Today is my three year anniversary of living in Scotland. I cannae believe it, hen!

So let's all celebrate with a week of special Anniversary posts, gazing fondly back at 1096 days of adventure! But don't panic, I'm not going to rehash them individually. And when I said "week" I probably mean "month", knowing my typically slacketyslackarse rate of publication.

. . .

On a particularly miserable rainy night last week, Gareth and I were watching the Commonwealth Games. It was shot after shot of lovely sunny Melbourne - all blue skies, cafes, green parks and goodness.

"WHY did you come here?" Gareth cried, "WHY?!"

"I don't knoooow!"

We howled at the telly for awhile.

Why indeed? Goodness knows I've spent much of the past three years whining endlessly en blog about my homesickness and the apparent superiority of all things Down Under. I am always waiting for the indignant email, "Well if you love Australia so much, WHY DON'T YOU GO BACK THERE!?".

I may bitch about the darkness, the deep-fried and the price of undies, but I do love it here! While I will never stop pining for the friends, family and food back home, I have settled into life in the UK. We humans are good at adapting to new environs; we make things work wherever we are. That's what makes us the superior species! You never hear a koala say, "Dude, I am going to live in the Bahamas just to see what it's like". Nor have I met a monkey just back from a gap year in Iceland.

So here's a few things I've come to love over the past few years:

The Food
While I've got good blog mileage from the shitty cuisine of Scotland, it's not all lard and animal bits. I now can't imagine life without clementines, curry, creme fraiche or Green and Blacks chocolate (although G&Bs is now sold in Australia). British cheese rules. And you can't beat the local berries in the summertime. Berries are about the only thing cheaper here than in Oz.

I love the comfort foods like sticky toffee pudding and bacon sandwiches. I love eating a hot Christmas lunch when it's actually cold outside. I love fish and chips at the beach in summer when it's almost as cold as Christmas. I love reading food magazines where they talk about damsons and treacle and rhubarb and toad in the hole; all that stuff I previously only knew from Enid Blyton books. It all just makes me want to knot some sheets together and climb out the window of the boarding school, and meet up with my pals for a midnight feast. HURRAH!

Twice The Workplace Bludging
Summer is in July, Christmas is in December. Obviously. But this means DOUBLE THE BLUDGE! The festive season is a blur of boozy office parties and diminished work ethic. Then once you've survived the bleakness of February, it's almost spring, which is almost summer! So the workload slows a little, and everyone nicks off to Spain. They come back blistered and glowing and their colleagues squeal, "You're looking well!".

Meanwhile back in Australia, July is the start of the financial year and the middle of winter. We're all working like mad and there's no fun until Christmas. I have grown fond of the UK working year; the next holiday never seems too far away.

The Benefits of a Small Island
After the vastness of Australia, I still can't get my head around the weeness of the UK. An hour in the car and you're in the Scottish Highlands. The same on the plane and you're in London or Amsterdam, and one more you're in Paris. New York is a long weekend instead of your life savings and possible deep vein thrombosis. "Are we there yet?" has vanished from my vocabulary!

The Telly
The telly's good here, kiddies. If you can wade through the reality shows there's some cracking stuff left behind. My favourite shows are Top Gear, Grand Designs and The Hairy Bikers, the latter I believe is now being shown in Oz, hurrah!

Top Gear is, oddly enough, about cars. As well as road testing posh vehicles, they also engage in brilliant acts of destruction like:

• A football match with a giant ball and ten Toyota Aygos as players
• Racing a Mazda MX5 against a greyhound
• Putting a Citroen 2CV behind a jumbo jet with engines blazing - POW!
• Strapping a couple of rockets to a Mini and blasting it down an Olympic ski jump - watch here!

I also love this whole interactive digital television thingy. We paid £30 for a wee box that you plug into the telly, and were rewarded with oodles of extra channels. Which we hardly watch.

However, it's all about the sport! I already loved watching sport on the BBC - no advertising! - but now magic happens when you press the Red Button. Interaction! Multiple screens! For free! During Wimbledon you can flip between all the different matches. During the Commonwealth Games when the synchronised swimming became too exciting, I could just press Red and switch to Weightlifting or Bowls. The plethora of choice makes me feel all giddy with the power!

The Sunday Papers
Soon after arrival, I discovered that the Sunday paper was the best way to fake knowing what the bloody hell was going on in this country. News, sport, arts, all for £1.50! These days I get The Observer mainly for the supplements. They are the Master of the Supplement! They're better than many glossy magazines, packed with quality photos and cracking stories. I always make myself read the newsy newspaper bits first, then carefully fold them up and put them in the recycling, and only then am I allowed to read the supplement. Ooh there's nothing like prolonged anticipation.

There's a different theme each week - Food, Sport or Music. Is there anything more important in life than Food, Sport or Music?! Not to me, chaps. If they could rename the fourth supplement Sleep, it would be the perfect quartet.

Three years ago today, Rhi and I were floating somewhere above China, halfway between our old life in Australia and whatever lay in store for us in Scotland.

Yesterday afternoon Gareth and I were walking down North Bridge in Edinburgh, picking our way through the crowds of tourists and goths. A woman was sprawled on the footpath, her bleached tresses askew, her trousers around her ankles.

Her equally inebriated mate was trying and failing miserably to help her to her feet.

"'Scuse me pal," he yelled out to Gareth, "Gis a hand to pick her up?"

It took all three of us to haul off her the ground. Unusually she had not been floating in a puddle of vomit or pee.

"Aww thankshh," she slurred, wrestling her handbag back over her shoulder. "Thankssho much!"

"That's okay," said Gareth. "See ya later." We headed off down the street.

"Wuh-wuh-wait!" hollered the guy. We turned back.

"Would you mind pulling her troosers up?" he asked me. "She cannae dae it hersel'."

Without hesitation, I walked behind the woman. Crouching down, I regarded her bare buttocks - pale, gelatinous and bisected by a sparkly black g-string. I gathered up her jeans and gave a brisk upward yank.

"Aww thanks. Yer so kind hen thanksshomuch."

"No problem!"

We strolled on. It wasn't til about an hour later that Gareth said, "Wait a minute, did you just pull up some bare-cheeked lassie's trousers in the middle of the street without even pausing for thought?"

After three years, it had seemed like just another sunny 4 o'clock in Scotland. But had that happened on Day One, I probably would have run screaming straight back to the airport.

Lisbon is famous for its tiles. Apart from the sun and the port and the warm, witty people, the tiles were my favourite thing about Lisbon. Many of the buildings are covered in beautiful old ceramics, painted in all sorts of lovely patterns and colours. Why? According to this text that I copied and pasted last week from a now-forgotten website, it's because the tiles are, "durable, waterproof, and easily cleaned, providing cool interiors during Portugal's hot summers and exterior protection from the damp onslaughts of Atlantic winters."

If I had vandalistic tendencies, I'd have brought a chisel and hacked off a few favourites to take home for the Bathroom Of My Future Dream Home. But I'm no thug, so took a few photies instead.

Meanwhile back in the Very Posh Hotel, Rhi and I were taking advantage of the Very Posh Facilities. The gym was magnificent, a glass box on the roof of the hotel. So one could huff and puff while looking down to the castle and the tiles and all the poor peasants who couldn't afford to stay in a five star hotel for free.

After that it was down to the basement to the Very Posh Pool. Against my better judgement Rhi convinced me to get changed in our room, which meant getting into the lift in our swimmers and Very Posh Bathrobes. And wouldn't you know, instead of taking us straight to the pool, the lift stopped in the lobby. The doors flung open, revealing us in our fluffy white splendour to the tuxedo guy at the grand piano and all the expensive people sipping champagne.

I frantically stabbed at the Close Door button, but a Very Posh Bloke in a suit that probably cost more than my annual salary hopped in beside us.

"Good evenink ladies!"

"Hello!" I gestured at our lovely attire. "We're going to the pool."

"Yes of course!"

I hammered the B for Basement button again, but the lift started going UP!

"Noooo, lift!" I squeaked, "Pool is DOWN!"

"What's going on?" said Rhi.

"Ze lift is broken," declared the Very Posh Bloke. "And so is ze pool. It is all broken. You can't go down there. I'm so sorry ladies."

Rhi and I exchanged alarmed glances. I could tell she was having the same flashback, to that nutty German girl who'd patrolled our hostel door back in Reykjavik.

But then he grinned, revealing with huge yellow teeth, "I am just joking! Just joking!". The lift stopped at the sixth floor and off he went. Weirdo.

The pool was huge and beautifully lit, with servants I mean staff wandering around with soft towels and cocktails. Rhi and I paddled for awhile, then hit the sauna and steam room. I had a bit of a freakout in the steam room. I'd never been in one before. I never expected it to be so bloody... steamy.

After that I had a shower and washed my hair twice, because the shampoo was expensive and free. Then I slapped on three kinds of free lotions and talcum powder then slipped a few free shower caps into my bathrobe pocket, as you can never have too many of those. Then I put my swimsuit in that spinning wringer machine thing and put it in a free plastic bag, then took the lift back up to our room. Taking a lift in a bathrobe with no underwear in a five-star hotel will probably end up being the biggest thrill of my sad suburban wife life. HA!

That night we ate cheap supermarket bread rolls with ham and cheese for dinner, then realised we'd run out of toothpaste. One call to the concierge and a woman appeared at the door within two minutes, presenting me with a fancy Very Posh Hotel gift bag with a tiny tube of L'Occitane toothpaste nestled inside. I almost went stinky-breathed just so I could add it to my stash.

So all that was my brief brush with the high life.

Oh! I almost forgot to mention the Wobbly Thigh Game in the pool. You can all play along at home. All you need is a pool and a pair of wobbly thighs.

"Hey, you have to try this," said Rhi as we splashed around some sculpted businessmen. "Stand in a squat position. Now put your hands on the back of your thighs. Then just wave your legs back and forth!"

I assumed the position. "Oh lordy. I can FEEL MY FLESH FLY!"

It was a hoot. And even funnier if you put your hands on your butt. Have you ever known the ridiculous feeling of your flesh undulating underwater? Of course, if you have perfect, unmoving thighs of steel you will never know this pleasure.

My boss called today from Melbourne. It was 1.30AM and he was just back from the rugby. He sounded disgustingly happy, what with his attending of sporting events, his bicycle ride down by the Yarra, his catching of trams. Then he dashed off because he needed to be up early for the start of the triathlon. Hmmmph.

The boss is at the Games as part of the Glasgow 2014 bid team. I'd pleaded most pathetically for months to be allowed to tag along. Because not only am I a tops secretary, I'm a tops Australian secretary. I can speak the language, dammit! And what if he needed a REALLY IMPORTANT LETTER typed in the middle of the night? What if he couldn't figure out how to use Australian photocopiers?

But my begging was all for nothing. Well if he finds himself in a 7-Eleven in the middle of the night, totally starving and not knowing which chocolate bar to buy, he'll be sorry I wasn't there with my native expertise.

Tonight the BBC took a few English athletes for a hot air balloon ride over Melbourne. The sunrise, the gum trees, the lovely skyscrapers; it all made me feel funny inside. I went from thinking, "Aww, nice fluff piece" to big fat homesick tears in about two minutes.

On a lighter note, can someone tell me what the bloody hell Condoleeza Rice is doing at the Commonwealth Games? Why is she chatting to Ian Thorpe? And what is she pointing at?

My theory is America is about to annexe the Commonwealth. Look at the guy sitting behind Thorpie, he's just figured out her plans.

Let's all just pause and admire the Commonwealth Games Day One Tally before it disappears!

Australia and Scotland, one and two. How ya like them apples, Mother England?

It is very, very strange watching the Commie Games from the other side of the world. I was all psyched up to support Scotland, since Australia has enough of a cheer squad already, but the BBC telly coverage is so freaking Anglo-centric that I'll barely get a chance to wave my saltire!

And how the BBC team love to slag off the Aussies and our over-confidence! How they gloat about any medal we don't win! They just held up copies of today's Age and Herald Sun and sniggered at how many pages were devoted to sport. "Oh those Aussies," said that horsey-looking presenter chick, "They're so sports mad!". Well maybe if you were a bit sports madder, you'd win more medals!

Ahem.

I know I'm only miffed because I'm used to playing the Underdog. When you're watching the Olympics in Oz, it's all about Australia versus Evil America. Whether it's the pool or the athletics or the ping pong, we just want to see the battlin' little Aussies stick it to the mighty Yanks. Fight fight fight! (I always imagine us like a yappy little terrier, nipping at the heels of a honking huge Alsatian. It's all very important to the wee terrier but does the big fella really give a damn?)

But over here at Commonwealth Games time, England is the underdog! Australia becomes the evil one! It's Australia winning all the medals and trampling over the little countries. I've heard them cursing us in the office, Those Bloody Aussies. We can't pretend we're just lovable convicts. They want our BLOOD, people. I'm scared.

Sister Rhi and I just got back from a few days in sunny Lisbon. It was our first trip together since the Baltic Saga of 2004, which I still haven't finished writing about! So instead of my usual slow, tedious manner of taking years to write about holidays in carefully crafted episodes, I am just going to blurt out some random thoughts in unruly fashion until it's time for bed.

Lack of Blokes
I left my husband at home for this trip. You wouldn't believe how many people thought this made me some sort of harlot. But I like to keep the Home Office and my mother-in-law guessing... Sham Marriage: Yes Or No?

Language
I always make an effort to learn a little of the native tongue before hitting a foreign country, with varying degrees of success. While I spent three months cramming basic Spanish, I could only muster "penis" in Icelandic and "ham" in Latvian. Not that all that Spanish did me any freaking good. I am okay at learning to read/listen/write in foreign languages but absolutely stink at saying the words out loud to actual residents of that country. Verbal conversation just ruins a perfectly good language for me. I panic and go red-faced and squeaky, rendered mute in anticipation of butchering a beautiful language. I'd been rehearsing a simple line for weeks, "Two train tickets for Valencia please," but when I finally rocked up to the ticket counter I froze, and just open and shut my mouth for ten minutes before running away.

So for this trip I was determined to learn some goddamn Portugese. My father-in-law loaned me his tapes at Christmas and the task was at the top of my New Years Resolutions list. But somehow it became the Night Before The Trip and all I knew was "bom dia" and wondered if it was more important for me to know which way to the monastery or My name is Pedro.

A conversation with a charmingly wacky taxi driver went like this:

TAXI DRIVER:  Bom dia!
SHAUNA:  Bom dia!
TD:  Do you speak any Portugese?
S:  .... I can't remember the word for no!
TD:  You don't speak any Portugese! [pounds steering wheel and pretends to cry] Why? Why!? WHY!?!

The Hotel
Rhi works for a Very Fancy Hotel in London. Each year she gets a number of complimentary nights at any Very Fancy Hotel in the world and was kind enough to use a few for our trip. When we arrived at Very Fancy Hotel Lisboa Branch, the foyer was swarming with expensive people and their matching luggage. I was pink and mildly sweaty, because I've lived in Scotland for almost three years and now consider anything above fifteen degrees to be a heatwave. I was also carrying a bulging, ancient backpack. Yet the doorman bid us welcome and opened the door with a grand flourish like we were duchesses. Then another bloke arrived and asked "Miss Rhiannon" if he could take the bags to our room. All we could do was stand there and cackle at the ridiculous sight of our grotty backpacks trundling past the expensive people on a golden trolley.

It was a hoot staying in a five-star hotel. There were slippers and spas and bread in silver baskets. They turn down your bed and give you a weather report each night:

But the egalitarian Aussie in me felt extremely uncomfortable having some bloke opening doors and pouring my tea at breakfast. I hate the idea of anyone thinking I am some pampered git, incapable of unfolding a napkin or placing my own pair of slippers perpendicular to the bed. Not that anyone could mistake me for a wealthy dame - when we caught a taxi back to the airport, I had to leave Rhiannon in the car as security while I ran to the ATM as we didn't have enough cash for the fare!

In homage to my convict roots, I nicked 7 soaps, 3 shower caps, a pen and 10 wee bottles of shampoo.

Wavelengths
I've written before how Rhi and I are ideal travel companions, always seeming to hit the same moods at the same time, e.g. knowing when it's Time To Shop or when it's Chocolate O'Clock. Best of all there's no competitive backpacker heroics. You can freely say stuff like, "How about we tell people we went inside this ancient castle and just take a photo of the outside instead?".

The Ham Man Yelled At Me
Foreign supermarkets rule. This one had a man in a Ham Corral. I don't know what else to call it. The butcher stood in the middle of a circular counter, surrounded by gorgeous hams on chopping blocks. The customers would walk up to whatever ham they fancied, and he'd hack off a few slices for them. It was fascinating because all the ham legs still had the hoofs on them. Or maybe they were faux-hoofs? I wanted to take a photo and discuss with you, except as soon as I whipped out my camera the Ham Man pointed his saw at me and screamed, "No! NO! NONONONONO!" in ever-increasing pitch. I scampered away and hid by a display of huge-yet-flavoursome strawberries. I was scared, but mostly jealous because he could say No in English but I couldn't say it in Portugese.

Man Creche
It was probably a good thing that Gareth was left behind on this trip as we did a lot of shopping. He would have been cast out with this assortment of bored yet obedient blokes, waiting outside a Zara store.

Abandoned Husbands of Lisbon

Righto chaps, it's bedtime. Boa noite!

Domestic Harmony at the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens, 4 March 2006.
Portrait by Rory Ewins.

Incidentally that's a backpack on my back, not some sort of quasi-Quasimodo growth.

What happened next? The snowball connected with my head and I screamed, "YOU HIT ME, YOU FUCKER!".

Despite the violence, we are still happy together one year on. I might just even renew my ring insurance policy.