"Now whatever you do, don't pay full price," the Mothership lectured as we pulled into the Woolworths petrol station. "You have to haggle."

"But we're buying an electric frying pan!"

"So?"

"You can't haggle on a frying pan! We're going to Retravision, not a market in Thailand."

"Nonsense! Did you know, I got five dollars off my hair straighteners. And the new toaster."

"I'm not going to haggle."

"Oh come on, live dangerously." She switched off the engine. "Can you rummage in my handbag and find me a fuel voucher?"

In many respects, The Mothership was still the same old Mothership, generous provider of years of golden blog fodder.

• She still rakes through abandoned shopping trolleys looking for the discount fuel vouchers.

• She still drives like a maniac. But disappointingly, she didn't once ask me if it was okay for her to merge lanes in her unique way, "Can I blend? Can I blend?".

• She still has her bizarre taste in music. Some new titles on the rack: two copies of Katie Melua and an AC/DC live album. Katie Melua was born in Georgia, and who else was born in Georgia? Stalin, that's who. Now that says it all. Somebody please banish Katie Melua and her corkscrew curls and dreary little ballads to a distant gulag.
  

• She retains her unique combination of generosity and Buy-Bulk mentality. Every time Gareth so much as glanced at anything in a shop, she'd offer it to buy it for him. In triplicate. Once at Target, Gareth was pointing and laughing at a pair of revolting pyjamas with Victoria Bitter logos splashed all over them. The Mothership swooped at once. "Do you like these? Shall I get them for you? How bout two pairs? One to wear, one in the wash. And look, there's matching boxer shorts!"

  Another time I was showing her my new toasty polar fleece jacket, all the toastier for being 65% off at Kathmandu.

  "Wow! So why didn't you buy two?"
  "Because I've only got one body!"
  "But 65% off! Are you sure? We can go back! We've got time!"

Anyway, we went to Retravision to fetch an electric frying pan. Gareth had never seen one before he went to Australia and thought they were a brilliant invention. And I fell in love with them all over again, the way they heat up instantly, do exactly what you tell them - roast, simmer, fry, boil to oblivion - and remain non-stick and wipe-clean for years on end. Unlike our grotty bastard of an electric stove here in Scotland. It has just two settings: Flames o' Fire or Cold Indifference, with nothing in between. Even with the postage back to the UK, a good old Aussie frypan was still a bazillion times cheaper than buying a new oven. We had just settled on the gigantic Sunbeam model when the saleslady approached.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes," I smiled, "I'd like to buy this fry pan please."

"Sure, if you'll just come over to the till, I think that one is eighty dollars."

"Excellent."

Mum cleared her throat. "Is that your best price?"

The woman looked puzzled. "Erm. Yes?"

Gareth grinned while I pretended to be fascinated by the display of electric steamers.

"Would there be any discount for paying in cash?"

"Well... I'm pretty sure the price on the sticker is already our best price..."

"Would you mind checking?"

"I suppose I could go out the back and ask the manager?"

"That would be wonderful, thank you."

"Muuu-uum!"

"Well! It doesn't hurt to ask!"

Ten minutes later the lady returned from Out The Back. "The manager says we can't reduce the price, but I can give you this $10 fuel voucher for any Caltex Petrol Station."

"Excellent!" said The Mothership.

"Yeah brilliant," I muttered, "That'll be just enough fuel to get you to the Woolworths Petrol Station!"

So the lady still loves a bargain. Yet many things have changed since I first left Australia. She has developed an adventurous streak, and always seems to be going on a holiday or to a concert or taking a new class. She is energetic and fun and sparky. You could probably pinpoint it from the moment she hopped on the plane to visit us last year. It was almost like once she saw that Rhi and I were safe and happily living it up in Scotland without too many fire hazards, she just let go of old Mothership worries and focused on getting her own life. I'd never seen her so happy and settled. I had a lot of fun hanging out with her in Goulburn, and bawled on Gareth's shoulder when we said goodbye at the airport coz I knew I'd miss her more than ever.

And would you believe she even makes the tea now and then.

Ma, I am so proud of you and everything you have achieved. Love ya heaps.

Today wifely pride abounded as Gareth received his Ph.D in Electrical Engineering, looking ravishing in his magenta robes. After three years slaving over a hot thesis, it seems more punishment than reward to have to parade in front of hundreds of people in a freaky pink cape.

Henceforth he shall be known on this blog by his proper name, DOCTOR G!

Bread Clips!
In Britain, loaves of bread are sealed shut with these infuriating strips of sticky plastic that, unless you have ten-inch talons, take half a bloody hour to pick open and then rarely reseal with any degree of satisfaction.

But in Australia, you get a miniature masterpiece -- the humble bread clip.

The simple twist-and-clip motion has dazzled breadlovers worldwide since American Floyd Paxton invented them sometime back in the olden days. And I was bedazzled all over again while back in Australia. So secure! So simple! So sensible! I smuggled a few back home, and plan to do a Daz/Napisan Doorstep Challenge-type of thing and bully my neighbours into abandoning their stickers and trying a bread clip for fourteen days.

Smug Bags!
Also called Alternative Bags or Go Green bags, Smug Bags are green woven shopping bags that put the standard environment-killing plastic numbers to shame. For just 99 cents you get a reusable bag that is wide enough for a loaf of bread and sturdy enough for a couple kilos of Australia's very affordable fresh fruit and veg, and a delightful feeling of smugness for your token effort towards helping save the planet. "Look at me," these bags scream to passers-by, "I may be a consumerist pig, but observe how I hold the loot in an enviro-friendly vessel!".

I was first introduced to Smug Bags last year when bemoaning the lack of affordable tracky dacks (sweatpants US, trackybottoms UK) in this country. The cheapest I could find were £30 and shithouse. I refuse to pay the equivalent of $70 AUD for Couchwear.

So my ever thoughtful friends Monkey and Matt sent me two pairs of top quality 100% cotton Bonds trackies (one pair Traditional Grey, and one Black for more formal occassions. Bonds incidentally are also the makers of PURPLES!) She had nestled the precious garments into what she'd dubbed a Smug Bag. I thought the Bag was a bit weird at the time, but when I was in Melbourne last month I finally put it to use. I swanned smugly around the CBD with a green bag full of non-essential foodstuffs, lost in my apartment-dwelling, cafe-breakfasting, non-working, chocolate-scoffing vacation fantasy world. Back in the UK I tried to recapture the feeling with an ASDA Bag For Life, but when it's made from plastic and holds your stinky gym clothes it's just not the same.

Balls!
Along with the Smug Bag and superior trackies, my friends had also sent me a bag of Mint Slice Balls. They were all the goodness of a Mint Slice biscuit distilled into a Malteser-size ball, the perfect ratio of chocolate biscuit to zingy mint to dark chocolate coating. Imagine my delight to arrive in Australia to find the whole country had gone BALL CRAZY. Cadbury Dairy Milk Balls, Crunchie Balls, Cherry Ripe Balls, Clinker Balls, Ski Yogurt Balls, Fry's Turkish Delight Balls. They weren't all actually called balls - some were Bites or Chocettes or Minis, and the Cherry Ripes were decidedly cube-like; but to me it was just balls balls balls!

Unfortunately I didn't get to sample the mother of all balls - TheTimTam Ball! I still tremble at the thought of what sweet and faintly salty delights they would have been, but by the end of the trip my jeans were tighter than a Scotsman's purse strings so I thought I'd best not partake.

I've been toying with seeing the new Hollywood version of Pride & Prejudice after reading some favourable reviews from Bloggers That I Trust. But given the ridiculous number of Sundays that sister Rhi and I used to spend watching the entire six-hour BBC version, only tearing our gaze from Mr Darcy long enough to refill the bowl of Crispy M&Ms, I felt it was her opinion that I should trust. And here it is, typos and all.

"P&P was bound to be a disppointment after the BBC mini-series, and it was. It was quite funny, more obviously so than the BBC version, but at crucial moments the dialogue was totally out of character (too Hollywoody for my liking). But then some of the casting was totally un-Hollywood - Keira's chest is as flat as a pancake and Mr. Darcy wasn't even moderately attractive (or tall). No tension, no lustful glances, no chemistry, no Colin Firth. The only improvement on the BBC version was the casting of Lizzie's older sister - beautiful instead of horsey!"

"I saw Pride & Prejudice again, just to see if it improved the second time around (it didn't) because quite a few people have told me they thought it was good (idiots)."

L to R: BBC Jane, a horse.

I sacrificed another pint of blood for the People of Scotland today. Just like the first time, I am not doing it for the common good but only so Gareth can't outdo me in the Smug and Righteous department.

The room was full of mothers who'd brought their little kids along for some sort of ghoulish entertainment. The wee girl on my left chanted Ten Little Indians over and over again until her Mum had surrendered her pint. Then the little tacker on my right covered her face with her hands, peeking through her fingers from time to time to shriek and gasp dramatically. And then, "Mummy! Get the doctor! YOUR BLOOD'S TURNING GREEN!".

Unlike last time there were no queues today. Most of the town seemed to be queuing at the fish and chip shop down the road instead. They say only 6% of Scots donate blood. So if 90% of the population were having deep fried shite for tea tonight, how's there going to be enough juice to revive all those flabby hearts when they finally give out? It just doesn't add up.

"Isn't it GREEN?" cried The Mothership, taking her hand off the steering wheel and waving it round. "I've never seen it so green. Have you ever seen it looking so green?"

"Never!"

For once The Mothership wasn't exaggerating. It really was green. Australia, that is. At least the little chunk we saw on our trip. Everyone had warned me to expect things to be brown and dead after years of drought. But just before we arrived there'd finally been some rain, and all was lush and bright. As Mum sped along the highway I was glued to the window. The canola crops were blinding yellow, the sky was huge and blue, the trees dripped with cockatoos and galahs. Beautiful. The whole bloody country was conspiring to mess with my emotions.

Many have asked why I haven't written about Australia yet. And Mum called me on the premise of wishing me happy birthday to ask when was I going to get on with it. Some people even worried that the silence meant the trip went badly. But the problem is the exact opposite. It was so heartachingly fanbloodybrilliant that I've been too much of a snivelling, mopey mess to properly write about it.

I never felt homesick until I went home. It's easy with emails and phone calls to feel like you're not that far away, but when you're actually there you see all the details that you didn't realise you'd missed. A smile or a scent, or even the familiar arrangement of someone's furniture would trigger waves of memories.

It's such a tired cliche but you really do have to leave a place in order to appreciate it. When I left Australia in 2003 I literally ran out the door. While The Mothership tried not to cry Rhi and I skipped to our departure gate, cackling madly. I was desperate to escape. I'd grown restless and lacked direction, and felt smothered by people and the past. But two years of travelling made me grow up, let go of old crap and gain some perspective. When I returned home I saw everything and everyone with fresh eyes.

I'd drawn up a relentless schedule for our trip, every day was crammed with at least two or three engagements. For three weeks we scuttled round the country like election campaigners, Gareth gracefully shaking hands and kissing babies. I slipped right back into Australia-mode, slowing down my accent, discarding my g's and packing in extra vowels.

Seeing all these friends (and eating my grandmother's caramel slice) left me all soft and mushy. Everyone was so warm and welcoming. It's easy to feel nostalgic when you're just breezing in for a visit with everyone rolling out the red carpet for you. You forget about everyday realities like work and paying bills and mosquitos and seeing the Prime Minister's piggy little face on the news every night. But even without the blinkers, Australia is one kick ass nation, full of kick ass people that mean everything to me, and I will never take that for granted again.

When our plane touched down back in Glasgow, it was rainy and cold.

"Isn't it GREY?" I smirked to Gareth, "Have you ever seen it looking so grey?"

"I've never seen it so grey!"

I wondered if anyone would notice if I stayed on the plane I went straight back to Melbourne.

But the Father-in-law-ship was waiting to drive us home, his usual cheery self. And back in our flat the Mother-in-law-ship had put flowers on the table and stocked the pantry with bread and cheese and posh M&S biscuits. I called Rhi and we gabbed for an hour and I started to remember all the things that kick ass about Scotland.

The next day I wandered to the train station, jetlagged at 6.30am, through the grotty tunnel under the road. I stopped to admire the familiar, searingly intellectual graffiti.

• Scott the Stoner from Cowdenbeath!!!
• Tracy Campbell Smells Like Cat Pish LOL Ha Ha!
• BIG CAL SAYS FUCK U.

On the platform it was windy and pitch black, fallen yellow leaves clung to my shoes. And then it started to rain. And then my train was delayed.

Two weeks later I'm still prone to tearing up just reading the bloody Sydney Morning Herald online and I miss everyone like hell. But over here I have Gareth and new family and friends. And cheap flights to Europe. So maybe it's possible to feel right at home in two completely different places.

When I turned six my birthday happened to be on Melbourne Cup Day. The Mothership was a teacher at my school, so she threw a wee party for me at lunchtime. She invited all my mates to her classroom, where we pinned the tail on the donkey and scoffed down chips and fairy bread and a cake shaped like a witch from the ubiquitous Australian Women's Weekly Birthday Cake Cookbook. It had a purple icing frock and rode a liquorice broomstick.

I was a paranoid, insecure little twit even in kindergarten. My teacher had organised a Cup Day Race for my class, involving cardboard cutout horsies and plastic hoops. I remember peering out Mum's classroom window with a feeling of great dread, watching the uninvited classmates galloping round on the asphalt playground. Did the people at my party really want to be there? Were they comparing and contrasting the level of entertainment in here with the action oustide? Were they cursing me behind their plastic cups of raspberry cordial? Did their Mums make them come since my Mum was a teacher? They say the Melbourne Cup is the race that stops a nation, so what right did I have to stop them stopping? Oh the trauma!

Luckily this only happens every seven years or so, so I don't have to compete with the Cup that often. It happened the day I was born, when I emerged slightly jaundiced, gingered and six-fingered. And it happened again today, but it doesn't matter since I'm Scotland and naebody here kens about the Melbourne Cup. Huzzah!