Feeling a little overwhelmed by life right now. As of Tuesday there's only 8 months til I get evicted from Britain. Allow me to channel that insufferable angstpot Avril Lavigne and ask, why does everything have to be so complicated?

And there's so much I haven't written about. Like the rest of our Iceland trip, now eleven months ago. I never told you about January's Haggis Tour from Hell when M & M were visiting, or the rest of our Adventures with Mothership. Then there's 21 days of Russia and Scandinavia. I'm worried all the memories will just fall out of my head.

This photo was taken in a dingy restaurant in Moscow. A lovely sweet girl on our tour got lost in the Metro for three hours, and finally in desperation she penned this sign and held it up. Classic stuff.

Danish Resistance Museum, Copenhagen

No English Write. Sleep Needed. Happy Weekend...

The three new dads were talking about their babies with the passion and in-depth analysis they used to reserve for football and chicks with enormous tits.

DAD 1:  What nappies y'usin these days?

DAD 2:  Pampers.

D1:  Size 1 or Size 2?

D2:  Size 2, I think. He's only 6 weeks old but he's a big bairn.

D1:  Aye, but not fat like.

D2:  Aye, not fat. Just a solid unit. Stevo, what nappies do you use?

DAD 3:  Pampers, mate.

D2:  That's what we're using too, but we're having problems with them.

D3:  Bet yer putting them on backwards, ya numpty!

D2:  Nooo. They're just not working. No absorption, leaking everywhere, the poor wee fellae's got shite up his back and that's not nice.

D1 & D3:  Nooo.

D1:  Do you remember their very first shite?

D2 & D3:  [faraway smiles] Aye!

D1:  It's sooo long. And it stretches out forever.

D2:  And it's black!

D3:  It's like tar. Stretchy tar.

D1:  It's boggin'.

SHAUNA:  Goodbye, maternal urges.

Why hasn't anyone made a reality show about a Contiki tour? It's like Big Brother on wheels. All the elements are there - tears, laughter, bitching, bonding, binge drinking, same-sex snogging, indiscriminate shagging. And instead of a boring little house the action takes place in some of the world's greatest cities.

It starts out just like the first episode of BB, all staggering in beneath their luggage, circling each other like nervous sharks. Over dinner you play Where Are You From And What Do You Do, with an additional round of Where Have You Traveled And How Cheaply Did You Do It. Everyone scrambles to make a good impression, to appear as funny and engaging as possible, while simultaneously making snap judgments as to who they will avoid or try to bed for the next three weeks.

It's a loud and blurry meal. Some try to stamp their personalities all over the table; some hold back, shredding napkins with an anxious whisper, You are here because it is the most time and cost-effective way of seeing Russia and some other exciting places.

Unlike Big Brother, there's no weekly task to create a sense of team spirit. Instead you slowly bond with activities like Interpreting Swedish Menus or How To Get To The Bus On Time With Crippling Hangover. Sitting for seven hours on a coach through the dullest of Scandinavian highways also helps people to open up. You sit beside a random person and talk and talk and talk, sifting through the minutiae of your lives until you find at least one thing in common.

Once you add alcohol to the mix, the group is tight. After two hours in an All You Can Eat And Drink smorgasbord, everyone is relaxed, all the bullshit and bravado falls away to leave some blossoming friendships. You have a history now. You have in-jokes and catchphrases and "remember when?" moments.

The descent to Planet Contiki is complete. It's like the moment in Big Brother when you realise the contestants are completely immersed into life in the house; they have forgotten the outside world exists. What job? What girlfriend? The other people on the tour have become your family; the tour bus is your home. You fall into a cosy routine - wake up in dodgy hotel, congregate for breakfast, stumble to bus, explore a beautiful town, meet up again in the evening to compare notes and souvenirs, head to the bar, head to bed... new day, new city. It is obscenely fun and addictive.

But then come The Intruders. Just like on BB, they drop in new kids to shake things up. In our case it was 29 people in Helsinki. They had been on a longer trip through Scandinavia and now joined our wee group for the Russia part. It was awkward and terrifying, suddenly plucked from our comfort zones, the precious little worlds we'd created.

The two factions stood on opposite sides of the room and eyed each other like wary teenagers at a school disco. We were fiercely protective of our group; they were nestled happily in theirs. All the vodka in Finland couldn't spark some genuine bonding. Our original group quietly moaned about "the good old days", even though "the good old days" had only existed for the previous week. As the tour wore on, we mingled somewhat, but I'm sure one side would have voted out the other, if that were allowed.

In the last week, fatigue kicks in and facades begin to crack. Unlike BB you don't have a million bucks to motivate you to be nice. Another fucking city, another fucking church, another fucking group photo. Some people genuinely thrive in an 24/7 party environment, but some people cannot fucking STAND it and want some GODDAMN SPACE and wish that girl with the voice like kittens being disemboweled would STOP singing 'Welcome To The Jungle' on long bus trips otherwise she is going to be whacked over the head with a bottle of black market vodka. This may well have been The Most Time And Cost Effective Means Of Seeing Russia And Some Other Exciting Places but it also the most Bloody Exhausting.

But it's all over before you can say Ill-Advised One Night Stand. There are tearful goodbyes and promises to meet up for pints with the people you genuinely adored and hope to know for the rest of your life. There are stiff hugs and promises to meet up for a pint with the people you wanted to bitchslap.

Re-entry to the Real World is painful. You wake up and there's no breakfast waiting for you, no itinerary, no exciting new city to explore, no 30p vodka shots, no everlasting vat of friends who know nothing about you except for your zany holiday persona. You long to go back but the world you were immersed in for the past three weeks no longer exists. You feel lost and unimportant. The only difference between you and a clapped out BB contestant is that there's no nightclub appearances or tabloid photographers to make you feel halfway special.

Can't get enough Tongue? Check out this here photo gallery of our northern jaunt. Next week I'll start crapping on about Russia.

We saw some strangely named places up the top of Scotland. There was Doll, Brawl and Ham. But my favourite was the thriving metropolis of Tongue.

Tongue really takes your breath away. The inky sea mellows into sapphire then powdery blue like a Dulux paint swatch; all bordered by gorgeous beaches, pale and honey gold.

I was so excited to be in a town called Tongue that I neglected to take any photos of the actual scenery. Instead I concentrated my efforts on signage and sniggering like a ten-year-old.

Anything after Tongue would have been an anti-climax, so we headed home after that. We passed more Germans in caravans. They even have the Please Don't Mow Down The Sheep signs in Deutsch.

The best way to combat Post Holiday Blues is to follow up immediately with another holiday. Saturday morning we decided it would be fun to drive to John o' Groats -- the very top of Scotland, the last bit of mainland UK before you either fall into the sea and die or swim to Orkney. So we hired a Ford Focus or similar and headed north .

We consisted of myself and Gareth, who you may remember as the noble soul who dragged my unconscious form out of the Radiohead mosh pit last November. We covered six hundred miles on this trip, and I'm ashamed to say I was perched in the passenger seat the whole time. I've had Issues with with Scottish roads ever since the Mothership's traumatic visit. I was a rubbish driver to begin with, but my nerves were shredded after a week of dodging sheep on single track island roads with Mum in the back seat hissing Shaaauuunnnaaa!, her foot stabbing at phantom brakes.

It seemed a feasible plan on paper, to the top and back in a day and a half. But the A9 was choked with roadworks and elderly Germans in caravans, causing much crankiness and scoffing of chocolate digestives. When we finally inched past Inverness, the road was blurred by great slabs of rain. But we pressed on -- if you waited for good weather in Scotland, you'd never go anywhere.

We stopped in the lovely wee town of Dornach for a 4 o'clock lunch. An old man wobbled up and down the street, shouting something about helicopters. He approached us with his can of Strongbow and declared with a burp, "Love is all around".

Entertainment was all around, too...

 

The rain cleared further up the coast. The sea looked still and silky grey, blending perfectly with the sky. Oil rigs hunched along the horizon like spiders. We finally reached John o' Groats at 8 o'clock.

As Rory says, John o' Groats is John o' Great. But once you've posed for photos at the cheesy sign , there really is bugger all to do, especially when John o' Groats Novelty House is closed.

So we decided to find the actual, official most northern spot in the UK. According to the map Dunnet Head jutted out further than John o' Groats. We could make out a sign in the distance, a D and a Head, so we headed up the road.

It was a gorgeous albeit windswept spot. We gazed out to nothing, congratulating ourselves for reaching The Very Top of Scotland. Woohoo! What a day! And we still had four digestives left!

We wandered past sheep with ridiculous rabbit-long ears until we reached cliffs that teemed with seabirds. Thousands were tucked away into the crevices, dainty puffins dwarfed by fat gulls. Further along we saw what reminded me of the Twelve Apostles in Australia, just not as many. And not drowned in sunlight. We decided to call them The Three Neds.

And then the rain cranked up again. We got drenched, icy jeans clinging unpleasantly to skin, muddy water swishing inside our shoes. Then Gareth's leg disappeared down a putrid hole that almost claimed his shoe. We trudged back to the car and fired up the heating. The air swelled with the scent of peat and gently baking sheep shit. But who bloody cared? We saw puffins! We saw seals diving for their dinner! We were at the very top of Scotland!

Except we weren't at the very top of Scotland at all. As we peered at the map to locate our hotel, we realised we were at Duncansby Head, not Dunnet. And The Three Neds were better known to the world as The Stacks of Duncansby. The Very Top of Scotland was actually ten miles down the road in the opposite direction.

The youths were much too youthful at this Youth Hostel. I felt as old as Berlin felt new. After a long day of falling in love with the city, I sat at the bar to watch them, and the Holland v Sweden match.

No one looked a patch over seventeen, eyeing each other across smoky pool tables and discounted beers. There were shy smiles and cocky grins, some still smothered in braces. Boys belched; girls shrilled and readjusted scraps of clothing. I tried to remember a time when I too was young and spritely and thought youth hostels were thrilling dens of debauchery, rather than a last resort for a cash-strapped bore shuffling towards thirty.

By the end of extra time they'd started to pair off. What is the criteria for hooking up in hostel? It's too loud to talk, and chances are you wouldn't speak the same language anyway. I observed the couples littering the hallways and concluded that you simply latched onto the person of the opposite sex who mostly closely resembled yourself. Tall rangy blonde boy gravitated to tall rangy blonde girl. Dingy dreded tattoo boy found dingy dreded tattoo girl.

I was feeling lonely. After weeks of new people and places, I craved some familiarity. My weary brain scanned the room, attempting flimsy but consoling connections back to to Scotland. I stared at my glass of Fanta and felt warmed by how Fanta was orange much in the same way Irn-Bru was orange. Then Henrik Larsson lined up for his penalty shot, and I thought fondly how Henrik Larsson used to play for Celtic and Celtic are from Glasgow and Glasgow is in Scotland therefore Scotland was really quite close at that moment, even though Henrik Larsson was actually in Portugal which was further away still.

Now five days later I'm back in Edinburgh, plunged abruptly back into reality and already wishing I was back in that Berlin bar. Mercifully, I don't go back to Job #2 til next weekend (Geriatric Rescue), but yesterday I resumed Job #1 (World's Crappest Secretary).

I was fuzzy and disoriented after three weeks of cityhopping. At the bus stop I riffled through the dregs of seven currencies to find my fare and muttered, "80p. What's that in pounds? Oh. 80p". I thanked the driver in Swedish and the Bacon Roll Man in Russian.

Before I left I'd written in the team diary, SHAUNA WILL BE BACK TODAY TO OPEN YOUR MAIL AND TALK ENDLESSLY ABOUT HER HOLIDAY. And I did, between power naps in the bathroom.