Guinness in Dublin, originally uploaded by Shauna.

Spent a bookwhorin’ day in sunny Dublin yesterday… how bloody cool is Dublin? And Helen the Publicist bought me a Guinness, my very first. Tasted like Vegemite and chocolate. It was lovely, but I only managed to drink an inch of it. I just cannae get beer down, no matter what kind it is.

I really really really want to go back. Ireland has been right next door for nearly five years and I’ve totally ignored it! And what of WALES!?

In other news, my job is making me mental. The Slowest Computer In The World isn’t helping. It took 85 seconds for it to paste a 5k .gif from one folder into another. I ask it to do something, it just lights another fag and smirkss, “I’ll do it when I’m good and ready.” I’ve developed a habit of grabbing the monitor and shaking it violently while screaming C’MONNNNN Lleyton Hewitt style.

Happy Haggis Day, comrades! And Happy Australia Day for tomorrow!

New York - Day Four

I’m a buffoon when it comes to art; I never quite know how behave to in its presence. Nevertheless we spent a rainy Saturday at the magnificient Museum of Modern Art, along with fifty bazillion other tourists seeking fancy shelter.

First we warmed up in the Architecture and Design Gallery. The sleek curves of an E-Type Jaguar, a ye olde iPod, a celebration of 50 Years of Helvetica - this is the stuff that loosens the limbs and gets you in the mood for the serious stuff upstairs.

Is there anything Italians can’t make sexy?

This is a lame analogy but its the best way to describe my dodgy approach to art galleries. It’s like Dirty Dancing, as far as I can recall from seeing it on video in 1990-something. There’s that scene where Jennifer Grey walks into the room where all the dancing is going on. When I walk into the gallery I feel like the paintings are handsome dancing blokes. I’m looking them over in a terrified, rather breathless and moronic kind of way, wondering if one will catch my eye.

At first it’s all just a blur of shapes but then suddenly something will leap out at me, just like that old hornbag Patrick Swayze. All the strokes and swirls come to life and reach across the crowded room to reel me in.

Lady and red.

This happened with a Picasso, and I don’t even remember its name. It was much more interesting than crusty Patrick, anyway. I like that feeling of disappearing into a canvas. Even if you have no bloody idea what its all about, you know how it makes you feel. The rest of the room slides away. That is, until some mulleted bloke reeking of Brut aftershave shoves you aside to take a photo. Arrgh!

Speaking of manly essence, later that evening we went to Madison Square Garden for a hockey game. The Maple Leafs humped the Rangers 4-1. It was fun and violent, but there was a bit too much stopping and starting for my tastes. Just three twenty-minute periods of hockey with 17-minute breaks in between, plus endless pauses for commercial breaks. Where’s the flow? Where’s the rhythm? There’s plenty of time to go to the loo, granted; but I like slow-burn epic drama when it comes to sport :)

New York - Day Three

Endless wandering through Greenwich Village, a fantastic toasted sandwich, a nae bad cupcake, sleeping on my feet while Gareth pawed through record racks, watching wee dogs scurry about in Halloween costumes at Washington Square Park, dozing off during dinner, almost face down into a pillow of roast lamb and mashed potatoes.

New York - Day Two

This afternoon we happened along past a bank surrounded by cops and yellow tape. Oh my heart leapt with joy and delicious anticipation, because surely just around the corner lurked Ice-T, wrestling some fella to the ground while grunting, “I got the perp, Chief.”

You know what, I am really pished right now. Drunk, steamin, trollied, etc. Another night of gooood food and wine and company. I am bubbling over with good feeling about the world so I am just going to keep tip-tap-typing while the good feeling persists then post this later.

It’s 2AM, 7AM back home. Gareth is fast asleep and looks positively angelic.

Today we walked down the road to Central Park in the rain and noted that New York squirrels are considerably leaner and more spritely than the Scottish squirrels doon the park near our house. They mustn’t be eating enough chips!

Then we spent the whole darn day in the Museum of Natural History. Delicately stuffed birds and human skulls from throughout the ages. It was overwhelming and exhilarating, just thinking about all the wacky species and history crammed into our wee blue planet. I had to have a sit-down like a little old lady, gawking up at the model of a blue whale.

The dinosaurs were excellent. I love that in this modern age of technology and special effects and tiny attention spans, people are still enthralled and humbled by dinosaur skeletons. I have a soft spot for the pterodactyls. I had this lever arch folder in high school, that’s binder to you Americans. The paper was peeling off and I couldn’t resist picking away at it over the term, until all that was left was an abstract, pterodactyl-ish shape. After that I was a bit pterodactyl obsessed and drew cartoons of them all the time, including once on the blackboard while the teacher was out of the room. He caught me with the chalk hovering mid-air and sent me outside. It was just weeks before our graduation. I stood outside the classroom; looking around the block at other bad kids who’d been sent out of other classrooms. They kicked the brick walls and looked sullen but I grinned like a dorkosaurus, wishing I hadn’t waited so long to do something stupid. It was that same juvenile giddiness in the Hall o’ Dinosaurs today, being somewhere you never thought you’d be.

New York - Day One

Last night as the airport shuttle bus pootled endlessly through Manhattan, the couple o’ Brits sitting behind us has had already formed their verdict of the city. “Can’t say my first impressions are good,” sniffed Missus, “Nothing special is it?”

“No,” said Mister, “And they make it look good on the telly too.”

“Why is this bus taking so long!” Missus shrieked suddenly, “I want to go home! I want to go home!”

Well I want you to go home too! I longed to say, But how about I chuck you under a taxi instead?

Yes, the shuttle took ages but that was all part of the charm. I was having a great old time just peering out the window at all the people and pizzas and cops and stupidly famous buildings and crazy car parks where they rack up the vehicles on top of each other like wine. I saw some great signs too, with excellent fonts. Oh yes… few things thrill me more than quality typography.

So Gareth and I had juuuust checked into the hotel and were idly debating Who Was The Most Stinky after eight hours in the air when the phone rang.

“There’s somebody here to see you,” said the receptionist, “His name is W something?”

It was Witold! Only the one of the most wonderful humans in the universe. After so many years of blogstalking and friendship I’d always planned to be… you know, WASHED… should we ever meet, but now he’d spontaneously dropped by after work to whisk us away into his lovely rainy city. So what could you do but follow, in your grotty unkempt way.

He was like our Mary Poppins, amazingly kind and generous and mega thoughtful.

Except he was a bloke.

And wasn’t prone to bursting into song.

And he dished out MetroCards instead of spoonfuls of sugar.

And there was a subway instead of a chalk drawing.

And it was New York, not London.

BUT HE DID HAVE AN UMBRELLA.

So we trailed after him adoringly and hey presto, five minutes later we were in the middle of Times Square, gawking at neon and getting sprayed by taxi puddles.

Then he took us to a Japanese restaurant, the first place he went to when he landed here over a decade ago, so all the restaurant guys lit up when he walked in. The sushi was deeeelicious. The three of us polished off a bottle of sake. It tasted so clean and clear like essence of noble Japanese mountains or something.

So it was a great start to our trip and when I drifted off to sleep with a pounding head, I scrawled blog entries in the scratchpad of the brain, trying to describe that giddy feeling when you’ve imagined something in your head for years and the reality is a thousand times more brilliant; better than the telly, better than the internets.

NB: Am blogging this a day later while drunk again and it’s 5.36AM back in Scotchland. Scuse t=ypos!

How the hell did it get to be October? Gareth and I are going to New York City at the end of this month for a little holiday. We booked the flights way back in March and I’d almost forgotten about it, this year has been so mental. But now it’s almost here and the Time Out guide I bought six months ago is gathering dust and we’ve done no planning at all, save for getting some hockey tickets.

Two years ago your suggestions were invaluable for our Return to Oz tour, so forgive me for picking your brains again. What’s good to see in NYC? What’s essential viewing and what is highly overrated? Is it chilly towards the end of the month? And most importantly, perhaps… what’s good to eat and where do you get it? :)

In the tradition of Abandoned Gloves of Scotland, I present another of my failed photo gallery projects today - Crazy Buses of Europe.

It all began in 2003 when Rhi and I embarked on our first continental jaunt, to Paris. We went out to Versailles and instead of being awed by the honking huge palace I was awed by the squadrons of tour coaches parked out the front. They were bold and daggy like 80s album covers, with senior citizens gently tumbling out their doors.

But as we ventured further I soon realised that pretty much all buses look crazy in Europe, so I abandoned my mission.

Palace of Versailles, 2003.


Edinburgh Tattoo, August 2003


Copenhagen, June 2004


John o Groats, July 2004



St Petersburg, June 2004



Druskininkai, Lithuania, September 2004



Stockholm, June 2004

So I'm a woman, right? I have all the equipment and know how to use it, but sometimes I sort of forget that I'm female. Most of my dearest friends in Scotland have been male, and I've joyously immersed myself in the swearing and smuttiness and talk of sport.

But when I found myself at the BlogHer conference in a big room with 800 other women, all talking about their passions with such contagious enthusiasm, it was a most pleasant slap to the chops. Whoa. I am woman. Hear me roar. Grrrl Power, and all that. I just wanted to climb into platform shoes and a Union Jack frock and strut.

. . .

Award for Dodgiest BlogHer Sponsor Gift:
The Nasal Decongestant Spray left on our tables on Saturday lunchtime. Que? Maybe they thought we needed to clear all the excess estrogen from our nasal passages?

Award for Dodgiest BlogHer Snack:
The "Healthy Snack Alternative" provided on Saturday arvo. If you didn't want to eat the hot dogs, pretzels or popcorn you could have a 100 Calorie Curves Chewy Granola Bar. I'd rather scoff down unashamedly unhealthy mustard-drenched cylindrical pig snouts and trotters than eat a bar of self-loathing containing 27 unpronounceable polysyllabic ingredients posing as "health food".

But I do realise that a conference of such spectacular scale needs sponsors. I am enjoying my swanky laptop bag and Butterball Turkey oven glove, yes siree.

. . .

The first session I attended was called "Self Branding And Self Promotion" and I think I should have gone to the panel next door with the sex toy goody bags. I realised I've been clinging on to early '00s dreamy dreamland notions, where people blogged just because they had a burning need to express themselves, or because they were lonely and wanted to reach across the universe. You know, when people knew all their readers by name. At times the panel had a wee bit of a vibe like, "I've been blogging for two weeks, how come I'm not rich and/or famous yet?"

I know blogging can be big business these days, your blog can be your resume, etc etc.... and that is cool, because lord knows my career has been transformed because of my online babbling. But how about starting off with having something to say? How about taking some time to find your voice and build a body of work and an audience and then start fretting about your lack of revenue/devoted stalkers?

I'm sad I missed the panel called "It's Not Your Size But Your Passion That Matters", because I'm so glad to hear that the idea of Blog As Just A Place To Tell A Story And Meet Like-Minded Souls has not been swallowed up by the money thing. Happy days.

. . .

Award for Most S-M-R-T Ladies of BlogHer:
There were far too many inspiring, rockin' dames to list them all, but here's a stirling sample -

• Cynthia Samuels and the Sarcastic Journalist on the Media Training Panel, gallantly providing advice for bloggers on what to do when the papers come a callin'.
• Elizabeth Edwards and her gobsmacking intelligence and wisdom during her keynote discussion. I'd vote for her.
• Ariel Meadow Stallings with her sage and hilarious advice on the Blog To Book Panel. Her tips for ego-crushing book signings? "Have your antidepressants in your pocket."
• Our Blessed Conference Founders for kicking off something so deliciously inspiring and energising. I'd sell my granny to go again next year.
• The SJ - I learned so much from her - the joy of being comfortable in your own skin, how to talk to strangers, how to calculate tips. I'm still in awe that I get to be her pal. Aww.

(see also: BlogHer photies on my Flickr)

Oh lordy. It's 1AM here in Chicago, 7AM back home. I'm over for the BlogHer conference thingy and I'm having a bloody great time, despite ongoing jetlag delirium! I keep spontaneously bellowing "SPRING BREAK!" and if I was back home I'd have been clobbered by now.

So much to say, but first and foremost after six years of sterling internet friendship I finally met the foxy vixen SJ of I, Asshole. Actually she is snoozing here beside me, and even though there's nowt but the Powerbook glow in the room, her red red hair is still a glowin'.

I'm com-bloody-pletely overwhelmed by all the bazillions of chicks I've met over the past few days and all the things they write about. I will talk more about those on DG tomorrow. But Blogland just got a whole lot bigger and much wee-er at the same time. I feel so fired up to just write and talk and do more stuff. I've met some real blogging heroes o' mine and some brilliant new people too, such as my other roomate Liz who is typing the night away too. I've never felt so gloriously geeky. Rock n roll.

I miss you Doc!

Oh yeah, just one more thing. Perhaps I am curmudgeonly these days, but when did it become okay to TALK WHILE THE TEACHER IS TALKING? Or in this case, talk while the blog panel people are talking. If you want to chitty chat, that's lovely. But why not do it outwith the panel, and spare the chairs for those who really want to be there in the panel moment. Manners, people!

Righto. Where were we? Shetland!

You could be forgiven for thinking the islands lived in a little box just off the coast of Aberdeen, as depicted on many maps of the United Kingdom. But turns out they're actually a looooong way from the mainland. 600 miles north of London and just 400 miles south of the Arctic circle, to be precise!

Cliffs at Eshaness

If The Mothership ever went to Shetland I can imagine her gushing to all and sundry, "Oh, you gotta go. You GOTTA GO. And the history. THE HISTORY!" Yep, Shetland is not all ponies and woolly sweaters. It's an ancient place with a rich turbulent history full o' vikings and battles and salted fish. It became part of Scotland in 1468 when a Danish king pawned the islands to pay his daughter's dowry to the King of Scotland. I hope the wench was worth it!

Viking Bus Station, Lerwick

In some ways Shetland felt like another planet. The landscape was beautifully barren and treeless, somewhere between Iceland and Caithness. There were beautiful bays and empty beaches then crazy, rugged cliffs that have been battered by the sea for millions of years. The main street of Lerwick, the capital, had the usual banks and shops like on the mainland, but then a few miles down the road is an ancient broch or a cliff dripping with puffins. Suddenly you get that wonderful wild sense of isolation, feeling every mile between you and home.

Gareth on a cold, windy beach on the island of Yell

There is something compelling about a man with a ham. A giant pig leg with the hoof still on it, slung casually over his shoulder like a banjo. There were hundreds of Ham Men at the MotoGP in Valencia. At the gates, security guards confiscated cans of beer and jars of olives but it was perfectly okay to bring in your giant pig leg and a very large knife for carving it.

On Saturday during the Qualifying, I was torn between watching the bikes or the Ham Man sitting in front of me. Every couple of hours he would haul the ham onto his lap, the little black trotter resting on his shoulder. Then he'd whip out his knife and saw away like a cello, peeling off perfectly thin slices. His mate carved up breadsticks and arranged the ham and plump wedges of tortilla on top of them.

"Well," said Gareth as they munched away, "Sure beats chips and curry sauce!"

"Why didn't we bring a pig leg and a big knife?" I whined. The heat made me cranky as it was, but a severe dose of Ham Envy was pushing me over the edge. Especially when all I had was a shitty cereal bar and a bag of crisps from Tesco.

Somewhere someplace over the last four years I completely lost my tolerance for high temperatures. My body has erased its memory of going to school and baby-sitting sheep and frying chickens at KFC in the middle of harsh Australian summers. Now it whimpers and turns a violent shade of pink when faced with anything over twenty-five degrees.

On Qualifying Day it was well into the mid-thirties. We baked in direct sunlight in an unsheltered grandstand for the six hottest hours of the day. Surely this was grounds for having my Australian passport revoked. I feverishly slapped on more sunscreen and pulled my hat down harder over my brow. And what possessed me to wear jeans? I was frying. Frying! I expected black smoke to rise from my thighs at any second. I chugged down more water but you could almost hear it spit and fizz into nothing as it hit my innards. There was no escape.

Finally it was over and the Ham Men picked up their piggies and we headed for the train station, all 100,000 of us. I was deliriously happy despite being semi-blinded by stray sunscreen, because Valentino Rossi had snatched pole position and Australia's own Troy Bayliss had qualified second. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, the most exciting MotoGP season evah would be decided and we would be right there! I quite literally began to tremble with what I assumed was anticipation.

It took two hours to fight our way to the station. This is always a bit of an ordeal. It's not so much a station as a tiny little platform overlooking the orange groves. There's tens of thousands of people waiting for very infrequent trains that have half a dozen clunky carriages. And it's only a single track line, so it always seems like forever. When we finally got onto the platform there must have been 500 people wedged on with us.

So many bodies. So many sweaty bodies in garish, polyester Official MotoGP merchandise. I sipped my now-warm water and watched a bunch of Spanish people sitting on a crate of freshly-picked oranges. They tossed the red string bags around the platform and everyone helped themselves, chattering as they peeled with nimble fingers.

"They're eating fruit," I whispered to Gareth, "Look at them all! Fruit! Have you ever seen something passed around a train platform that wasn't a smoke or a can of Irn-Bru?"

I could feel the temperature climb higher. Where was the train? I stood on tip-toe in an attempt to gulp in some fresh air. And that's when I recognised the feeling. A sudden hollowness in my belly. A limpness in my limbs; a tiny rumble as if my blood was about to boil. Uh oh. That ol' Radiohead Concert Feeling.

"Are you okay?" asked Gareth. I nodded silently and linked my arms around his neck.

My vision swirled in and out of focus. I pinched my arm hard and growled to myself, You are not going to faint! Especially not in front of these beautiful Spaniards and all their hams and oranges!

But down I went. Gareth reported that my legs collapsed gently like a folding garden chair but my hands stayed clenched around his neck, so I was balanced on my tiptoes and swaying like an orangutan. Down and out cold in the heat amongst the orange peels.

"Whoa dude!" Gareth yelped, "Steve, give us a hand here!"

Gareth's mate Steve immediately sprang to action with his precision Army Reserve training.

"Excuse me people! Make way!" he yelled. The crowd shuffled aside obediently as they hauled my limp, red, dehydrated lump of a body to the back of the platform. "Gracias, gracias!"

A nubile young Spanish lass with a Nicky Hayden baseball cap leaped forward and furiously fanned me with the paper fan she happened to be holding.

"Thanks!" said Gareth.

"De nada," she shrugged sweetly.

"A chick did not fan with me a fan," I scoffed later, when I had returned to consciousness.

"She totally did!" said Gareth, "Lots of the Spanish chicks had fans. You should have seen her fanning you, it was brilliant. It was like an old silent movie or something!"

The first thing I saw when I came round was concrete and the orange peels and the golden feet of Spanish people.

"Oh fuck."

"Are you alright?" asked Gareth.

"I am fine. Just humiliated."

"I don't think you've had enough to drink and eat today."

"I told you we should have got a pig leg." I sat up slowly and adjusted my hat, pulling it down over my nose and wishing the brim would swallow my red face and my inept, weakling body too.

Mercifully, a train arrived. I sprang to my feet, got my elbows out and began fighting my way through the crowd. I had to get a seat. I knew I would spew if I had to stand for an hour back into Valencia. There were all manner of limbs and orange crates and sun-umbrellas and hams poking into me but I wriggled my way on board and slumped into the last seat. Score!

Gareth and Steve made it on too, and gave me the thumbs up. More pretty Spanish chicks squeezed on too, many of them giving me sympathetic smiles. I felt my face burn redder and redder.

And then the train pulled away. In the wrong direction.

So we had to pile off at the next stop and it was another two hours before we finally got back to Valencia. We stopped at the hostel to change before going out to replenish my energy levels with paella.

It was then I noticed my eyebrows. They were completely caked with multiple applications of sunscreen. White and bright like two fuzzy caterpillars.

"Did you know about this?" I pointed accusingly to Gareth.

"Oops."

"No wonder those Spanish chicks were smiling at me! As if I didn't look stupid enough already, the red and hapless foreigner conked out cold! Why didn't you tell me!"

"We were busy scraping your lifeless form off the platform, remember?"

"Fair enough."

"Anyway," he grinned, "What are we going to do about this growing trend of you passing out at Exciting Events? You'll have to start a new category for your blog, Places Where I Fainted. First the Radiohead concert, now the MotoGP."

"I hardly call two faints in three years a growing trend!"

"Yeah, well, you can forget about that trip to the Cream o Galloway ice cream factory. It's far too dangerous."

The Scene of the Crime. I took this pic in 2004 but it's the same spot, except it was twice as crowded this year! D'oh.

Behold! Here is photographic proof that you actually can lead a horse to water and make it drink.

Police horse at the MotoGP

You can also lead a lazy bum to a computer but you can't make it type a crappy book. I still need another 600 words today. I will just watch The Avengers first then get right onto that.

We went to sunny Valencia on the weekend for the final race of the MotoGP season. This shot is just to establish how bloody hot it was out at the track.

There were 130,000 people in the crowd on Sunday and seven of them came up to me at various intervals as I was slapping on the sunscreen. They cupped their hands and asked in Spanish could they borrow a drop. Well I think that's what they said, it was all Blah blah blah por favor to me. But it was nice to play a small role in the prevention of a senseless peeled nose on a handsome Spanish face.

I basted myself so often that after the race I wasn't just crying because Valentino Rossi fell off his bike and lost the World Championship, but because my eyes were so flooded with chemicals a la Laboratoire Garnier.

In other news, I turned 29 today. Two things happened: I woke up with an acne convention on my chin AND my friend Maghie gave me a gift pack of skin care products that included eye cream. EYE CREAM. My eyes grow old but my chin stubbornly remains in adolescence. Hmmm.

Do you remember back in May how I went to Amsterdam to see my beloved Radiohead and when we arrived there was a sign written in the Times New Roman of Doom that said the show was cancelled because Phil The Drummer's mother had passed away suddenly and I plunged into despair which was quickly followed by crushing guilt for being disappointed considering the circumstances? Remember? Remember?

Since then I've felt bad about being too huffy to properly enjoy my time in such a fine city. At the Van Gogh museum the day after the Cancellation, I stared gloomily at one of his paintings, something involving hay or flowers. I read the caption about him chopping off his ear and thought, I hear ya buddy. Then I smacked myself in the head with my camera for being such an obnoxious twit.

So really, I felt duty bound to return to Amsterdam and see it properly! YES! And it had nothing to do with the concert being rescheduled and this being the very last show of their tour and lord knows how long it would be before they toured again. But our tickets were still valid and there were cheap flights from KLM. I'm sure a chap as environmentally worried as Thom Yorke would frown at our frivolous flying, but I couldn't resist!

It was a whirlwind 48 hours in Amsterdam, but we gave it a red hot go. From the canal boats to the cafes to the coffeeshops to the hot chips in the paper cones, we really wolfed it all down. Now I'm deep in the throes of vacation withdrawls, just aching to be back in Super Happy Fun Holidayland. Every time I walk down a street I glare at it with disappointment because it doesn't have a canal running through it. Stupid non-Dutch streets.

Dinner by the canal.

The concert was incredible. Oh baby. Radiohead just get better every time and make me feel glad to be alive. Don't go telling me that they went crap after OK Computer. I am still in my Super Happy Fun Concertland bubble and I'm not coming out yet. La la la!

People always bang on about what a miserable bunch Radiohead are, but I heartily disagree. The show was foxy and fun and the band looked to be having a grand old time. The new songs went down a treat and Thom did his crazy dancing. Jokes were cracked!

I am also happy to report that unlike last time, I stayed conscious for the entire gig!

Most importantly, here is the Ed O'Brien Report. Which I'm sure is only of interest to me, but I like to note these things en blog and track my obsessions through the ages.

So, in the three years that have passed since our last encounter: Ed is still more ridiculously handsome than should be legal. He is still deliciously tall, sings beautifully, plays nice guitar and does lots of fiddling round with various bleeping machines, further proving that he is not just lanky eye candy, dammit.

SHAUNA:  I also noted tonight that in the three years that have passed since our last encounter, Ed is now wearing a wedding band.

GARETH:  And so are you!

SHAUNA:  Oh... yeah.

I took a few photos during the show but they were universally rubbish, as my view was hindered by the rows of tall, strapping Dutchmen in front of me; plus it is hard to focus the camera in a heightened state of arousal poor lighting conditions.

When we were at the Grand Canyon last year, Gareth and I spent a lot of time sniggering at all the tourists videotaping the scenery. It's a bloody ancient CANYON, people! It's not going to move! I felt sorry for the poor friends and families who'd be forced to watch the rocks-and-bush action upon their return.

But after a recent hard-drive clearout proved I'm just as guilty. I bought a new camera for the Russia/Scandinavian tour in 2004 and was bedazzled by its fancy buttons and mega megapixels. Most of all I went bananas with the movie feature. I made dozens of fillums with very little action, all sharing a complete disregard for focus, imagination and steady hands.

So now I shall share the mediocrity with YOU!

On Wednesday I ate a bagel with cream cheese and chugged down a large hot chocolate with whipped cream. The occasion called for serious carbo loading. We had a Radiohead show to attend!

You may recall the last time I saw my beloved boys, I embarassingly fainted from excitement, and knocked over a few lasses before hitting the floor. This time I was determined to be prepared and get through the gig without medical attention.

There's no way to describe how excited I was without sounding like a really sad bastard. It was so all-consuming, my limbs were tingling and my heart trilled like an idling engine. I just wanted to get there and get my elbows out to jostle for a good spot, to see the lights dip and hear the crowd roar. Oh you know the feeling, it's the same glorious anticipation when it's been too long between shags or you've just undressed a family-size chocolate bar.

Last time I saw Radiohead I'd only been going out with Gareth for a couple of weeks, but now we're old and married I don't have to have to pretend that it's entirely about the music. He is most tolerant and understanding of my undying lust for his royal tallness, Mister Ed O'Brien.

"Where are you going to stand? Edside, I presume?"

"Oh fuck aye!"

"And I s'pose you'll be wanting to get up close since he's cut his hair short again, just the way you like it."

"Wheeeeeeeeeee!"

This gig was all the more interesting because it was in Amsterdam. Radiohead announced their mini European tour a few months ago, playing smaller venues to showcase their new tunes. This sparked a ticketing frenzy, and after seven fruitless hours on their pre-sale website then a panicky encounter with the Ticketmaster general sale a few days later, we decided to go Dutch. Or rather, I decided and then later convinced Gareth to come along and bring the smelling salts and spare undies. Besides, I'd never been to Amsterdam before and it would be our first holiday together in which we didn't have one of our weddings to go to!

So after a day of sightseeing we finally arrived at the Heineken Music Hall, all well nourished and hydrated. We were greeted with the Times New Roman of Doom.

Sadly, due to a sudden and unexpected family bereavement, the show was cancelled.

It's a strange situation, because on one hand you can't help feeling crushed that you came a long way to see your most favourite band and now you won't see them and even though the show has been rescheduled for August you won't be able to come because it was a fiscal stretch to make this sortie to Amsterdam, let alone do it all over again in a few months. But on the other hand, you feel the PIRANHAS OF GUILT gnawing at your stomach for feeling so devastated, because somebody has lost someone, and you know how you'd feel if it happened to you.

We later found out that it was Phil Selway's mum who passed away. He posted a wee message on their blog which makes your heart go out to him.

"Just wanted to say sorry to the people who were due to come to our show in Amsterdam last night, particularly those who made wasted journeys. My mum died suddenly in the early hours of yesterday morning and so I just wanted to be at home with my family. Mum was a big Radiohead fan, and was very proud of all we've done as a band. I love and miss her very much."

Oh you just read that and really hope he is doing okay. And you want to reassure on behalf of all dedicated-but-totally-not-stalkersome fans that it was not a wasted journey because we got to spend a couple of days in a great city. We saw touristy things like Anne Frank's House and the Van Gogh Museum and ladies in glass boxes in the Red Light District. It averaged 23 degrees so I freaked out at the unfamiliar sensation of sunshine on bare arms. But my favourite bit was last night, sitting by the canals near 10pm, eating takeaway sushi and watching all the people cruising past in their boats. Unfortunately every photo I took on this trip is beyond mediocre, so just close your eyes and imagine blue skies and squeaky bicycles.

One night in Lisbon, being the wild party animals that we are, Rhi and I ordered room service and watched an epiosde of the Portugese equivalent of The Price Is Right - O Preço Certo em Euros.

It had the usual elements - cheesy games, glamorous models, hyperactive host, bellowing studio audience and dopey contestants convinced that a packet of toilet paper is more expensive than a speedboat.

But would you check out the Portugese answer to Larry Emdur? I couldn't understand a word he said, but Fernando Mendes rules. Finally, a game show host without blinding teeth and Lego Man hair.

I checked out Ferdie's profile on the official O Preço Certo website, and even with the awkward Babelfish English translation, he sounds like a nice bloke.

I loved the model chicks on this show. They were all big hair, bodysuits and tight Levis. I was instantly homesick - they looked like a night out at the Bathurst Leagues Club, circa 1992. All she needed was a Tia Maria in her hand and a sequined handbag to dance around.

Likewise the male models all looked like the blokes most likely to crack on to the Tia Maria chicks, swaggering into the Club in their Jeans West ensembles after a rollicking game of rugby.

This was the part where the contestant must put all the prizes in order to win the Showcase and the audience screams HIGHER and LOWER in the local language and the host says ARE YOU SURE? in the local language and the contestant's wife does the rotating-forearm Swap Them Round dance and the contestant just looks more and more confused. I love these universal experiences.

And this is the part when he loses and the sound effects department plays the "wah wah wahhhh" of disappointment. The Dinner Set was worth more than the Encyclopedias, so he must return immediately to his job as a taxi driver. But he is still thankful for the chainsaw and leaf blower he won in the earlier round.

As the credits rolled, Fernando took a towel out of the washing machine that was in the Showcase, wrapped it round his neck like a cape then pretended to fly around the studio! Did you ever see Ian Turpie or Bob Barker do anything like that? Portugal rules.

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.

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!

What if everyone laughs at how white my legs are?

What if I spend so much time catching up on Aussie foods I've missed that I'm busting out of my clothes by the end of the trip?

What if I am so overcome with joy by the familiar sight of a plasticky Australian $5 note that I start licking it?

What if Gareth meets all my family and realises I've only been PRETENDING to be a bright, cheery, confident person; but realises he's actually married a sullen, bitchy, neurotic freak?

What if I accidentally keep starting sentences with "This one time, in Latvia/Iceland/Spain" and people rolls their eyes and think, OH GREAT another one of those wankers coming home from their precious travels and boring the CRAP out of us all!

What if I need to do a really big fart on the plane?

What if I am so out of touch with Australia after 2.5 years that real Aussies will scoff at me like I'm one of those awful expats who doesn't know a damn thing about Australia anymore like Germaine Greer or something? I mean, since when do the Sydney Swans make the AFL Grand Final?

What if Harry Potter isn't reporting for Ten News anymore?

What if I get there and realise I want to be in Scotland?

What if I get there and realise I never want to leave?

"SHORRRRRNA! SHORNA! Is that you?"

"Yes it's me!"

"My GAWD, I can hear you so well! Can you believe this LINE? It's so clear!"

My aunt is awed by the miracle of international telephony. I think she still believes there are ladies with headsets and twinsets plugging away at switchboards.

"And you still sound the same! I thought you'd have gone all Scottish by now! But you're still just fair dinkum Aussie."

"Yep!"

"So you're coming home. Nothing's changed since you left. Except everything's more expensive."

"It is? I was looking forward to everything being cheaper!"

"Well I bought some lamb cutlets the other day and they were $2 each. TWO. DOLLARS. EACH! Two dollars for a scrawny bit of meat."

"And half of it's just bone and fat, really."

"Exactly! You're almost better off buying a bloody lobster than beef these days, I tell you."

So we leave for Australia NEXT WEEK. I love being able to say that. I keep interrupting conversations to say, "Australia! Next week!". Gareth keeps joking that I'll refuse to get back on the plane at the end of the trip, but I can't help wonder what I'll make of it all.

I've never felt particularly homesick over the past 2.5 years. Emails and phone calls make it seem like your loved ones aren't that far away. I've become so absorbed in Scotland that I sometimes forget that I'm not from here. Last week I caught my old bus, the 22, and as always it was full of Aussies off to work in the call centres. It was the same old conversations - drunken nights, rent worries, travelling on the cheap, the shitty so-called summer. I found myself irritated by their broad and booming accents, and silently muttering, "Well if you think it's so crap, why don't ya GO BACK THEN!?"

Yet on the other hand, I'm glued to Neighbours and the cricket, grinning dopily at the sound of Aussie voices. I've being baking scones and lamingtons just to get in the mood. I got teary at my Body Pump class this morning when the Shoulder track was an AC/DC tune. I keep pouring over our intinerary, wriggling in my chair just thinking of all the places Gareth is going to see, all the cool friends he's finally going to meet.

Yep, I'm officially homesick. Woohoo! Plus I'm really busting for a hamburger with the lot.

"Hey lady!"

"Me? Hello!"

"Do you like bubble baths?"

"Yeah?"

"Well if you ever wanna take someone home for a bubble bath, I like candles! And rose petals!"

It was strange being in America, the place where strangers talk to you on the street. In our two weeks we encountered so many people who were nice, helpful or just plain chatty for no good reason at all. At first we'd almost jump a foot in the air everytime someone spoke, or glared with great suspicion. What do you want? Why are you talking to me? What are you trying to sell? I don't have any money! Take him, he's older!

You don't seem to get as much random interaction in Britain. If you're out for a walk it's rare to even make eye contact with a stranger, let alone score a nod or smile. This used to baffle me, but as soon as my first Scottish winter came I noticed I'd become more insular, preferring to brood beneath my beanie. I didn't realise how much so until we were at the Grand Canyon and a tall man suddenly approached us. I gripped my camera extra tight and decided I was prepared to knee him in the goolies if necessary.

"Hello! Would you like me to take a photo of the happy couple together?"

"What? Ohh! Sure. Thanks very much!"

After Vegas we headed back to San Francisco for a week. We got the BART into town then Gareth had the fantastic idea of walking ten blocks uphill to our hotel. I was lucky enough to have wheeled luggage but he had an ancient suitcase that weighed a tonne - those kilts are heavy bastards. After a few blocks I could see his arms shaking and face turning beetroot. As we waited at an intersection I wondered whether or not three days of marriage was long enough for me to spew forth my first I Told You So, and did I really want to establish myself as a nagging bint so early in the game? Cars whizzed by in all directions and it dawned on us there were no pedestrian lights and we didn't know when to cross the street.

"Well!" I sniffed, "Isn't this just a DANDY honeymoon?"

Just as the veins began to bulge on Gareth's forearms, a woman whizzed past on rollerblades and sang out in bemused tones, "Pedestrians have right of way in California, guys! You can cross now!"

It was a bit of a culture shock to hear people speak to you out of the blue. All week strangers appeared to help when we looked lost, offered to take photos or just struck up conversations about the weather.

On our last day in San Francisco, after walking past the Bubble Bath Guy, a lady with a wee baby and a bottle of OJ stopped me outside the hotel, pointing at my shopping bags.

"Hey! That looks like an Old Navy bag. There's Old Navy here?"

"Oh yeah, it's just a few blocks that way."

"That is good news! Do you like Old Navy? What you got there?"

I showed her my bargain nightwear.

"Well, damn! I love Old Navy. I'm gonna go there right now. Thank YOU!"

What is in the water over there, you Americans? Maybe it was just the newlywed glow or all the excess glucose I'd consumed, but all that unexpected human interaction felt warmer than the California sunshine.

Gull With Fresh Droppings
One in a series of approximately 457 gull photos Gareth took at Fisherman's Wharf.

It was a perfect Sunday morning in Valencia, the sky so obnoxiously bright and blue that I could finally understand why those moaning Brits on reality shows always migrate without job prospects or knowledge of basic Spanish. We were crammed on a train platform with thousands of locals, all headed to the track for the Motorcycle Grand Prix.

It's a whole other entry altogether to explain how my ridiculous obsession with MotoGP began, but after seeing Dead Lenin on Red Square there obviously was a void to fill. I began watching the races with Gareth out of pure politeness, but within a few weeks I became Miss Tragic Bike Geek and convinced him that we HAD to go to Spain to see a race FOR REAL, otherwise I would become very difficult to live with.

There was no better way to see London on Friday night than from the air. It looked like it was under seige, hundreds of multi-coloured explosions punctuating the landscape. Were the fireworks some sort of elaborate welcoming committee? Hurrah! You're finally come to visit! We're ever so glad! But then I remembered it was Guy Fawkes Day and London really didn't give a shit that I was in town.

I'd forgotten that one of the most exciting cities in the world had been lurking just down the road all this time. Upon arrival I went into true Deranged Tourist mode at the sight of so many icons. Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Big fucking BEN! And Trafalgar Square really is chockers with pigeons! And all those places on the Monopoly board really do exist! Park Lane, Mayfair, Pall Mall. Are there any other ignorant children out there who began every game with an argument as to whether you pronounced it 'Paul Maul' or 'Pal Mal'?

By Sunday arvo I was knackered from all the excitement. I was quietly yawning beneath the famous neon signs on Piccadilly Circus when I became aware of an old lady standing in front of me, glaring over her spectacles and rapping her walking stick on the pavement.

"Nobody covers their mouth when they yawn anymore!"

"Sorry?"

"Nobody!" she shrilled in plummy tones. "Whatever happened to good manners?"

"Umm..."

She sighed dramatically, "What is wrong with your generation? WHO would have thought it was SO much to ask?"

I stared at her as I struggled to formulate an appropriately withering reply.

Did Shauna snarl:

A:  Just you wait, you old bat. When you call Geriatric Rescue to say you've fallen and can't get up, I WILL LEAVE YOU THERE TO ROT!

Or mumble meekly:

B:  Sorry, ma'am. I mean to do it but my hand didn't get there quick enough!

Either option ends with the condescending cow shuffling off in disgust.

Thanks to the groovers who said happy birthday for yesterday! The day started with me gulping down orange juice so violently fresh my face screwed up like a cats' arse. After nineteen months of Made From Concentrate Imported From Chile horridness, it was a true shock to the system to taste the real thing. I choked and spluttered like my first vodka shot back in Russia.

The day ended near midnight with us wandering around Alicante looking for our hotel. Clever Shauna had scrawled down "Eurohotel" and "31" but neglected to write a street name. After an hour of swearing and searching for the mysterious 31 Alicante, I reluctantly called Rhiannon and confessed soy un idiota and she looked it up on the internet.

I called her when we got back to Edinburgh today, "We're home!".

"Oh very good. Do you know where that is?"

Recently a kind person had linked to this here site and called it a "travel blog". I liked how sexy and glamourous that sounded, and thought very smugly, "Why, woohoo. Indeed it is a travel blog. Long gone are the days of blogging about death, depression and supermarkets!"

But then I wondered if I had earned the title of "travel blog", and even though I am allergic to numbers I came up with some exciting statistics.

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.

Maybe I didn't put enough words in the last entry, there was some confusion in the comments. I was just trying to say that the best souvenirs are most often tiny, everyday things that don't come from tourist shops. A crumpled Irn-Bru can feels more authentic to me than a toy Loch Ness Monster from the Royal Mile. The purchase of a plastic viking hat could not compare to the pathetic thrill of tearing a page from a phone book.

Check out the goodies that came back from the Romanian business trip! (Click for larger versions) It's an election year so Bucharest was slathered in campaign posters...

Including this sexy beast, Daniel Marian Vanghelie, he of the eyebrow scar and meaty fist. Does anyone in the house speak Romanian? From what I can gather, he's running for election in Sector 5.

And here Daniel's saying to the voters, Calm down, kids. Vote for me and I'll get everything under control. I own not one but two suits. Or maybe he's saying, I've wanted to be Mayor since I was this big.

Vote for Daniel. He's not afraid to roll up his sleeves and get down to the dirty business of politics.

And if you're still not convinced, why not vote for him on the grounds he's thoughtfully provided you with a Euro 2004 draw on the back of his flyer.

Now that's my idea of a quality souvenir.

Cross-posted to Lost In Transit.

If you want to know how it feels to be Lost In Transit, may I recommend a Working Holiday visa. Over 40,000 people come wandering over from the colonies each year, all leaving behind friends and jobs and families to spend two years in the UK.

The honeymoon period is delicious. Everything you see and do is new and exciting, sometimes scary. Every day is stuffed with opportunity and adventure. With no real committments, responsiblities or money, life is pared down to the essentials - work, drink, shag, travel.

Next comes an equally satisfying period where you feel less of a stranger in your surroundings. You now have friends and work, favourite pubs and restaurants. You have routines and rituals. You know which supermarkets sell Vegemite and which don't. Best of all, you know where the buses go. The city map was once a blur of strange names, but now when you see a Number 9 or 33 or 5678 coming along the road, there's a certain cosy pleasure from knowing that you know whether it will get you home or leave you stranded on a dodgy industrial estate halfway to England.

But after awhile this feeling becomes tinged with unease as you remember your time is limited. I was on a train from Edinburgh to Glasgow recently, off to see Aussie band Powderfinger in concert. There were plenty of my countrymen in our carriage and I couldn't help tuning in to their conversations.

I just don't know what to do. My time is running out. I wonder if they'll sponsor me. How hard is to to get a work permit? I'm not ready to go home. Me either. My visa runs out in June. How much does it cost to send things home? What are you going to do when you get back? Fucked if I know.

If you're not ready to go home, the idea of going back seems devastating. Home is where everything is predictable, where Europe isn't two hours and £20 away, where no one will comment on your accent, where you have to think further into the future than your next meal. It's an unreasonable line of thinking - life doesn't have to be dull just because you're going home. But I always recall my friends who've returned from Working Holidays and spent months or years feeling lost and unsettled.

The gig venue was chockers full of Aussies, all seemingly determined to assert their Aussiness. Accents were louder and broader. Many people wore green and gold football or cricket jerseys. One twat wore an akubra. People were texting friends back home, Gday mate guess wot powderfinger right here in glasgow, scotland, uk, can u believe !?! Even the band went ocker as the crowd screamed for more, the singer drawling, Jeez youse are loud, crikey! Everyone pounded the floor and sang Waltzing Matilda until they came back for an encore. If they pulled that stunt back in Australia they'd be decked, but here in Scotland it seemed okay to be cringily Oz. I guess it's that whole expat spirit - you don't always want to live in your native land but you want the world to know where you come from.

I often think the Working Holiday is nothing but a temporary suspension of reality. Unlike "proper" expats, we're only here for a limited time. You're voluntarily abandoning what in my case was a very secure career and lifestyle, just so you can run amok for two years. So much can happen in that time - you have all sorts of fun and meet all sorts of people and grow very attached to your new life. But the only way to make it your reality would involve a lot scheming and/or paperwork. If only I'd had the foresight (or brains) to be an accountant or a teacher so I could get a work permit! And why wasn't my grandfather English so I'd qualify for an ancestry visa? How bloody unthoughtful of him!

It's an awkward feeling, straddling two continents, not feeling quite at home in either space. Sometimes I want 12-month subscriptions to magazines. I want a fancy winter coat and a permanent job. I want to grow basil in a window box. But you cannae do that, hen! Not when you're getting deported in ten months, just like your bread-stealing arrow-suited ancestors.

"Three tickets please," I said to the chick at the ferry office.

"Are you sure?"

"Why?"

"We can't guarantee you a return crossing."

"Oh. Why not?"

She rolled her eyes. "Severe weather warning from Iona."

"Isn't it just five minutes across the water?"

"Things are different over there. So do you want the tickets?"

"Do you think we should?"

"That's up to you."

"Do you reckon it'll return?"

"It may. It may not."

"What happens if it doesn't?"

"Obviously you'd be stranded."

"How likely is that?"

"I can't speculate."

"Can you give me a little hint?"

"No."

I turned to my travelling companions for an opinion. I could tell Mum wanted to get back in the car and drive back. To Australia.

"I don't care," she said, hands on hips and lips pursed like a disapproving headmistress (incidentally, her chosen profession).

"Well I don't care either," said my sister Rhiannon, who clearly did care, as she was the poor bastard who'd driven us there on the hairy single-track road.

Bah. I had been bursting to go to Iona for years. It's a tiny scrap of an island just off Mull, barely three miles long. It's sparsely populated and reeks of history with a peaceful, spiritual vibe.

"I say we go!" I declared.

"Damn straight," said Rhi.

"It's up to you," The Mothership attempted a neutral tone.

There were a half dozen others on the ferry, all clearly wild crazy risk takers like ourselves, living life on the edge. They were a cheery lot, especially the roly poly Glaswegian lady who giggled nervously as the ferry humped across the choppy waves.

Mum looked anxious and gripped her handbag, no doubt mentally reviewing the Terms and Conditions of her travel insurance policy. Rhi and I calmly scoffed down Tunnock's Tea Cakes and assured her it was all part of the adventure.

It really was wilder on the Iona side. We overheard the crew say the next crossing would probably be the last of the day. That was only 45 minutes away! It seemed absurd to stay just 45 minutes, but we couldn't risk being stranded overnight, especially when we had booked obscenely expensive accomodation on Mull. So we gathered around the Rough Guide and plotted our sprint around the island.

"Righto, let's go LET'S GO LET'S GO!" Rhiannon led the charge. She was off the boat and halfway to the nunnery before I'd figured out how to put my raincoat on.

It was ridiculous, trying to absorb the mystery and history of a place while bounding through the wind in Neil Armstrong-esque steps. We breezed through the nunnery and said hello to some sheep then left the breeze carry us to the Abbey.

With five minutes left before the return crossing, I wandered along beach while the others checked out the souvenir shop.

"Get out of the rain, lass!" a grizzly-bearded bloke in an orange coat appeared out of nowhere and shouted in my ear.

"I'm okay thanks!"

"Go and stand over by that wall and you'll be sheltered. Go on!"

"Alright, alright!"

It was then I noticed the time and realised that the ferry was still on the Mull side. Then its lights came on.

"Ooh dear." Another grizzly guy appeared beside me, suitcase in hand. "That usually means no more crossings." He sighed and stomped away.

Mum and Rhiannon came out of the shop and I updated them on our situation.

"Get out of the rain, you lasses!" Orange Coat Guy shuffled by again, "Go and stand by that wall over there and you'll be - "

"I KNOW!"

The touring Scots reappeared, all frowning at their watches and shaking their heads. We all piled into the coffee shop. At that stage everyone was laughing at our predicament, all confident the ferry would return at any moment.

It would be back. Of course it would be back! We'd parked the car in a 2 hour zone. Do they have parking inspectors on Mull? And we had to get back. We had a two-part surprise planned for Mum that night. We would be spending the night in a fancy castle near Tobermory. The second part of the surprise was that she was paying for it.

I grew anxious and snappy at the thought of our plan going tits up. I also had that awful Chris de Burgh song trapped in my head. Don't pay the ferryman! Until he gets you to the other side! God, Chris de Burgh was shit. I stared out at the angry sea and thought about how shit Chris de Burgh was. I bet he had to pay the Lady In Red to dance with him cheek to cheek.

Minutes passed, perhaps hours. Cheery conversation gave way to brooding silence. Fingers drummed on tabletops, teaspoons tapped impatiently on saucers. And The Mothership was doing that staring thing again.

"Mother, you're doing that staring thing again."

"I'm allowed to look at you! I haven't seen you in over a year!"

"Stoppit!"

How naff to be stranded on an island just five minutes from shore. The roly poly lady gazed across to Mull with a mournful expression, her giggle long gone. I began to imagine her with an apple in her mouth, glistening with marinade and rotating slowly over hot coals.

Time crawled on.

And on.

A woman on the other side of the room suddenly flung down yesterday's Guardian and squealed, "Look!"

"Hurrah! It's the ferry!"

"Noooo! It's a baby seal, diving in the waves! A wee baby seal!"

I leaped from my seat and slapped her across the face, "Pull yourself together, lady! Don't you know what happened to the boy who cried ferry? Why don't you make yourself useful and go club that seal for our dinner."

Or maybe I just sat in my chair and sulked.

And then finally, just when we thought all hope was lost, just when I was about to ask the waitress for a carving knife, the ferry lights went off and it started its crawl back to Iona.

"We're saved! We're saved!"

We abandoned shop and fled to the port as fast as the wind permitted. A wave crashed over my head as I boarded, completely soaking the right side of my body, but I was too relieved to care. I took a seat and waved farewell to Iona, vowing to return in fairer weather.

At last our ordeal was over. I looked at my watch and noted just how long we'd been stranded in that cafe. Thirty-five minutes.

Scotland is small. If you tore it off from England and dumped it in outback Australia, it would take the Federal Police, Interpol and a hoarde of alsatians ten years to ever track it down again. But this tiny country is crammed with mind-blowing beauty and contrast. We only had a week with The Mothership so we wanted to force-feed her as much of it as possible.

It's ridiculous after just one year how protective you feel about a place. Mum would make an innocent comment like, "It's raining" or "Why are all the buildings so grey" or "HOW much for a cup of coffee?" and we would snap and splutter defensively, like she was a playground bully picking on our baby brother. Even though we'd whinged about the very same things when we arrived last year.

It also felt like Scotland was our new boyfriend and parental approval was pending. We desperately wanted her to be impressed. The first Saturday we stopped briefly in South Queensferry beneath the Forth Bridges. Rhi and I loathe how every tourist bus stops at the stupid bridges, but now we wanted Mum to love them.

"The orange one is the rail bridge. It's the greatest feat of Victorian engineering. Built in 1890. Look at it. LOOK AT IT!"

"I'm looking!"

"Aren't you going to take another photo?"

This continued as we trundled around the gentle greenness of Perthshire. Look at the cows. Look at the castle. Are you looking? And again as we wound our way throug