GARETH:  So when you get deported back to Australia do you think they'll put you in one of those detention camps?

SHAUNA: They don't put you in a camp for going back to your own country!

G: Yeah they do! I bet there's a special Detention Camp for Ejected Spouses. Somewhere remote like Broome. Or the Bungle Bungles!

S:  Did you learn all your Australian geography from Neighbours?

G:  They'll make you eat grubs and berries! But I'm sure they'll let you out now and then to paint some landscapes.

S:  Will you visit me?

G:  Hmmm... maybe once a year. Until the novelty wears off. Then we'll slowly drift apart.

Thanks, dear comrades, for tolerating my Entry o' Insanity last week. The situation is so stupid that we can almost laugh about it now. What else can you do? The fact remains we're genuinely married, so this is just an extremely annoying blip along the road to proving it. I have put in four years of wholehearted law-abiding tax-paying residency so slinking back to Australia is not an option.

So we shall deal with things as calmly as possible and/or bombard them with more evidence until they surrender. If they don't, there's lawyers and appeal processes. And if it comes down to some sort of Green Card-ish interview, I say BRING IT ON. I'm a far more convincing actress than Andie stinking MacDowell.

The Bungle Bungles of Western Australia

Still on the train. Gareth just called me to say a letter from the Home Office arrived. Ooh, my permanent resident visa, yay!

BUT NO YAY. Application DENIIIIIED!

They're saying I did not include enough documentary evidence to indicate we're still living together in the married way. They asked for 10-20 pieces of evidence from at least 5 different sources, I sent 20 from 13 different sources. I spent weeks making sure I had the right blend of documents, checking 1000 times they were all there, even including a cover letter with everything carefully numbered. It is completely baffling.

I have 28 days to resubmit my application with more evidence, otherwise it's ball and chain and PJs with arrows and back to New Holland for me. I honestly have no idea what else I could possibly send! It's all there! They only want sensible documents like bank statements and tax letters, a 10000 word declaration of my undying committment to Dr G and bonny Scotland wouldn't help my case. I'm trying to get through to the HO on the phone to find out exactly where I went wrong but anyone who's ever gone through this process knows that's near impossible.

I know this is all beaurocracy and I'm trying to stay calm and rational, but it makes me feel kind of ill that someone could possibly think we're not the real deal. Why would I shove my fat arse into that wedding dress three times unless I really loved the guy? Why would I endure soggy Scottish chips and soggy Scottish winters IF NOT FOR LOVE?!

Hello comrades! I'm on a train bound for Englandshire. WiFi on rails, baby! Although Harvey the iBook is struggling to cope. He's five years old now, would you believe; and the E key only works if you hammer the crap out of it. His battery doesn't work anymore and there's a bit of chocolate wedged under the O key that just won't budge. But I still love the little white fella. He's a survivor.

So Rhiannon the Magnificent has scored us another two free nights in an ultra posh hotel, this time in the English countryside. Holy escape from reality, Batman!

Unfortunately I've not accquired any class since our last five-star jaunt, so once again we'll be cringing at the sight of my skanky backpack being trundled to our room on a golden trolley. But there's plenty of room in it for all the "complimentary" toiletries, you see.

As a special bonus we get half-price spa treatments! I'm having my very first full body massage, some sort of scrub thingy and my very first manicure. I hope they don't make fun of the extra finger.

Anyway, if anyone is still out there I hope you're fine and dandy and apologies for the ongoing crapness. Hopefully my brain will return around... July. And please don't hate my guts for this luxurious jaunt; for on Saturday I'll be right back to my trackies and skank neighbours.

On Sunday I went down to Leith to see my friend Lainey run in her first half marathon. Thirteen miles is a truly grueling endeavour, but luckily there was plenty of sustenance around - all the essential carbohydrate, protein, lard and gristle an athlete needs.

I don't know what it is about running events that make me want to bawl like a baby. I don't care much for the sinewy professionals; it's the ordinary folk that tug at my heartstrings. I watch out for the really old, the really slow, the really wobbly and just let the tears stream behind my sunglasses. I wonder about all those different lives and stories, how they came to run in such a long race, what it means to them. You can't help feeling good about humanity.

Lainey finished in fine style and we were so bloody proud. I didn't cry all over her as she was salty enough already!

All that armchair athletics had me totally bursting for the loo so we went over to the Ocean Terminal shopping centre. All three levels of retail paradise were clogged with proud runners and their shiny medals.

In the ladies, I was washing my hands and reflecting on that touching sporting spectacle when a woman staggered out of a stall. She had very pink cheeks and was wearing a tracksuit and trainers.

I beamed at her, my eyes still glistening with tears from before. "Well DONE!" I said cheerily.

She shot me a bewildered, what the fuck, you freak look and quickly made her exit. That's when I noticed all the shopping bags. Oh. She was not a runner. She was just a lady doing her shopping, who happened to have pink cheeks and a casual sporty style.

Anyway, I forgot my embarrassment when I spotted the most genius contraption on the wall.

A hair straightener for hire! Just insert a £1 coin!

This has to be the most marvellous innovation in public toiletry since those chew-able balls of toothpaste. Straight hair is very important to chicks in this country. It needs to be straight, it needs to be flat, it needs to be scorched into submission. Which is easy enough to achieve at home, but there's always the danger your work will come undone the minute you step out into the weather. But thanks to the Straight 'N' Go, no girls-night-out needs to be tragically cut short by frizzy locks.

LASS 1:  Omigod, I've got a kink!
LASS 2:  Dinnae worry doll, I've got a pound!