We were checking out this Sydney map today:

"Shark POINT!? Shark ISLAND?!" Gareth sqwarked, "There's a Shark ISLAND and Shark POINT on the same little map!"

"Yep."

"I can't believe you want me to go somewhere infested with SHARKS and COOGEES."

"Yep, gotta watch out for the coogees."

Thank you for the most excellent suggestions for our Australian jaunt. Cop a look at that list, people! You could hardly complain of being bored in the land Down Under. At the very least, you won't go hungry.

Apologies to those having problems leaving comments. My MT-Blacklist is out of control and I think I will need to uninstall then reinstall it. Or wipe the List clean and start again. As soon as I figure out how to do that I'll let you know. But in the meantime don't forget that it's optional to leave an email or URL, so if it's being an arse just leave those fields blank.

Attention Aussies! Or anyone who's ever been to Australia! I'm trying to figure out what to do during our Oz trip in October. Aside from watching Gareth's eyes glaze over as he's introduced to yet another family member, that is. If he's not completely overwhelmed by that and/or the dazzling sunshine, I'm determined to show off our fair country as much as possible.

Due to time and budget constraints we're limited to the east coast, specifically Melbourne, Canberra, Brisbane, Sydney and a good chunk of rural NSW where my family live. The only definite plans we have are a trip to Australia Zoo (Gareth is an ardent admirer of Steve Irwin and wants to see some crocs and snakes and other DANGEROUS creatures) near Brisbane, and the Philip Island MotoGP on October 16. We're heading back to the UK from Melbourne right after that.

I admit my knowledge of these cities is utterly rubbish. I've never been to Brisbane, twice briefly to Melbourne and only to Sydney for specific events like concerts. So if anyone out there could chuck a few ideas our way that would be good. Things to do, places to eat and drink, and accommodation that won't break the bank.

Gareth is very easy to please. He's never been to Oz before so just wants get a feel for the place and see the iconic sights. Neither of us are real museum-y type of people, but we usually try to go to at least one per trip so we can sound learned to our friends. Instead Gareth has a soft spot for things that are quite, well... crap and cheesy. Like the Big Merino and Big Potato are high on our list of things to see.

As for me, I want to know where's good for breakfast. What's a good bakery? Where's the best place for hot chocolate? And sushi? And ice cream? Okay, I know it sounds like I'm a total lardarse, but I have been eating cucumbers that come wrapped in two layers of plastic for the past 2.5 years and I cannae wait to get my mitts on some Aussie grub!

I'm also thinking maybe driving from Canberra to Melbourne for the last week of the trip so we can wander through the countryside, which is pretty much how we like to travel here in Scotland except it will be brown instead of green. Any ideas on a good route to take? Coastal or inland?

I know I'm way oot of touch as to what's hip-hop-happening at home, so any ideas or suggestions would be greatly appreciated! Failing that I will just harrass my mates then sit on The Mothership's couch and eat Mint Slices til I spew.

Thanks :)

It was 1996 and the university computer lab was full of constipated Apple Macintoshes. The girl beside me was hammering away at the keyboard, flipping back between her emails and a chatroom window. I knew I had an email address - a bunch of meaningless digits @myuniversity.edu.au - but unlike the girl my inbox was always empty. I envied her digital popularity, her overflowing inbox and easy understanding of what all the buttons did.

I was clueless when I arrived at university. In hindsight I should have just worn a t-shirt that said I'M FROM THE COUNTRY and saved a lot of painful conversations. All I knew about the internet was that the previous year a teacher had strolled into class and announced, "Guess what I did on the weekend? I surfed the Internet!". The inter-what? Apparently he had searched Yahoo for our town and found one (1) result!

"Sooo," I leaned over to the girl and selected a casual tone, "Tell me. How did you get all those email messages?"

She did not look up from the screen but arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Your mailbox seems to be full of messages but I keep checking my email, day after day after day, and there's never anything there! How did you get so many?"

"Well..."

"I mean," A slightly hysterical edge crept into my voice, "What am I doing wrong?"

"I doubt you're doing anything wrong. It's just that I've given my email address to my friends, and they write to me and then I write back and so forth. Have you given your email address to your friends?" Do you have any friends?

"I did, but none of them have got The Internet."

"Well, there's your problem."

"Damn. Well how bout you send me one, just to get me started?"

I also was keen to try some of this web surfing business. I had an article carefully clipped from the Sydney Morning Herald about TV fan sites. The very first thing I ever typed into a Netscape browser was alt.tv.x-files. I clicked on GO! and was rewarded with an Page Not Found error.

"The Internet has broken down!" I told the girl, who pretended not to hear. "Broken down, I tell you!"

I typed in alt.tv.simpsons. Same error.

"This is the superhighway to hell!"

It took a wee while to figure out that websites were things that went http://somethingsomething, and things that started with alt were newsgroups. Actually I still don't know what newsgroups are.

Nine years later I am still living on the blunt edge of technology. I recently discovered Wikipedia, only to discover it was discovered some time ago. I use Wikipedia for a variation of a game I used to play while waiting by the Inbox. I'd fire up Internet Explorer, type a noun into the address bar then hit Ctrl + Enter, which wraps a www and dot com around the word. I'd throw in random words for hours, just to see what was at banana.com or coriander.com or volcano.com. If I ran out of imagination I'd just look around the computer lab.... chair.com, clock.com, door.com, ironictshirt.com, acne.com. Oh such fun. Now I perch on the couch with the laptop and bark at Gareth, "Gimme a word!" and we'll see what Wikipedia knows about it.

I tell you what, there is not much that Wikipedia doesn't ken. Once you've searched for obscure historical figures, vegetables and country towns you've lived in, you start typing really purile stuff like bum and fart. If you're half asleep after an hour of furious Wikipedia-ing and search for scrotum then click on the link on the right that says Scrotum.jpg, well that just wakes you up like a slap in the chops I tell you.

The Skanks arrived at noon! They came from far and wide. Tracksuited blokes and babes with orange tans and skunk-striped hair tumbled out of Vauxhall Novas in a flurry of exhaust and thumping bass. They were armed with cigarettes, crisps and bottles of Buckfast. There were disposable BBQs blazing and selection of techno on the stereo. This was looking like a major Skank Gathering. At four o'clock when the carpark was completely full and they started playing the Crazy Frog song without a trace of irony, we knew it was time to evacuate.

Our getaway car was an aging Alfa Romeo that a friend has loaned us for a few months. "It has character," he said. Have you ever driven an Alfa? It is quite an experience. I say this purely from a passenger point of view as I am too afraid to get behind the wheel. I just let myself be shuttled around the countryside like a princess. Actually I do serve one purpose - I am Chief Door Unlocker. The Alfa has central locking but it only works from the passenger side, and only occassionally opens all four doors. And then you can only lock it back up again if the vehicle is in the right mood. If not, you have stand there in the supermarket carpark opening and shutting each door in a complex sequence until it decides to work, bang clash bang crash like a kindergarten percussion band. Also, the fuel gauge veers wildly from E to F depending on hills, it gulps down oil and the right-hand indicator only works if you hit a speed hump. But it whisked us away from the Skank Party so we weren't complaining.

One the greatest things about a small country like Scotland is that you don't need to go far for a complete change of scenery. In parts of Australia you could drive for a week screaming, "Are we there yet?" and you still wouldn't be. But over here if you don't like a particular village, then just drive ten minutes and you'll be in another. Sure, it may look a lot like the last one - each stocked with a fish and chip shop, small supermarket and Chinese takeaway - but at least it's different. Unless you go way up north you're rarely so far away from civilisation that you need to crouch between open car doors at the side of the road if you're needing the loo.

We wound up in Aberfeldy around 8pm and looked for a room. There's some brilliant B&Bs in Scotland, run by sweet old ladies who bake scones and turn down the sheets. But the real gems are those staffed by the indifferent and unwelcoming. Everything is too much trouble, and it is made clear that your very presence is horribly inconvenient. When we were in the States earlier this year we lapped up the dazzling customer service, but it was somehow cosy and reassurring to return to Scottish small town surliness.

"We were wondering if you had any rooms available for tonight?"

The hotel lady pursed her lips. "Well! I don't know. I suppose I could go and look. But I think you'll find we're quite busy tonight."

She stalked away and returned ten minutes later, "There's one room left if you want it. Don't turn the shower on, because it doesn't work. Breakfast is between 9 and 9.30 and that's it. If you're going to stay out late you'll have to leave me your key."

I wasn't quite sure how you could stay out late in Aberfeldy. We went out to find some dinner and of course the only thing open was the chippie. This is another aspect of travelling round the Scottish countryside that I love. All you ever eat is fish suppers. Every time we go away for a weekend I declare, "This time we are NOT going to eat another stinking fish supper for dinner!". But sure enough we end up stabbing away at a pile of shrivelled chips and limp, greasy fish with those tiny wooden forks, loving it and regretting it all at the same time.

The next day we ate our breakfast in the allotted timeslot then drove around the countryside til we ended up back home, avoiding right turns as the Alfa was acting up again.

Big news in the wee town of Tillicoultry, Clackmannanshire

Queen's View near Pitlochry, Perthshire

The news never stops in Tillicoultry.

Cutting the cake was the only Official Wedding Thing we thought we'd have to do during the whole Official Wedding Party. We stabbed the slab, posed for pictures then poised to flee. But that's when people started hollering, "Speech! Speech!".

"Ummm," gulped Gareth. He briefly thanked our friends and family then we attempted to scurry away, but the guests were still looking at us expectantly. My sister Rhi bellowed from the back row, "How bout we hear from the BRIDE?! It's 2005, don't you know!"

The gin and tonic had impaired the part of my brain that makes one think before speaking. "Yeah! " I blurted, "Thanks David and Mary for putting on a great party. Especially Mary who ran round organising the whole thing while David played golf and me and Gareth sat on our ARSES!"

There must have been a dozen snowy-haired Friends of the In-Laws all thinking, "How did nice young Gareth end up with this uncouth Australian?"

I don't normally supplement with alcohol, but both of us had been terrified about the party. All these people giving up their Saturday night because of us? Wasn't there something better on the telly? Many people relish being the centre of attention but it turns my stomach to ice. What if no one had a good time? What if they thought the ceilidh was naff? I've always hated throwing parties because I feel personally responsible for the happiness of everyone in the room. So keeping fifty people happy, many of whom I didn't know, well... that's pressure, baby.

But the ceilidh was a brilliant icebreaker. We stomped around the dancefloor while the band fiddled and accordion-ed and a tall bossy lady told us what to do. It was a scorching evening by Scottish standards, soon our guests were red and glazed like Christmas hams. I handed out cards from our wedding gifts so the ladies could fan themselves between dances.

As I surveyed the room most people seemed to be in a reasonable state of happiness, so I started to relax. Perhaps a little too much. It was time for Strip The Willow and the caller instructed the men to, "birl the girl around a bit".

"What the fuck is a birl?" I boomed.

To my right stood three small children. To my left was my mother-in-law. Just dandy.

Birl: v. to spin.

I fled to the loos soon after that, remembering just in time that I was wearing my Amazing Squishy Bodysuit Thingy beneath the wedding frock that undos with three very fiddly clasps in the crotch area. Ladies, be sure to allow yourself plenty of fumbling time if you wear one of these contraptions and have a small bladder. If I'd had another wine it could have been disasterous.

Earlier that day I'd made a few dozen prints from Vegas and stapled them on a big noticeboard, so guests could trace our wacky path to the altar. Everytime a guest innocently paused by the display I'd rush over and sprout verbal captions for each picture, like the curator of the Dork Museum. It was surreal, standing there in the same fancy frock, gawking at photos of me and Gareth and that dude in the Elvis suit crooning into a microphone. It was no wonder I hadn't felt like we've been married these past four months. The whole Vegas thing looked so bloody pantomine ridiculous that it couldn't possibly be for real!

But on Saturday night, surrounded by friends and family and semi-strangers, reality finally sank in. As much fun as eloping had been, celebrating the moment with a room full of sweaty folk was extra special. There were Gareth's school buddies catching up over a smoke. There were aunties and cousins and golfing buddies. There were little kids who crapped their pants from excitment. There was the Ewins', without whom I'd never have met Gareth. There were generous and patient in-laws. There was my delirious sister untying balloons, gulping down the helium and bleating, "Does my voice sound funny? Does it? Does it?".

The evil gin makes me sentimental, so we could blame my misty-eyed antics on that. But as our guests trickled home I felt sappier than a box of Disney DVDs. I had had a blast and was feeling very fortunate indeed. I queued up one last song on our classy iTunes/speaker set-up and dragged the bloke that I now properly appreciated was my husband onto the dancefloor. The belated First Dance for the bride and groom was It's Not Unusual. Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh! What a day.

Who needs Big Brother when you've got Wimbledon? Instead of paying a pound to text some little slag out of the BB house, you can just sit back and watch the finest tennis players evict each other from the court. There's no drunken snogging, but they do have better legs.

Just like Big Brother, I tend to ignore the spectacle for the first wee while until they filter out the rubbish, leaving the more interesting characters behind. After that I'm hooked for every episode, sneaking online at work to check the scores, staying up late; watching previews and highlights and rain delays. I was right there to the last broadcast when the Beeb did their usual grainy montage of the past two weeks. I curled up on the couch with misty eyes, smiling and nodding, "Ohh bless, I remember that bit. Oh wasn't that one marvellous. Oh classic shot. Happy days."

A few highlights:

Best Newcomer
When Tim Henman lost in the second round, the hopes and expectations of a nation were dumped on Scottish sensation Andy Murray. Henmania was snuffed out at last, now the annual frenzied fortnight where Britain actually gives a shit about tennis shall be painfully known as "Andymonium". It will be interesting to see if the tabloids call him British when he wins and Scots when he loses, a la Russell Crowe who's Australian if he wins an Oscar and Kiwi if he clocks someone on the scone with a telephone.

Best Commentator
Jimmy Connors made a great addition to the BBC team with his intelligent commentary and boyish enthusiasm. He'd often let fly with a giddy "Wow!" or "Unbelieeeevable!" after a great shot. He had one of those wholesome, mild, Gee whiz Mom, your cookies sure taste great! all-American accents that makes you wish he was your dad.

However the star of the show is still Boris Becker and his bleached echidna haircut. I love his inability to pronounce "Wimbledon" and his charming English, "Roddick just did not have the full horsepowers today". Best of all is how he nods, narrows his eyes and pouts ridiculously at the end of a big sentence. I sat in front of the telly for three nights trying to record this for you but still couldn't catch him at the right moment, which shows not only how sad I am but also my shithouse photography skills.

Best Match
Maria Sharapova v Venus Williams in the Women's semi-final. Some people were put off by their constant grunting, some found it both hilarious and faintly arousing.

Best Eye Candy
I can't believe I used to have the hots for Pete Sampras and his All-Conquering Monobrow. I blame Cleo magazine and the Daily Telegraph. According to a Cleo article in the early 90s, statistically the most enduring relationships occur when the bloke is six years older than the girl. Then during the Australian Open, the Telegraph reported that Pistol Pete was six years older than me. Well they didn't phrase it exactly like that, but I was teenager and it was a long hot summer and I figured we were destined to be.

I moved on a few years later upon noticing that Mark Philippoussis had better legs. But then I realised that he too had a monobrow, and was getting a bit fancy with his facial hair. Plus hooking up with Delta Goodrem was most off-putting. So I moved on to Roger Federer. Roger may not grunt, but he has great hair and cried when he won yesterday, even though he'd won twice before. Such sudden bursts of pent-up emotion are devastatingly attractive. Plus he is Swiss, so he would be efficient and tidy. But then again I do have a tops husband and he has that long term girlfriend who washes his clothes with the Special Laundry Powder during tournaments. He was also born in 1982, and it's just wrong to be perving on someone born in the 80s.

MOTHERSHIP:  So have you been running much since your marathon?

SHAUNA:  What marathon?

M:  Your marathon. I read all about it on your website.

S:  I didn't do a marathon. I did a 5k.

M:  So what's the difference?

S:  Well, a 5k is 5 kilometres, and a marathon is 42 kilometres.

M:  Ohhhh, I see.

S:  Have you been telling everyone back home that I ran a marathon? Are they expecting some sort of sculpted sporting goddess to step off the plane?

M:  Quite possibly!

I should have known there was a misunderstanding when I texted her post-race and she texted back, "Can I brag?".