Do you reckon it'll return?"

"It may. It may not."

"What happens if it doesn't?"

"Obviously you'd be stranded."

"How likely is that?"

"I can't speculate."

"Can you give me a little hint?"

"No."

I turned to my travelling companions for an opinion. I could tell Mum wanted to get back in the car and drive back. To Australia.

"I don't care," she said, hands on hips and lips pursed like a disapproving headmistress (incidentally, her chosen profession).

"Well I don't care either," said my sister Rhiannon, who clearly did care, as she was the poor bastard who'd driven us there on the hairy single-track road.

Bah. I had been bursting to go to Iona for years. It's a tiny scrap of an island just off Mull, barely three miles long. It's sparsely populated and reeks of history with a peaceful, spiritual vibe.

"I say we go!" I declared.

"Damn straight," said Rhi.

"It's up to you," The Mothership attempted a neutral tone.

There were a half dozen others on the ferry, all clearly wild crazy risk takers like ourselves, living life on the edge. They were a cheery lot, especially the roly poly Glaswegian lady who giggled nervously as the ferry humped across the choppy waves.

Mum looked anxious and gripped her handbag, no doubt mentally reviewing the Terms and Conditions of her travel insurance policy. Rhi and I calmly scoffed down Tunnock's Tea Cakes and assured her it was all part of the adventure.

It really was wilder on the Iona side. We overheard the crew say the next crossing would probably be the last of the day. That was only 45 minutes away! It seemed absurd to stay just 45 minutes, but we couldn't risk being stranded overnight, especially when we had booked obscenely expensive accomodation on Mull. So we gathered around the Rough Guide and plotted our sprint around the island.

"Righto, let's go LET'S GO LET'S GO!" Rhiannon led the charge. She was off the boat and halfway to the nunnery before I'd figured out how to put my raincoat on.

It was ridiculous, trying to absorb the mystery and history of a place while bounding through the wind in Neil Armstrong-esque steps. We breezed through the nunnery and said hello to some sheep then left the breeze carry us to the Abbey.

With five minutes left before the return crossing, I wandered along beach while the others checked out the souvenir shop.

"Get out of the rain, lass!" a grizzly-bearded bloke in an orange coat appeared out of nowhere and shouted in my ear.

"I'm okay thanks!"

"Go and stand over by that wall and you'll be sheltered. Go on!"

"Alright, alright!"

It was then I noticed the time and realised that the ferry was still on the Mull side. Then its lights came on.

"Ooh dear." Another grizzly guy appeared beside me, suitcase in hand. "That usually means no more crossings." He sighed and stomped away.

Mum and Rhiannon came out of the shop and I updated them on our situation.

"Get out of the rain, you lasses!" Orange Coat Guy shuffled by again, "Go and stand by that wall over there and you'll be - "

"I KNOW!"

The touring Scots reappeared, all frowning at their watches and shaking their heads. We all piled into the coffee shop. At that stage everyone was laughing at our predicament, all confident the ferry would return at any moment.

It would be back. Of course it would be back! We'd parked the car in a 2 hour zone. Do they have parking inspectors on Mull? And we had to get back. We had a two-part surprise planned for Mum that night. We would be spending the night in a fancy castle near Tobermory. The second part of the surprise was that she was paying for it.

I grew anxious and snappy at the thought of our plan going tits up. I also had that awful Chris de Burgh song trapped in my head. Don't pay the ferryman! Until he gets you to the other side! God, Chris de Burgh was shit. I stared out at the angry sea and thought about how shit Chris de Burgh was. I bet he had to pay the Lady In Red to dance with him cheek to cheek.

Minutes passed, perhaps hours. Cheery conversation gave way to brooding silence. Fingers drummed on tabletops, teaspoons tapped impatiently on saucers. And The Mothership was doing that staring thing again.

"Mother, you're doing that staring thing again."

"I'm allowed to look at you! I haven't seen you in over a year!"

"Stoppit!"

How naff to be stranded on an island just five minutes from shore. The roly poly lady gazed across to Mull with a mournful expression, her giggle long gone. I began to imagine her with an apple in her mouth, glistening with marinade and rotating slowly over hot coals.

Time crawled on.

And on.

A woman on the other side of the room suddenly flung down yesterday's Guardian and squealed, "Look!"

"Hurrah! It's the ferry!"

"Noooo! It's a baby seal, diving in the waves! A wee baby seal!"

I leaped from my seat and slapped her across the face, "Pull yourself together, lady! Don't you know what happened to the boy who cried ferry? Why don't you make yourself useful and go club that seal for our dinner."

Or maybe I just sat in my chair and sulked.

And then finally, just when we thought all hope was lost, just when I was about to ask the waitress for a carving knife, the ferry lights went off and it started its crawl back to Iona.

"We're saved! We're saved!"

We abandoned shop and fled to the port as fast as the wind permitted. A wave crashed over my head as I boarded, completely soaking the right side of my body, but I was too relieved to care. I took a seat and waved farewell to Iona, vowing to return in fairer weather.

At last our ordeal was over. I looked at my watch and noted just how long we'd been stranded in that cafe. Thirty-five minutes.

And there's an old fella in a supermarket on the Isle of Skye.

Some days I want to surrender and have one of those weblogs where one can just fire up about whatever's shitting them off on that particular day with no regard for quality and editorial control instead of the sorely neglected over-edited pile of pish this site has become. So here's a few things that have annoyed me lately.

1. Small child on bus who turned around to face me and demonstrate her ability to make giant snot bubbles zap in and out of her precious little nostrils.

2. The person who heats up their lunch in the microwave and takes it out before the time is up then just shuts the door WITHOUT clearing the timer, which means when I wander into the kitchen the display says 00.27 or 01.00 or whatever trickle of time they left behind, instead of showing the CLOCK which is the rightful setting for a microwave currently not in use, so I am forced to clear it myself coz I can't stand microwaves that haven't been allowed to finish their jobs properly. I have been pressing that damn Cancel button for eight months now and I swear I WILL FIND YOU, fucker, and I will microwave your arse on 100%!

3. West Approach Road closure. Small delays my arse!

4. Deranged flatmate obsessed with safety.
FLATMATE: Do you know where the bath mat disappeared to?
SHAUNA: No.
FLATMATE: Well you know it is there so we don't slip over when we get out of the shower!
SHAUNA: No way?
FLATMATE: It's dangerous. One of us could slip out and go flying right through the glass door!
SHAUNA: That could be interesting.

5. Woman in my Body Jam class wearing PEARLS with her skimpy hotpants and crop top. PEARLS!

6. Losing the lovely amber ring The Mothership bought me a mere two weeks ago. I don't know where or when.

7. The way my boss dials the telephone with excruciating slowness, fingers hovering over the numbers as if trying to select a chocolate from the Milk Tray box. 3.... 3.... 4.... *pause for a full minute* 6... 7... 7... *goes and makes a cuppa* ............. 9. Pick up the pace, sport! Don't make me break your dialing finger!

Scotland is small. If you tore it off from England and dumped it in outback Australia, it would take the Federal Police, Interpol and a hoarde of alsatians ten years to ever track it down again. But this tiny country is crammed with mind-blowing beauty and contrast. We only had a week with The Mothership so we wanted to force-feed her as much of it as possible.

It's ridiculous after just one year how protective you feel about a place. Mum would make an innocent comment like, "It's raining" or "Why are all the buildings so grey" or "HOW much for a cup of coffee?" and we would snap and splutter defensively, like she was a playground bully picking on our baby brother. Even though we'd whinged about the very same things when we arrived last year.

It also felt like Scotland was our new boyfriend and parental approval was pending. We desperately wanted her to be impressed. The first Saturday we stopped briefly in South Queensferry beneath the Forth Bridges. Rhi and I loathe how every tourist bus stops at the stupid bridges, but now we wanted Mum to love them.

"The orange one is the rail bridge. It's the greatest feat of Victorian engineering. Built in 1890. Look at it. LOOK AT IT!"

"I'm looking!"

"Aren't you going to take another photo?"

This continued as we trundled around the gentle greenness of Perthshire. Look at the cows. Look at the castle. Are you looking? And again as we wound our way through the Highlands. Look at that Loch. Get a load of that Glen.

We were exhausted as we headed for the Isle of Skye and let the scenery speak for itself. The peaks of Glen Shiel loomed over and made me feel deliciously small and insignificant. Our rented car had felt quite big and fancy back on the streets of Edinburgh, but now it was just a silly little box of metal sitting on top of a silly little road that made barely made a scratch on the landscape.

Skye itself was shrouded with thunderclouds which made for a brilliant contrast against the aqua water. We passed the Cuillin Hills, all black and menacing and streaked with snow.

"It's the Cuillins, Ma," I announced, with such ridiculous pride you'd think I'd given birth to them myself. "Don't you think they're beautiful? Huh huh?"

A few days later we wound up on the Isle of Mull, as scenic as Skye but more raw and rugged. The weather got progressively worse as we drove across to Fionnphort, the car wobbling over the single track road. But all I could do was gawk out the window and feel that incredible buzz that comes from seeing something so new, coupled with a slight panic that you won't get to see it all before you get deported.

The wind ripped the car doors open as we pulled up at the ferry port. My arm sprang out like a Hitler salute as I pointed across the water to the Isle of Iona.

"Look at the view!" I barked at The Mothership. "LOOK AT IT!"

(To be continued. I'm sleepy.)