Dan and Em: The Unauthorised Autobiograpy

Christmas snow and friends

2011-07-07T09:49:00.000-07:00

Soph was treated to her first white christmas in December. What was less of a treat was our decrepit old boiler breaking down in the coldest week of the year and it taking more than a week to get it replaced. So for one week the Pettet clan camped together in our lounge-room with our working fireplace heating the room up. Bryn lent canine charm and fruity odours, or at least living in that close proximity, that’s who we all decided to blame.

We felt that we were getting to know Soph better and she was getting to know us.

"Good God woman, don’t just stand there and take photos. Get me out of here, this man smells like wet arse!"

One of these two women is trying hard to come to grips with life in the real world... the other has just shat herself.

"Beeeeeefffcaaaake"

"Jesus, the dog just farted"

"You swear you’re not going to post this one on the internet, right?"

For Christmas itself our friends Shanny and Myles were kind enough to invite us up to the Lakes to spend a few days with them in a beautiful cottage where we gathered with Shanny’s mum and aunt, and Ben and Corinne to bring in the festive season.

We got in some wonderful sledding until the sled disintegrated under the combined lethal forces of festive obesity and uncoordination. Corinne was the clear leader managing several runs standing up.

Emmy looking beautiful and just a little chilly.

Sophie enjoying Christmas cheer.

Ben with the youngest woman he has ever picked up in a bar.

Finally this is the casting photo Sophie is using for her audition for a part in a lavish new MGM musical. She is trying out for gay sailor number 3.

Sophie Bophie

2011-07-07T05:05:00.000-07:00

Well, well. So much has gone by that the update seems almost superfluous. But in the interests of completeness and to avoid claims of neglect in her troubled teenage years, it is time that I update you all with the arrival of Sophie Elizabeth Pettet on 22/10/2010.

Despite the urgings of the lovely midwives who were all very keen to have us give birth at their centre, or home, or in an organic igloo with healing crystals aligned in a way to facilitate the energising flow of our shakras through the room, we had decided to have a planned delivery at the NHS Stepping Hill Hospital at Stockport. ( I specify this now, so that there is no future confusion and Sophie does not spend her adult life making her family genuflect and spew admiring oohs and aahs every time they pass the hospital ’she was born in’ only to find out many years later that she never went near the place. It happens).

The due date we had originally been given was the tuesday, 19th of october. Up until that date Em was feeling great and we went in to the local midwife centre in Buxton on the day for a check. They discovered that Em had high blood pressure and so we were told we had to go into the Stepping Hill Hospital about 40 mins drive away. So we went in there so that the doctors could monitor Em.

We saw a nurse who gave her another check up and then she was admitted to be seen by a doctor. All that afternoon we waited to be seen. Em was very happy and comfortable the whole time. We had another few nurse checks, but there seemed to be some sort of confusion as to where the doctor was. I went home and the next morning dropped in to see her. There had still been no doctor drop by and so we waited. About midday we asked the nurse if a doctor might be around so Em could be examined. And she said she would see what she could do. After another two hours we went to the front desk and asked the woman there if anyone might see us, because Em was feeling good and if we couldn’t see a doctor, we would rather go home. She said that a nurse would have to check us out and asked us to wait. We waited another hour and then walked out of the hospital. Interestingly as we walked past the receptionist she just pretended to be looking the other way. Deniability is everything and apparently Donald Rumsfeld wrote the protocols for the NHS.

When we got home we rang the NHS and told them we were no longer in their hospital. They were shocked. The next day we went back to the midwife centre and they again said that we should head into the hospital. This time very soon after we got there a very nice young doctor arrived to examine Em. Maybe our records had been marked.

Things progressed slowly but smoothly throughout the night. Em had been put in her own delivery suite so I could spend the night with her. At one point during the night we heard a distant noise that was a mixture of a cat mating and the soundtrack to a slasher film. It grew louder and at first I genuinely thought it was a machine malfunctioning, until we both realised that it was actually another patient in the ward giving birth. Memorably Em turned her magazine page nonchalantly and said, "I think that’s a bit unnecessary." It’s a phrase we haven’t forgotten since.

The next morning we were all ready to go. Sue had come in by taxi and as the morning progressed a steady trickle of doctors, specialists, nurses, midwives, students, bagel salesmen and curious passers-by dropped in to see how we were getting on. Em was stoic throughout and at no stage developed more than a thin sheen of perspiration on the upper lip. I can state for the record that I was never threatened, abused or signed up for an involuntary blunt trauma vasectomy, with a mid thoracic approach.
Suffice it to say, very soon and with an excited room full of spectators, Sophie was born. looking beautiful and unfeasibly large.

4.2 kilos, or 9.2 pounds for those keeping score. To prove my assertion that Em sailed beautifully and gracefully through all events,

Dad on the other hand was rather weary.

Sue was ready for her first grandchild and has I trust sent this photo to John and Julia several times.

Sophie Elizabeth, Grand fille primus, Xerxes Destroyer of Worlds, 2012 Tiger Cub Member had arrived. And here, because it’s what we all want, is a collection of the early weeks.

Soph looking a little pugnacious. Do you wanna fight about it?

Soph the gangsta rapper

There’s quite a good pie shop in Ashbourne, Derbyshire if you ever make your way there. Soph didn’t get a pie but she did get some crumbs spilt on her by Dad.

Soph looking a little tired and emotional (pissed) on Nan’s shoulder.

I may not know much about parenting but I do know there’s nothing as reliably humourous as staging pictures of your baby with alcohol, and...

riding the ever patient Uncle Bryn.

Guernsey

2011-06-23T06:03:00.000-07:00

Well here we all are on the beautiful independent bailiwick of Guernsey. Described by their most famous inhabitant, Victor Hugo, as "little pieces of France that have been picked up by England.’ And if that gives you a mental image of England as a dour man travelling along behind a bon vivant poodle with a doggie bag, scooping up Guernsey and Jersey distastefully, then blame Victor Hugo. The man did, to the best of my understanding, write a whole novel about unhappy lesbians.

Guernsey is a very bright and beautiful little island. Population of about 62,000 most of its money comes from finance and tourism. It will be impossible for my photos to do the place justice but for those interested I can highly recommend the local tourism websites for pics of the island itself. For us it is like a wonderful English town transplanted to a Mediterranean climate. A very high standard of living means great restaurants, good work and well maintained country lanes all over the island. Here is Em enjoying a spot of lunch over looking the main St Peter Port harbour.

One slight, ahem, issue for the people of Guernsey to look at is the absence of any street names or numbers. Seriously! The island is divided into ten parishes and each house just has a name. All of which is in French mind you! So my boss’ house is called La Cache, St Peters. Or another house might be La Rocquette, St Martins. And some of these houses are named after old families, so they see no problem with having many houses with the same name. You, of course know which one is which because you know the name of the people living in each of them. So when a newcomer to the island asks someone whose horse or cow he wants to visit where they live, the conversation hits a hurdle. Invariably I get a loud sigh of disgust at my inability to remember the location of the 62000 inhabitants of the island and then an attempt to direct me. It usually goes something like:

Diligent Australian Navigator (DAN): So Mr le Bouvier, where exactly are you?

Knows Nothing Of Bearings (KNOB): Right, Do you know Castel church?

DAN: No I’m afraid I’m new to the island. What’s your address?

KNOB: Do you know Forest Store?

DAN: No. As I said, I’m new, if you could just give me your street name...

KNOB: Hmm it’s tricky. Do you know, as you come past La Chene Hotel...

DAN: No, look I’m afraid this isn’t getting us anywhere. Is anyone in your house able to tell me where you actually live?

KNOB: No, I don’t know the street name. (Long pause) The last vet used to know where we were. Do you know the traffic lights near the airport?

DAN: Mr le Bouvier, I’m going to go now and just drive around the island until I find you. I’m driving a red skoda.

KNOB: Righto, I’ll stand in the street and wave you down. Do you know the....

The constant effort of driving round the island has meant I am quickly becoming used to the island’s landmarks. It has also given rise to a new bedtime song for Sophie. She enjoys it immensely.

(To the tune of Daisy Daisy)

Sophie, Bophy, what are we going to do?

Here on Guernsey, streets are all called La Rue.

The Folk don’t know where, they’re livin’

Directions can not be given.

If you don’t know, just where to go,

You really are in the poo!

Just so you know, if any of the friends I make on Guernsey ever think of visiting me in Australia and ask for an address I’m going to start with, "Right, do you know Sydney Harbour..."

One of the changes brought about by the arrival of the Sophster is obviously that only one of us can work at any one time. As that is me at the moment, Em and Soph have been making an effort to get out and mingle with the natives.

Here’s Soph at a top level baby meeting in Guernsey. On the agenda was Eurozone debt concerns, the Libyan peace process and Japanese quakes. But an emergency motion was passed which called for the immediate serving of strawberries and naps. Soph is bottom right.

In outdoor development Soph has been spending time at the beach, preparing for the summer in Australia. Her favourite part about the beach is the granular texture that sand has in the mouth. Just like her mother I understand.

And here she is with Brynlar. Those of you who know Bryn know that his greatest sign of affection is to try and sit on you, foot, leg or any other part he can reach. Well now that Soph is sitting up on her own he has decided she is blurter worthy.

Tuesday Brunch with Sophie.

So, today was my day off and I thought I would do the good dad thing. So while Emmy went off for a well earned break and hair appointment, I decided to settle in for a morning with the cutest baby in the world.

We started off with a quick walk around town. As you can see, Soph was very fetching in her navy and red outfit and Bryn classed the place up as usual. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t ideal today, and I’m not the greatest photographer in the world. But here are Bryn and Soph Chillaxin at the water front.

After that we returned home and decided between us that it was time for some refreshment. So while Sophie sat in a bouncy chair and offered advice I got some food ready and much in the style of Jamie’s kitchen or masterchef we have decided to share our menu with you. First here we are setting up. Bryn as you can see, while not the brightest dog in the world, has quickly learnt where the best spot to be during meal times is.

First course today was Baguette Vegemite, prepared on a rich brown bread, with Lurpak butter base and a light dusting of Australia’s finest vitamin B supplement. Sophie appreciated the textural richness of the meal, judging the grain against supple fingers and always keeping an eye on Bryn.

So you know, the rule is once it’s on the floor it’s Bryn’s. Today the division of sandwich spoils went approximately 40% Soph, 35% Bryn and 25% me. I get the bits that wind up stuck to Soph’s hair, clothes and seat but don’t quite make it to the floor. And if you doubt whether smooshed up vegemite sandwich is an appealing meal, you may not have had sole care of Sophie yet. She was quiet for about ten minutes earlier in the day, but, like a schmuck, I wasted that time going to the toilet. While I can certainly use my bathroom time to catch up on reading, I have not yet been forced to the extremes of combining toilet stops with meal times. Those of you who communicate with Em on facebook may be thrilled to know she is an adept toilet surfer, if you get my meaning.

The second course consisted of smooth yoghurt streaked with a jus of strawbraries, (like libraries). Pleased with her tactile approach to the first course Soph saw no reason this couldn’t be tackled in a similar vein.

However, she was finally convinced that this dish might best be consumed with some help from Dad.

Finally dessert was fresh frambois really just served because I had some left over and watching Sophie eat whole strawberries always makes me laugh, and I had earned a treat.

There you go. That was my morning. Em has come home, looking like a fashion model, so we’re going out to lunch. With Bryn beneath the table and Sophie helping me with the serving up, what could go wrong!

And quickly, here are the most gorgeous girls on Guernsey, celebrating a new blog post. Not sure where she’s getting the blonde curls from, but I hear she eats a lot like Ben Warnick.

Jog in the Fog 2010

2010-08-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

IT’S ON!

Geb has finally responded to my personal challenge and confirmed that this year we will go head to head in what is half-way to being a clash of the two greatest distance runners of all-time.

Here he is, smiling whilst that option remains a possibility for him because soon it will be his tears on which I coast to victory.

Those of you in the know may be aware that this match-up was on the cards last year until and unforeseen accident in Croatia resulted in me developing a cankle the size of Geb’s reputation.

However, time has flown. Another year’s work pulling the recalcitrant calves of Derbyshire and loading up on an almost entirely carb based diet has me in fighting trim and ready to take on the little master.

Now, you may also be aware that I am running this half marathon to raise money for a children’s homeless charity, Help A London Child. That’s right, when I’m not saving the lives of War Veterans and their cats, I help out homeless kiddies. Does that make me a hero? Well, that’s not for me to say. So if you want all the inside details on the Jog in the Fog 2010 you must now go to www.justgiving.com/danielpettet and donate some money. Excuses will not be tolerated. They accept all cards so don’t even think about claiming that your cheque was tied to a pigeon’s leg and got lost on the way.

So, on september 19 I will be running around newcastle. Those of you in the UK can watch it all live on the BBC. And don’t worry. Due to a technical glitch, I won’t actually be starting at the same time as Geb. I think it’s important to keep it real and run with my peeps. So, in a show of solidarity while he runs in the rarified air of the elite starters I will be near the back of approx 40,000 runners. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if Geb is actually across the finish line before I am across the start. So for that reason you may not see us battling it out in the finishing chute. However I will be carrying a little tracking chip which will give me a precise time for my run and that will also give me the important tactical advantage of knowing what time I have to beat.

If I needed any further inspiration, I plan to be doing the run in this

Inspiration Plus!

Brynlar

2010-08-07T05:57:00.000-07:00

It’s time to make a long overdue introduction.

Last November we drove to Lincoln to pick up a little Border Terrier called Bryn! yes, he’s named after uncle Bryn from Gavin and Stacey, although, he also answers to Brynlar, Stinkyface, Poopydrawers, and Numbnuts.

Here he is at home when he first arrived.

And he is reposing gracefully in his bed.

And he does like his ducky, although he needs to establish who is boss.

That winter saw the best snows for thirty years. And here it is through Stinkyface’s eyes.

And here he is enjoying the local park.

Don’t tease him about the jumper he’s very sensitive. Actually it’s a Liverpool jumper. Go the Scousers!

I don’t know why these two are smiling. That’s the frozen lake he’s standing on and if he goes in she’s going after him!

He liked wearing the horns, honest.

And here he is celebrating Christmas on the Essex seafront with Shanny, Miles, Ben and Corinne.

And now we’ll fast forward to more recently. Last weekend we went for a walk through the Peaks District and here he is, as an older boy now surveying his domains.

While we were out he made this girlfriend. personally I think she was a bitch.

Ducks!

Bryn, Lord of the Peak

And here are the two boys. When I was doing a lot of late night calving calls, Bryn used to come with me. Here we both are catching up on naps the next day.

England is full of wonderful pubs with exciting place names. One of the most common is the Red Lion. Bryn has taken a bee in his bonnet and has chosen upon the Red Lion as his nemesis. Here he is challenging the Red Lion at Litton

The Lord of the Book

2010-07-30T14:25:00.000-07:00

** Disclaimer: This blog is going to be very long and distinctly weird. It can best be classed as ’What happens when I get a three week locum and am stuck in a B+B by myself each night.’ So feel free to read it or just scroll through for the pics. The writing will make no sense to those who weren’t there and precious little to those who were. I want to credit both Ben and Myles who took their cameras and took all the photos included. I stole them quite frankly because I could never produce anything like them myself. And the idea for the story I pinched from a guy I met in a pub in Oxford!

Part I: The Fellowship of the Book:

This story is mostly about a wall. It is about a wall built long before our little fellowship came to be thought of. For the wall was built long ago before the third age of England. In fact it was built before the angles claimed this land and therefore before the first age of England. It was built by the Romans, who were here to protect the local Britons (incorrectly named that by the romans after a tribe of Celts, that were actually in Brittany, France). Anyway, the Romans (Italians), were building a wall to defend the local Britons, named after a French tribe, from the Scots (Irish immigrants who had originally come from Spain), until the Anglo-Saxons (Dutch-Germans), showed up. And they did this mostly by stationing legions of Syrian auxillaries on the wall. Got that? The Italians were here defending the French from the Spaniards, using Syrians, until the Germans and Dutch eventually showed up and took the lot. And yet England is still shit at Eurovision.

In this time the wall was built by the great Emperor Hadrian who lived far away in the east. To build it he enslaved all the people of the islands and wound his power through his minions. In order to control his empire he created great books of power. At this time a great many books were made. 9 books were created that told of the building of the wall and these were given unto the Geordies, in whose territory the wall would be built. 7 he made for the Syrians, who were strangers to the land and needed directions on how to find the wall. 3 books he made that spoke of the History of the land and all the things that could be found in it. These three books he gave to his Roman deputies who would rule the wall in his name Foetid Vulvalus and Pustula Vaginus, the captains, and Horrendus Pyometrius, who was positioned above them both. But Hadrian deceived all these, because a final book he caused to be made. A book in which all the knowledge of the other books would be combined in one. And this book he kept for himself.

However, one day, this book became lost, as books will. Perhaps he left it in a hotel room. Or perhaps he leant it to a friend, who promised that they would return it, but you know they never will, and of course you can’t make a big thing of it and ask for it back because it’s just a book, and they probably never read it anyway.... So, the book was lost and the Empire failed and faded into the east. Men returned to the land and civilizations came and went. But things will not go on unchanged forever. And days returned in which there was unrest. Banks began to fail, the economy to worsen, and many who had come to work in the land returned to where they had come from, where the exchange rate meant that there was no longer any real point in staying.

And strangely to say, a book was found. And it is the book which will begin our tale. As 6 companions gathered to decide what must be done, in the ancient town of Corbridge. This is their story.

The book had found its way into the hands of Shanny Kanns, who was a feisty red head wench, famed as an adult entertainer. She was guided and protected by El Chafo, who hailed from the southern lands where the people are dark skinned. However a life-time of chafing had resulted in his skin being burnished a pale pink, like his companions.

Shanny Kanns showing off the moves that made her famous.

The lyrical and burnished El Chafo.

Then there was the beautiful Cetacea Labia Majora, or Cetacea as she preferred to be called because she was shy and preferred her Labia Majora to be hidden away. Her companion was Bucky, of the halfwit people who are known for their short stature, hairy feet and ability to pass quietly in the undergrowth. These two hailed from Puzzling Gulley, a magical land where all the industries of the world are carried out on a piece of land the size of a small farm, and the halfwits live in holes carved into the ground.

Cetacea and Bucky smile. They don’t realise how long that wall goes on yet.

And then there was the fertile Pregnator, and her partner Stumblefoot. Who is known for his ability to pass quietly and surreptitiously absolutely nowhere.

Stumblefoot and Pregnator show how she acquired the name.

These 6 gathered on the evening of their adventure because they must decide what was to be done with the book of power. They knew that the book should not be used, and yet there were strong temptations, namely the desire of each to have the most say in what should be done.

Stumblefoot attempts to give directions from the book of power. Cetacea and Shanny Kanns talk about killing him and where to hide the body, whilst Bucky takes the opportunity to slip his hands into pockets other than his own.

As they talked on that first evening, a wise and old man approached them to offer his words of counsel. For reasons of artistic integrity and narrative purity he should have been a wizard from beyond the realms of time, with a hat and a beard you could bludgeon a wombat with. But he wasn’t. He was an ageing hippy from Melbourne with a bandana and a mullet. He warned the travellers of the perilousness of the book and great dangers it held. He told them that they must take it all the way across the country and cast it into the sea. They agreed. It was a load of old cobblers, but they wanted to shut him up.

And so it came to pass that these six took on the burden of the book and decided to journey across the land and destroy the book in the waters of the Solway. They knew that their journey would be long, but the beer would be cold and the alternative was to return to work. So they set out.

The road goes ever on and on...

On the first day their journey was long. The elves had packed them small tins of tuna to eat whenever they were hungry. Lembas bred is more traditional for perilous quests but it is also gluten based and there was a fear of violent winds arising with Shanny Kanns in the party. They knew they must follow the ancient wall but wondered when they would get a sign they were nearing it.

They first get a sign they are nearing the wall.

This early part of the journey took them through beautiful woods, but they knew they must never relax their vigilance as their enemies could be waiting to attack at any moment.

Ancient forests in which enemies could lurk

The boys cleverly send the girls on ahead as Uruk-Hai bait.

As the day drew on the Wall was finally reached and the book told them it was drawing nearer to its master. They walked on and on, the miles being eaten by their powerful strides and searching intelligence. Eventually the day closed as they reached their friendly inn, the Barrasford Arms.

Here they feasted on the region’s traditional food, which consisted mostly of fake whipped cream, served with gigantic forks. They had reached the end of their first day but they knew that the most difficult decision of their entire journey awaited them in the morning.

Part II: The Two Goblins.

Early the next day the group had their first strained conference. All had decided the best way to go on was to progress through the use of technology developed by the dwarves to move people through the harsh lands, but Bucky was reticent.

"Is it because your people have been driven from their lands by their enemies and you can not trust what spirits may have been aroused by the engines?" asked Stumblefoot.

Bucky thought about this and answered, "Not exactly, no."

"Is it that you fear a mighty Balrog will come to interrupt our path through the depths?" queried Shanny Kanns.

Bucky shook his head emphatically.

"Well, what exactly is it?" asked El Chafo, whose glowing crotch had kept the night at bay for two hours after the sun went down.

"The way I see it, right," Bucky began, "is that this is a quest right?"

The others waited. There seemed to be few other options at this point in the debate.

"And what everyone knows is that ’questses’ are to be done on foot. And what I’m thinking is that we shouldn’t ought to go breaking the rules, or else it won’t count as a quest."

Bucky waited for this to sink in. And it sank into a silence so deep several other things could have sunk into it as well.

The group pose to show Bucky what the Fellowship will look like if he doesn’t get in the bloody magical dwarves engine.

Some think it was the blow to his pride that forced Bucky to give in. Personally I think it was the kick to his bollocks.

The second day began amongst beautiful surroundings. All of nature seemed to encourage the questers on their way.

This caterpillar was sooo beautiful....

That Bucky actually waited for it to turn into a butterfly.

This cow was worried that the arrival of these strangers could only mean a thorough physical exam.

Pregnator is worried about the possibility of drop bears.

And the wall stretched ever onwards.

OK, admittedly not ’The wall’, but pretty amazing photo nonetheless.

Even the most beautiful of scenes can become a harsh setting, and as the day wore on the travellers found themselves trying to cope with the environment.

Pregnator is sick of tuna and tries to catch and eat a hobbit.

Cetacea decides she does not want to walk anymore.

Shanny Kanns nips the rebellion in the bud by kicking Cetacea off the wall.

Cetacea has an opportunity to think long and hard about her general approach.

And decides she is ready to go on after all.

On and on through an extreme if barren wilderness, along ancient wall and deepening gloom, ever closer to Mordo... I mean Solway.

Here Cetacea is worried that these may be peas they are travelling through. And where have Stumblefoot and Pregnator gotten to?

Here she is, safe from the peas.

As the second day drew to a close they passed by where the great warrior Kevin Costner stopped in as Robin Hood, on his way from Dover to Nottingham (Apparently the geography made about as much sense as the accents.

Finally they came to the Inn of Twice Brewed. A treacherous place where the innkeeper only remembered his name because the customers shouted it at him all day. And little did the fellowship know, but there was another set of eyes that had been resting on the book of power and another set of feet travelling the path on which they were destined.

That night the group gathered for a special test of their knowledge. In time honored tradition, riddles were posed and answered. And somewhere in the darkness, sneaking little fingers reached out. A dark and loathsome creature, known only as Pigface seized upon the book in the darkness.

All know that the one book of power can have a distorting effect on the carrier, warping the soul and twisting the body. And this is what pigface looked like before she got her little trotters on it.

For when the night was done the group was horrified to find that Pigface and her companion had taken the book. In the confusion no-one could figure out how their watchful diligence had wavered.

Here is Bucky, being unsure how his watchful diligence had wavered.

In the morning, amidst their shattered hopes and their ruined quest, they tried to decide what to do. After much decision making they decided the only option was to continue and hope to catch up to Pigafce on the path, as she would be drawn to where the book was created, Solway.

So, after much gloomy soul-searching,

Cetacea searches her soul, gloomily.

They all set off again.

They all seem quite bright for a group that have just gotten pissed and lost a vital book of power, condemning us all to death and enslavement. Thanks a lot schmucks!

They headed out into the dim and now unknown future with no more than their sense of destiny and a few thousand acorn guideposts to guide them. As they say, when a door closes a window opens... Of course I don’t find that expression very helpful. So not only has a door closed, I am now being forced to defenestrate myself and I’m supposed to somehow view this as a fortuitous development am I? Not only am I bereft of my original plan but being forced to throw myself bodily out the window is seen as my new and brighter future? Bollocks it is.

So, at this stage there is no window and our questers are all stuck tight in a room, with no open doors, no consolatory window openings and bugger all idea of where to go when they do get out.

Part III: The Return of the Acorn.

The next morning they made their way on. Slogging through forgotten wastes and huge tracts of lands.

Stumblefoot attempts to navigate using a primitive acorn map. Shanny Kanns is not impressed.

Everywhere clouds gathered and the evil minions of the dark lord dogged their footsteps.

Personally I really think the dark lord should have chosen evil minions who weren’t quite so transparently evil miniony.

Like here, this sheep managed to sneak up on us and almost managed to decapitate El Chafo in his sleep.

And this snail was able to track us for two days. Perhaps we should have set a more ’sharpish’ pace.

On through desolate wilderness we tramped. Only our strong spirits and the charming native folk songs of Puzzling Gulley that Bucky sang to us kept us going in our darkest hours, and informed us of the special treament meted out to the mothers of Puzzling Gulley.

The skies themselves darkened as we went on, trailing Pigface and the book of power ever deeper into Cumbria.

Onwards through Brampton and into Carlisle an endless pit of despair and human futility. There at the Crossroads we encountered the ogre of Carlisle who tried to stop our onwards journey. Always a short way behind the book we saw the devastation that had been created before us.

This cow had been destroyed by the book. Or drugs. Young cows nowadays!

We saw the relics of great battles that had been fought over the book in the times since the Romans left these lands: these borderlands between the dark and the light.

This is Edward the Second, who is still hated in Scotland for his lying and murdering and killing of thousands of innocents in wars of conquest. In England, on the other hand, he is loved for his lying and murdering and killing of thousands of innocents in wars of conquests. (He was the bad guy in Braveheart. Until we all knew what Mel Gibson was really like that is! (Too soon?))

Eventually after days of crawling through the vilest of countryside, as seen here,

and here,

we finally neared the end of our journey. wearied and without a book of power we reached the very shores of Solway.

And who should come dancing past us, with what we were almost sure was our book of power in her hand just after we arrived. That’s right, Pigface and the goblin, with uncanny shrieks of, "It’s mine," and "We got’s it!" Not to put to fine a point on it we killed her and cast her into the Solway. Thus destroying the power of Hadrian and saving the world for all mankind....

....!

.... You’re welcome!!!

P.S. We then all returned to our own towns and villages and found they had been harrowed by the spurned forces of nature in what I can’t help feeling was really a pointless little socio-political diatribe against progress and in no way an organic part of the story as a whole. But there you go.

P.P.S. Bucky, I hope you LOL’d.

A Bohemian Rhapsody

2010-05-08T09:55:00.000-07:00

AT the risk of upsetting the minds of those who are chronologically fixated. I am going to try to do a few blogs today but some may be out of order. First I am going to quickly cover a trip we took to Prague last weekend, and then perhaps today try to go backwards and fill in some gaps for the previous few months.

So, as I turn a distinguished 37 this weekend, yesterday in fact, we decided to take a short weekend break away to celebrate. However as I’m actually on-call this weekend and last weekend was a long one anyway, we did take the break a week early, which meant I was actually 36 for my first weekend away as a 37 year old.

Anyway, we settled on Prague as we had both heard wonderful things about the city and the beer and we set off early Saturday morning from Manchester for the sunny capital of the ancient region of Bohemia. In fact I have read a lot about the knights of medieval Bohemia over the years without ever really knowing where it was. Prague was the capital of Bohemia, and under King Charles IV, who gets a lot of mentions in the city, and it was for a brief time the capital of the Holy Roman Empire, a largely German affair. The other famous figure from the Czech republic as it is now known is King Wenceslaus of the wine, bread and pine cones fame. So... he’s king and as a famous gesture of his generosity he gives someone pine cones! I’m just sayin’.

So here is the most beautiful woman in the world, standing in the centre of what many describe as the most beautiful city in the world.

This is King Wenceslaus square. Incidentally also the public square where a massive public rising led to the velvet revolution and many years later to another series of protests which brought communism to an end in Czech (easier to say than the Czech Republic every time). And here is Good King Wenceslaus himself

Hmm methinks when Good King Wenceslaus last looked out, a pigeon took a dump on his head.

So, the great things about Prague? Very centralised and a concentration of beautiful buildings. The cathedral in the grounds of the castle is very similar to French designs at places like Avignon and Notre Dame. All very inspiring.

And the castle itself is very good and has a great view over the city.

It’s also a spectacularly clean city. Dubrovnik, still holder of the title greatest holiday destination on earth, was certainly clean in the highly toruisty old city, but Prague managed to be clean even in the parts that are off the main drag, and everywhere you went you saw people cleaning the street and performing public works. Take note India!

And the best thing about Prague, the thing that drags everyone from the Chav hen’s and Buck’s nights to Bill Clinton? The Czech beer. Czech people consume 156 litres of beer each a year. That’s about half a litre a day, man, woman and child. Which meant incidentally, that so as not to decrease the national average I was required to have a litre and a half daily myself for the period we were there. Fortunately, Czech beer is phenomenally good. Pilsener Urquell and the original Budweiser are two standouts, but there is a huge range of both commercial and boutique lagers available wherever you go. They take their drinking very seriously, and proudly lead the table of national beer drinkers (Australia comes in a proud 4th, Must Try HARDER!) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_beer_consumption_per_capita .

Here is me sitting on the edge of the Square enjoying a drop or several of the local

Interesting beer charging policy. The advertising board said that Pisenere was 35 per half litre, but that only applied inside the restaurant, outside on the square it was 80. And, when I went to the bathroom I was charged 5 per trip so really i was being hit 45 for the view, 35 for the beer and 5 to give it back to them. The circle of life!

Now, one area we feel could probably be worked on is the culinary arts. Czech food tends to lean heavily on the fat and salt approach to life, and keep in mind this comes from someone who has lived in the Uk for two years. each time wewere offered ’traditional’ Czech food it invariably consisted of chunks of barbecued animal products. And not the roast joints or steaks you might expect elsewhere. We were served knuckles, ribs, what appeared to be large chunks of skin, and hocks. perhaps it is an interesting statement upon the role of medieval relationships of socioeceonomic supply and demand, but the result is that Czech food should come with at least 45% of its outside covered in government health warnings. And this may apply to the wine. Despite being justifiably proud of their beer Czech waiters are non-commital on the vino front. When Em asked for a sweet white the waiter made a wishy washy sign with his hand and provided us with this.

That’s right, this wine is recommended to be drunk with Pig’s heads! And possibly mild cheese that is more than 100 years old.

I’ll leave you with one last memeory of Prague. Czechs have obviously adopted a lot of english and foreign words. The concession they make to turn them ’Czech’ is to add a ’y’ to everything. So I advise you all to head to prague and drink some beery and increase your cholesteroly for your next breaky.

Now I must be off. I understand Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me... for meeeeee... for meeeeeeeee! (Guitar solo)

Scotland the Brave

2010-04-25T06:10:00.000-07:00

After leaving the North of England we headed off into the wilds of Scotland. Generally we had good weather and a lovely drive. The countryside of Scotland is similar to that of northern England but also different in small ways. The villages tend to be newer, although not quite as picturesque. Mostly they lack the established feel of their English counterparts in places like Yorkshire and the Lakes District. There are also many fewer pubs, and those that are there are generally closed during the day until 6pm, which doesn’t exactly encourage the ramblers you get in England. Of course this is not true of real tourist spots, but in England there seems to be much more general expectation of travellers popping in.

The first pub we saw after crossing the border did strike a chord with me though, as it bore what turns out to be quite a common name in Scotland

Our travels around Scotland were largely arranged by the wonderful people at Em travel and largely featured staying in quaint little hotels and pubs, some of which have slipped my mind, and we have taken only intermittent pics. So here’s the brief highlights. Best accommodation, Craighall castle; a fantastic find by Em on the internet. It’s an old family home that due to costs the family are now taking paying guests in to help pay the bills. You can’t help but feel it’s a tiny bit reluctantly, although they were very welcoming.

Best daytime activity. Can’t go past playing a round of golf at St Andrews. Got up at an hour before sparrowfart and thought that the course was actually surprisingly empty generally. There are 7 courses there. For those with a real interest we played the ’New’ course. Only about 150 years old.

Funniest street sign I’ve seen on my travels.

Wrong, wrong..... just wrong!

Oh and biggest misunderstanding on our travels. I once asked Em if I could have a photo of her growling at a badger.

In more relevant animal stories I did manage to see a stoat and a red squirrel, now very rare. Actually, while on the subject, English people’s normally incredibly accepting and loving attitude towards animals includes all of god’s creatures, except grey squirrels. To the point where vets are required to euthanase any that show up. And the main reason for this malice? Any media report about the squirrel situation in england laments the steady forcing out of the reds by the more aggressive greys. The Greys are apparently more sexually dominant. And what makes it worse? They are immigrants... French immigrants! The popular media image is of a swaggering, beret wearing lothario forcing out the meek gentlemanly red.

Anyway, didn’t get a picture of the stoat or red squirrel. But here is one I did take.

Another highlight was Rosslyn chapel just to the South of Edinburgh. Unfortunately we don’t seem to have any pics. However, for anyone ever in the area it is definitely worth a visit. Spectacular interior and steeped in the myths of the Templar knights who found a base in Scotland after being thrown out of pretty much every other country in europe. Right, am off to lie on the couch and watch Richmond’s progress. Wish me luck.

Aye Up Yorkshire.

2010-03-21T15:30:00.000-07:00

Well, time has flown and after a settled six months in Buxton life is beginning to feel very humdrum. Now acquired house, dog and foetus, so pretty much we’re just waiting to die and start to smell, not necessarily in that order. This has of course meant that the normal routine of daily life has made us feel much less like the world weary travellers. However, we have managed to do some exciting things and let our record keeping get behind. So here it is, a whirlwind tour through the last 6 months. Some things will be out of order, some will be forgotten, and some may be made up, Ricky Ponting hasn’t really asked me to be on standby for the test line-up in the next Ashes series, it was the one-day squad.

In late September last year we were visited by Des and Margaret Pettet, or Mum and Dad, or Nanna and Buck, depending on your embryonic developmental stage. They spent 8 weeks in total, some of which they were travelling around on their own, for a full account of which you may have to check out their own blog. I’m unable to access it due to adult content restrictions on my computer. Happily we were able to arrange a 3 week holiday while they were here and spent two weeks driving through Northern England and Scotland, and then a week cavorting in the mediterranean playground of Malta.

First stop on the way north, (And most street signs on highways in England do indicate the way to the ’North’. Whether it’s a guide or a warning is open to debate.) was the Medieval Viking city of York. We had not been there before and loved York cathedral. Right up there with Lincoln as the most beautiful buildings we have seen.

Two Australian backpackers are chastised by the world’s tallest Bobby, whilst trying to raise funds by belting out a few verses of Waltzing Matilda

From Yorkshire it was on to Northumberland and a view of the real bleakness of the northern moors. For any with an interest in Medieval history, literature or old fashioned catholic self denial we stopped in at Lindisfarne, made famous by the venerable Bede, first and foremost of England’s literary stars. It was a beautiful if rugged spot a reminder of a great moment in history.

These two men look suspicious to me. Probably high level pharmaceutical espionage. Seems they’re onto the secret ingredient of Handsome!

Woops may be a little out of order here. 6 months and quite a bit of John Smith’s ale has disordered my sense of chronology. So, I’ll just jump in my delorean and shoot back to Yorkshire, and Castle Howard. This amazing English country house has a long and colourful history. I read a lot of stuff about it being requistioned during the war and how it served aas a hotbed of catholic lasciviousness. It has also been used as the set for at least two versions of Brideshead revisited

Regarding the catholic/anglican divide, it may seem a bit irrelevant to a overwhelmingly secular Australian bunch but it is an interesting social as well as theological point of difference in the North of England between the English/anglican majority and the smaller, often Irish and poorer minority. A case in point is the football teams. In Most larger Northern towns there are two teams, one was traditionally catholic and red, whilst the other was blue and supported by the Anglicans. So you have Manchester United (red) and City (blue), Liverpool (red) and Everton (blue). the lesson in all this is that the catholics are better footballers. Maybe we just have an affinity with leather, scoring and homoerotic team celebrations. One final point, I was discussing churches with a nurse at work this week and asked her which religion she was. She seemed non-plussed at first and simply answered, "You know, just NORMAL christian’, before adding, "not, like a catholic."

Back to Castle Howard and the general depravity of the catholic North. There are really no words or pictures that can do justice to the whole place so I’ll leave you with a photo Em took in the foyer. It was of a rather dubious statue of what appears to be an intimate embrace between a young man and a goat. The stern looking usher was very frowny faced as Em took the photo,but hey, we’re not the ones with animal porn welcoming the buses from the old folks home, pervo!

Last port of call Rievaulx Abbey, my favourite ruin. Like most of England’s abbeys it was destroyed by Henry VIII, all so that he could marry Anne Boleyn. A marriage that ended badly after a misunderstanding when she offered him a little head. Still, if any of you are ever strolling up through Yorkshire it is a gorgoeus spot arising out of the forest that surrounds it and still invokes a sense of awe and inspiration.

The Bath Blog

2009-09-01T12:34:00.000-07:00

Well the deal was that if Dan updated the blog for Derbyshire and La Casa de Pettet, I would do ’Bath’, where I’ve been locuming for the past five weeks. Actually, to say I’ve been in Bath is slightly misleading. I’ve been working in a small one-man (or just recently, one-woman) practice in a village just to the east of Bath, imaginatively called ’Batheaston’. And living in a converted farmhouse in a village several miles to the south east of Bath, called Hinton Charterhouse. But it’s proved simpler to refer to the job and the living arrangements collectively as just ’Bath’.

Where to go from that scintillating exercise in pedantry? I spent the time covering for an ex-pat kiwi vet who married an English girl and moved here many years ago, but who decided to escape the rainy English summer and head for the Mother Country for a month and a bit - ie Australia (where naturally many of his relations reside) and a brief excursion to see who was left in NZ (a few discombobulated sheep, I expect). Hence the importation of myself to cover at his clinic.

I did a week for the same practice at Easter, I didn’t need to be re-introduced to the stunning vegetable garden and orchard, the two nervous chickens, or the vaguely disapproving tortoiseshell cat.

One new character was a young pet duck with a limp, but she sadly disappeared forever the morning I was due to take up duck-sitting duty. She clearly didn’t have much faith in the direction the establishment was taking.

Each day I would wake up, peer out through the climbing roses that framed the windows

and admire the sun- (or rain-) drenched fields, get up and get dressed, feed the chickens and the cat (it took me so long to find someone who knew what her name was that I decided on Kilmouski, and ultimately stuck with it - it suited her well and much better than her real name). Then I’d make tea and eggs on the Aga, and trundle off to work, along a lush valley ridge, over antique stone bridges and past canals crowded with brightly painted canal boats, past old ivy-covered pubs and crumbling church yards, and down a centuries-old street crowded with buildings built from Bath’s characteristic honey-coloured stone. It was all very lovely, but to be fair, the preservation of all this antiquity did mean that the road narrowed very impractically at a number of points, allowing only one car through at a time, and becoming quite frustrating at busy times. Historical preservation might be charming, but it is certainly not efficient! Still, the price is worth paying, in this case at least.

Where was I? Yes, work. I’d park over the road from my little clinic, let myself in, see a few patients, and then as a general rule be out again by about 10.30am or 11am. If there were surgeries to be done, naturally I would take a little longer. Then the day was my own until 4pm. It was a Good Job.

A few weekends Dan came down to see me, on the others I’d go to Derbyshire to see him. One weekend George and her mum Marilyn dropped by, and we had a tea party in the garden - tea and scones with jam and cream, followed up with Pimms cocktails and smoked salmon and brie. Once we’d drunk all the Pimms we headed unsteadily onward to the pub in the neighbouring village - the very ancient and beautiful George, and indulged further in some very good west country ciders. We found seats in the evening summer sunshine underneath a heavily-laden apple tree, and overlooking a church. All in all a very nice Saturday afternoon!

I am now in south west London fulfilling another locum contract for the next few weeks, but very soon Mr and Mrs Pettet Senior will be here and then it’s off to Yorkshire, Northumberland, Scotland and Cumbria, followed by lazy days in the Malta sun. Life is good - can’t wait!

P.S. One other exciting thing that’s happened recently - I bought red shoes! Behold ...

The Circus rolls on.

2009-08-30T12:32:00.000-07:00

Well, it has certainly been some time since we have updated this blog. Change has been the order of the day in the intervening period. We have swapped the ’flattish’ Lincolnshire for the beautiful Derbyshire Dales, Australia has tumbled to 4th in the world test rankings after another disastrous ashes tour, and the death of Michael Jackson has thrown wide open the competition for weirdest living celebrity. My money’s on Tom Cruise by an improbably large nose from Britney ’Batshit-crazy’ Spears.

Very soon after returning from our trip to Croatia I accepted a permanent position at the Overdale Veterinary Centre in Buxton, Derbyshire, In Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennett’s opinion "the best of all counties". the job came about because when we had been moving 6 months earlier we had visited the town and been struck by the beauty of Buxton, positioned as it is in the heart of the Peaks District, the most popular, and stunning, of Englands National Parks. After our trip there, we sent our resumes to all practices in the area, on the off chance that positions may be available. Fortunately, 6 months later as the Linconlshire positions we took became a little stale, we were offered the chance to move to our dream destination. As an added bonus, we had been toying with the idea of buying a house in the UK.This was for a variety of reasons. partly we were a bit sick of the constant moving and liked the idea of having a permanent base, even if we continued to move around for locum jobs in the meantime. On a practical note we had also tended to be picking up more possessions each time we moved and soon the option of throwing everything we have in the back of one car and shifting every month or two would become impractical. And finally, like Australia England has seen a dramatic drop in house prices and interest rates over the past couple of years. We hoped that this would mean that at the very least we hope to not lose money on a purchase which will give us a longterm home in what we consider the best of Britain.

The practice itself is a lot of fun. It does mean going back to one in four on-call for me unfortunately, but the trade off is I get to see a lot of dairy cows and I spend a lot of my day slowly driving around the kind of vistas that could be used as locations for the filming of All Creatures. Enough teasing, I’m going to give you a taster of what we now live in the middle of. Having said that, Em has had the camera for pretty much the whole month that I’ve been here, so there are limited shots at this stage, more to follow.

Cow!

And the locals are friendly. This cow and I hardly even knew each other!

The view from the restaurant at the stunning Monsal Head pub, which is set to become our standard first dinner out trip for any visitors, so book early.

In addition to the idealist’s picture of unspoilt countryside, the peak is full of beautiful small villages and grand houses. Today Emmy and I were pleasantly surprised when we stopped in for a look around the much underrated Haddon Hall. Again, we have the guide book and it will be a must visit on the itinerary of all our guests.

Incidentally, for those who fancy themselves a victim of clutter in their life; Em and I walked into the local antique store a couple of days ago, and the only option was to literally stand in one spot just inside the door and peer hopefully over what could only be described, affectionately, as mountains of crap.

Ooops am going to try something quite flash, may need Emmy’s assistance, which is to give you all a link to the flat we are buying. Feast your eyes, potential guests.

http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-12699225.html?locationIdentifier=REGION%5E63342&minBedrooms=2&maxBedrooms=3&minPrice=175000&maxPrice=180000&displayPropertyType=flats&oldDisplayPropertyType=flats&includeSSTC=true&_includeSSTC=on&pageNumber=1&backToListURL=%2Fproperty-for-sale%2Ffind.html%3FsearchType%3DSALE%26locationIdentifier%3DREGION%255E63342%26radius%3D0.0%26displayPropertyType%3Dflats%26minBedrooms%3D2%26maxBedrooms%3D3%26minPrice%3D175000%26maxPrice%3D180000%26maxDaysSinceAdded%3D%26retirement%3D%26partBuyPartRent%3D%26includeSSTC%3Dtrue%26_includeSSTC%3Don%26sortByPriceDescending%3D%26primaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26secondaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldPrimaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26oldSecondaryDisplayPropertyType%3D%26newHome%3D%26auction%3Dfalse%26x%3D52%26y%3D14

Hmmmm that does seem to be the longest web address in the world, but it seems to work, let me know if you have any probs.

Anyway, the house is on the first floor, ie one floor up, what we would call the second floor in Aus. It has a huge master bedroom and lounge. Another huge front room that has been used as a dining room, but we are planning on turning into the world’s sexiest personal library. It also has nice sized but dated bathroom and kitchen. Then it has a strange little second bedroom, with a toilet built in, which is probably too small to use as a bedroom unless you remove the toilet. And it also has its own lock up garage with a room above that could be turned into another room, and another off street parking spot. It’s on a quiet and posh street only about a hundred metres from the Broadwalk, which is the leafy centre of Buxton. So there you have it. The contracts should be swapped in the next week and from about Chrsitmas we hope to be fully functioning as a stayover/flop house for all sorts of friends and chance acquaintances.

In the next month we plan to be very busy. In addition to moving into the hosue we have a three week travelling adventure planned with the Pettets senior, which will take in the Yorkshire Dales, Scotland, St Andrews, the Highlands, the Lakes and a short period of crashing the honeymoon of Craig and Lisa in Malta. this will also be a chance for me to visit the place of my first creation, but, as with all immaculate conceptions, it may be hard to identify a precise moment.

Hello to all. Make sure you tell us when you’ll all be here. One of our first purchases is going to be a huge guest bed to sleep you in the library. Oh and I’m also getting a big screen tv and sky tv. So come one, come all, and come early.

Dan 1st Duke of Greenwood.

Croatia, cephalopods and cankles.

2009-06-27T17:11:00.000-07:00

It’s not often a life-time record is broken, and I’m happy to be able to report I have a new favourite place on earth and a new best holiday ever! Em and I travelled to the beautiful walled city of Dubrovnik for a whole week of swimming, sauntering and emergency cat medicine, with the delightful Warnick-Brunners. For those who have never visited this amazing Croatian city, I can only advise you to get the travel agent on the phone pronto and book the next trip ASAP. The architecture is amazing, the people are the friendliest I have ever seen, the food is wonderful. Enough, here are some obligatory holiday snaps to give you some sense of the city.

Almost impossible I’m sure you can imagine to get the whole sense of the spectacle. For those of you Facebook savvy and friends with Emmy, she has placed a much more extensive gallery on there.

One of the highlights was as always with us the sensational food. Every night we ate out and the food was simple but fresh and extremely tasty. Most restaurants have remarkably similar menus, and there is no doubting the king of the Dubrovnik table, the grilled squid. In fact, whether they were grilled, fried, stuffed, stewed, in risotto or soups, the squid did heavy service. And given an average rate of protein exchange, I can confidently state that I am now made up largely of squid.

The infamous Popey plate. Ben and Corinne ordered this and it was so good we had to go back and have it ourselves the next day! Along with draining the Adriatic of squid, we made a good attempt to reduce alcohol intake amongst the locals, by removing the source of temptation. Karlovacko is a great beer for anyone tempted to try it. The grappa they bring out before each meal on the other hand is poison. We found one bar overlooking the harbour that suited our ideas of elegance and glamour, if not our pockets. This is the kind of place where, if you’ll indulge me, James Bond would have met up with the local arms dealer, before stealing his girlfriend and killing five henchmen.

Ben contemplating the problems of the universe, or perhaps suffering spasmodic colic trying to digest his fourth kilo of squid. The bar also featured large cocktails that came in a bowl and were to be shared. of course, if you’d tried to share James Bond’s he would have killed you. He’s like that!

And here are Emmy and Corinne, classing the place up!

Our accommodation was sensationally placed, right on a central square. Benny is to be congratulated as our accommodations officer. Good job Captain Rodg! Each morning there were markets held outside, which gave way to restaurants as the day progressed. Here’s Emmy being arty with the camera exposure.

And then of course there was the ’Mysterious island of Lokrum’. Situated in the harbour itself it is a great place for rambling and exploring, a pearl of the Adriatic. However, the only mystery we could actually detect is why Corinne continues to refer to the shrouded mystery of Lokrum. Hmmm ’mystery’ or paranoid delusion, you be the judge.

That’s right, move along, there is nothing for you to see in this next photo.

And finally, one more celebration of the wonder that is Dubrovnik. New best place on earth. Well, not new in that it is thousands of years old, but newly discovered. Not discovered by me, of course, the Croatians took care of that some time ago. But discovered by me, in the sense that Ayer discovered Uluru, and hey, he managed to get it named after him for 200 years. (Note: Apply to have name of Dubrovnik changed to Dan’s Rock)

Hubba Hubba!

What is the collective noun for farmers? Anyway, here’s a brace of ’em.

Much as I would have liked to end things on that me and Emmy collage, one more thing has to be mentioned briefly. Showing that my and Emmy’s children have NO chance of ever succeeding in any coordination based field of endeavour I managed to trip on a rock ledge and sprain my ankle on our second night in Dubrovnik. The pain was such as would have killed a lesser man. Even Chuck Norris would have been forced to temporarily suspend his battle against the periodic table (Chuck only recognises the element of surprise). Ignoring the medical advice of all the vets with me (I happen to know they spent most of their vet degrees drunk and/or making out with me... and that’s just Ben), I continued walking around the town on it for the week. So here is the left ankle just after the acident.

And here it is after a week. Showing the kind of cankle normally associated with either severe heart failure. Or a middle aged lack of self denial at too many lamington drives

One final note. Not only is Dubrovnik beautiful, the sea perfect, the food great, the history fascinating, the people largley make it the best place i have ever been. There is no question the about 75% of the people in the old town at any given moment are tourists, and 90% of the industry there is toruism based. yet unlike a lot of other places groaning under the weight of tourist traffic, Dubrovnik is clean, tasteful, friendly and laid back. From returning Emmy’s full purse when she misplaced it, to helping me out of the raging seas when I went for a misjudged swim off rocks, the locals do absolutely everything to make you feel welcome. We’ll all be back. Hrvala Hrvatska!

A wealth of my deepest thoughts

2009-06-06T13:35:00.000-07:00

Well, this blog isn't really going to cover any specific travels, but as most of our time recently has been taken up with more mundane work and living time I have decided to share my thoughts on some of those with you. So for those who are interested only in energetic travelogues, move on there is nothing for you here. But for those who want challenging ideas, witty banter and a wealth of intellectual insight, I would suggest a P.G Wodehouse novel.

The Jog in The Fog 2009

Two weeks ago I happened to be working in West Staines (A big Up yourself to all my boys in West Staines MASSIVE), and on sunday morning I watched on TV as Geb ran in the Great Manchester run. He blitzed his opponents, securing a comfortable win.

Sadly my work commitments meant I wasn't there to lay down any serious opposition for him. I was in fact, sitting in West Staines, bravely challenging a plate of Krispy kreme donuts if memory serves me correctly

Of course, serious running isn't all about sitting around eating donuts, at least that's what the 'experts' would have us believe. It's also about raising money for charities. And if you can't give homeless kiddies a Krispy Kreme, you can at least make a donation at the following site.

The first donation has been made. Coincidentally by the same man who stopped me and Em becoming homeless for some time when we were last in Brisbane. And as a donor he gets to make an appearance on these pages so here he is with the delightful Emmy on our recent cultural excursion into Chester.

So the rest of you who want to feature in this space had best get cracking with the donations. And those of you who don't want me sharing some intimate photos of them, had better make 'em big.

Now down to the all important

The Stats that matter

Local Knowledge. This is what Geb recently had to say about competing in The Great North Run, the biggest half marathon in the world,

"However Gebrselassie, the world half marathon record holder over the distance, insists one day he will contest the event.

But the world's greatest-ever distance runner, is also adamant he will only take part if one hundred per cent fit and in shape to produce a memorable performance.

"I planned to come many years back," said Gebrselassie, who was scheduled to top the bill following his 2000 Olympic Games 10000 metres success in Sydney.

"I'm still thinking about coming to win that race, because it is the best half marathon in the world.

"To win there also would be a nice thing and I also know the organisers who have been so involved in our Great Ethiopian Run.

"I hope one day, I will do that."

Sounds a little over confident to me! yet still looking out for a possible excuse to weasel out of it. I on the other hand have been doing some groundowrk. Corinne Brunner is currently in Newcastle researching the area for me and I have been filling up on Geordie culture by watching comedian Ross Noble and following the adventures of Morse offsider, Inspector Lewis. I think I can confiedently expext to have strong local support on the day. Tip: Dan

Physics

Accepting that Force is equal to mass multiplied by acceleration, and aiming to achieve the same or greater acceleration and therefore speed as Geb around the course, we can see that as Geb weighs about 58 kilos and I weigh about..... let's just say that it would appear that greater force will be required to move my powerful physique around 13.1 miles of Newcastle's finest bitumen.

Granted some of this power can be supplied by an ongoing intake of Krispy Kremes, they are the enriched uranium to my fission reactor (To be used for peaceful nuclear power purposes only). Still the energy component required in a global warming conscious world makes this Tip: Geb.

Ooh Baby, Baby it's a Wild World

One thing you notice about walking around England is that it's an interventionist sort of town. Perhaps I just have an eminently approachable and welcoming visage, but everywhere I go I seem to be stopped by chaps keen to get my thoughts, ideas or change. These vary from the straight out beggars, to those wanting directions, people hoping to sell you a mobile phone, or guarantee you a spot in the afterlife. Two of these incidents recently have stuck in my mind.

On a trip to London Em and I were strolling down a street outside the Albert Museum, near Hyde park and Knightsbridge, a very swank area. We were stopped by a young man in the street, who seemed quite clean and well presented, with something to get off his chest. I prepared to give him the obligatory 5 second window one does in these spots, when the fellow's manner struck me as being a bit on the heavy side. He started well enough with a polite, "Excuse me," and then proceeded to suck in his cheeks and blow rather strangely for a minute. I waited patiently and then he proceeded to draw in some gasps before continuing, "I was wondering if I could ask you a favour?" Now keen as I am to help a young man out, I had a troubling suspicion I was about to be asked to part with my bank account details so as to allow this footpad to enact certain withdrawals from a Nigerian bank, making us both rich men. Alternatively, I know that pretty white girls can fetch quite a price in certain circles, and it did cross my mind that he might wonder if I ever considered Emmy, who was standing behind me, as surplus to requirements. Needless to say I thought I'd best see exactly what kind of offer was on the table.

In fact I had misjudged him completely as the request was one that was unlikely to enrich either of us, or see Emmy traded in for a dozen camels and a package of pomegranates. "I have a stuttering problem," he informed me, "and my therapist has set me an exercise where each day I have to say my name to 100 strangers. I was wondering if I could tell you my name?" This statement came out with many pauses and deep breaths, but not a single stutter interrupted and he waited patiently for my response. "Sure," I said. Well, you would wouldn't you. "Thank you," he continued, "My name in Zakis Papadopoulous." Following this he smiled brightly and walked off down the street, 1 challenge down and 99 to go. Thinking about this 2 thoughts occurred to me.

Firstly, granted I know very little about speech therapy but what kind of therapist sets an exercise that does little other than open up the patient to the likelihood of public abuse, totally independent of their underlying problem. As I said, the frequency of being stopped by strangers in London is such that in most cases the target copes by simply brushing on apparently oblivious to the interlocutor. With the best intention in the world this can be the only approach to take in some areas where to stand still is to attract an entourage that looks like a Dickensian street scene. This poor guy would probably have to initiate 3 or 4 hundred approaches before he got his quota done. Clearly the purpose was to get him to speak where there was some degree of stress, but surely that could be managed without public humiliation.

Secondly, and this in NO way is intended to make light of a serious condition, but, if you had to suffer from a stutter, what kind of a prick of a name is Zakis Papadopoulous to be stuck with. It's like someone with a a lisp being called Cecilia Sassoon. I think perhaps the first step I'd suggest in his treatment, Emmy! take a note Emmy, 'stutterer's name to be changed by deed pole to Dirk Smith.' Emmy? She seems to be busy just at the moment.

The second episode occurred at work recently when we had a visit from the local Jehovah's Witnesses. I guess the thing I have most problems with about these incidents is that I believe that the individuals generally rely on people's good nature to exploit them. Of course when you are approached by a smiling polite individual, your natural response is to smile back and respond in kind. Unless like Billy Connolly you view these episodes as a god-given opportunity to practice your swearing, you are eventually forced to go against your own instincts and be rude in order to bring an end to a conversation you never sought in the first place. In this case the man after passing a quick comment about the day, informed Caelli, our nurse/receptionist and me that he wanted to talk about God and saving the world. Caelli declined, politely and backed away slowly. At this the smug knobface shrugged and enquired sarcastically, "Aren't you interested in saving humanity and world peace?" Yes, yes I am fuckwit, but what I doubt is your ability to bring those things about. And if you do possess those talents why aren't you out utilising them instead of here condescending to others and assuming some kind of moral superiority on the basis that instead of real work you're wasting my time begging and trying to get money for your crap 'literature' and hypocritical church.

More than anyone else I think these people contribute to a decline in public manners. I think we would all like to respond politely to genuine queries from strangers, but when we know we are about to be lambasted with a barrage of self serving rubbish we want to decline. We are then told that our refusal in fact amounts to a negligence of social values, as opposed, I assume to the asshat in front of me who is showing his willingness to save the world one pound at a time by talking me into buying a magazine outlining why gays are all damned.

OK, maybe I shouldn't blog late at night. On a lighter note, I saw these public toilets in a carpark near Bath

Now I'm a man who likes a relax and a read on the job when I'm sitting in what I like to refer to as my thinking room. But two hours! Just goes to show, nowhere near enough fibre in the average British diet.

In world news two big items from the last fortnight. There has been a new Poet Laureate announced, and the BBC informs us that she is the "First Scot, the first woman, and the first homosexual." Pheww, the tories must be relieved, I mean if you absolutely have to, best to have all the boxes ticked in the one candidate. Imagine you had to have those three in succession.

And finally to the AFL. Terry Plough Wallace has been removed as coach of the mighty Tiges, and Jade Rawlings appointed as caretaker until the end of the season. This means Richmond are now looking for a full-time coach, and I want to let it be know that I have decided to, throw my hat into the ring. I have sent off an official application, highlighting my run of outstanding success coaching the Somerset intermediate boys cricket, and my brilliant mid season tipping form on AFL.com, where I am easily beating both Terry Wallace and other candidates such as Leigh Mattews. I do not anticipate that my impending appointment should interfere with my plans for the September Jog in the Fog.

Incidentally, I honestly read this report recently in the AFL website, "The 2009 AFL injury report revealed that head and neck injuries are down, but groins are up." Down and Up? Is this indicative of motion towards? Is the AFL being swept by a wave of attempted autofellatio? Serious deeds are afoot and clearly I am needed as the new broom in the halls of the mighty to to sweep out the detritus. Dan for the Tiges in 2010.

Woops, one more thing. If you have gotten this far you deserve a reward. I have recently become addicted to the Jeeves and Wooster stories of PG Wodehouse. If any of you have not read them I urge you to try them out. And I can offer you a free perusal. Go to the site of The Gutenberg Project on the internet. It encourages reading by allowing anyone who wants to to download books via the internet absolutely free. There are more than 28000 books on there. Mostly classics. There are many Wodehouse, and I would suggest starting with either My Man Jeeves or Right Ho Jeeves. Happy reading!

Scotland the Brave and Bobby the Loyal.

2009-06-06T13:13:00.000-07:00

Well it’s been some time since an update from the World traipsing Pettets. Sadly this is really because we have been traipsing less than we were previously wont to do. However we are off next week to explore exciting Croatia and thought this might be a good time to revisit what excitements we have had recently.

We recently took our first week’s holiday since arriving in Lincolnshire to visit the beautiful Edinburgh. We travelled up by train and left the brave but aging Fanny Riot at home to recover her energies. Edinburgh is a beautiful city, easily navigable by foot, and the weather was to the surprise of everyone we have spoken to, absolutely wonderful. The centre of town is dominated by the imposing Edinburgh castle, which has a variety of military themed museums and fantastic architecture. Pon most sides it is built out of the sheer cliff walls, which descend into gardens for the multitudes to frolic in.

The Royal Mile, the street running through the centre of town from the castle gates now seems entirely dominated by tourist shops selling kilts, whiskey and medieval weaponry. However laden down as we were with kilts, whiskey and medieval weaponry, we still managed to find a pub selling some lovely food. However, we ignored it and bought haggis instead.

A medieval history lecturer once pointed out an interesting quirk about the English language to me. At the time modern usage was developing in the middle ages, words for domestic animals - cow, pig, deer - were all taken from Anglo-Saxon. However, the words used to describe the food that was taken from those animals - beef, pork, venison - were all taken from the Norman French language of the upper classes. The lesson to be learnt from this is that while the poor bastard peasants were doing all the work in raising the animals, when it came time to eating them, the rich knobs at the top were doing all the jaw work.

In Scotland the dichotomy resulted in the peasants raising millions of sheep only to have them eaten up by the ruling classes. Not to be deterred they set about on the bits that, let's face it, nobody else wanted. They minced the intestines, and no doubt the lips, arseholes and any other bits that wouldn’t tempt a starving labrador, spiced it heavily and stuck the whole lot in the stomach. So you have haggis, the barely edible offal-and-extras meal of the masses. To fill it out a bit they add oats, making sure they kept up the carbohydrate load. The whole thing is somewhat akin to a mashed Four and Twenty, without the gravy. And as basic subsistence living, understandable. However, where the Scots have pulled off a marketing coup is in convincing the modern visitor that it is a cultural heritage that has to be tried. In Australia we don’t force visitors into a nice restaurant and then have them order a meat pie, charge them 30$ for it and tell them they’re experiencing the real Australia!

Edinburgh’s second greatest claim to fame is its writer’s heritage. All over the city you will notice monuments and plaques celebrating the lives of writers such as Walter Scott, Robert Burns, Edgar Allen Poe and Robert Louis Stevenson. There is a nifty little writer’s museum just off the Royal Mile which has a Hollywood star set-up out the front honoring great Scottish writers with famous quotes. I don’t know who this chappie is but I think he’s had the noggin working overtime to come up with an idea we can all live by.

It’s just what I was saying to Emmy the other day. Watch out for those deep swimming salmon, I was saying. Of course, some people’s salmon swim a little deeper than others if you know what I mean. Why I believe Emmy’s may have been aware of the resting place of the Titanic!

Finally, Edinburgh’s greatest inhabitant, and certainly the best known and loved in the city is Greyfriar’s Bobby. If you have no idea who he is I strongly recommend a quick interwebz search, but be prepared with a stout hanky! You can still see memorials to Bobby in Greyfriar’s Church and it’s nice to know that he still gets brought plenty of sticks to chase.

Edinburgh is blessed with many great drinking establishments. Several of which, for the sake of completeness,w e were happy to research. here’s Emmy looking all sweet, gaelic and a little bit pissed.

Norfolk

2009-04-30T15:47:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, due to some technical glitches, this blog has slipped into a somewhat less-than-up-to-the-minute state. Dan has shared his experience and thoughts from his stint in Cornwall. The time has come to assuage the burning curiousity of the eager masses and elaborate on what has happened since.

After two weeks of working hard in south Derby while I held the fort in Lincolnshire, Dan and I packed a little suitcase into Fanny and headed West through the Peaks district to Chester - still one of our favourite towns! - to catch up with Chris and his girlfriend Alex and friend Kate. On the way we stopped at the little Peaks village of Eyam, famous throughout the centuries for a few months in the 1600s during which the Black Death devastated the populace. This in itself was not so very unusual apparently, but what made the villagers of Eyam unique was their heroic collective decision to quarrantine themselves from surrounding towns in an effort to contain the spread of the disease.

Today it is a very pretty little stone village, but possessed of a strange quirk. Everywhere one looks, little plaques stand out the front of charming ivy-strewn cottages, lasciviously informing passers by of how many people suffered a horrible death within. It's clearly their Unique Selling Point to draw in the tourists, but the obsession with death and macarbe sacrifice must make it a strange place to live.

So, onward from pretty Eyam, town of death, to Chester, as delightful a medieval shopping town as ever. Chester also boasts a fabulous concentration of worthy pubs, which we patronised accordingly, and also some great Thai food. Chris and co were in fine form and we had a great night on Sunday night, which ended as I recall (somewhat hazily) drinking delicious cocktails in a bar called Odd Fellows and overwhelming the bar tenders with our witty repartee and general bonhomie.

Just before I move on, there's one particular pub in Chester that deserves its own mention... If you're ever passing through that town and you enjoy a little bit of nostalgia, don't leave without paying a call upon the Albion, just inside the old city walls. Entering this pub is like a entering a portal into the past. No TVs, no blaring music, no slot machines, no children, no bucks or hens nights. War memorabilia, 40s wall paper, serious ales and an atmosphere of old fashioned dignity in which to ponderously consume your ale. It's one of those rare places that doesn't seem 'done up' in a retro style. It's not stylish at all. It just feels like no one's changed anything for about sixty years.

So, Monday morning dawned and sadly there was no time for a nice sleep in to mitigate the effect of those beers and cocktails from the night before. We dragged ourselves out of bed early to take advantage of our hotel's rather good buffet breakfast, then piled back into Fanny to tootle back across the country. I dropped Dan off at home in Leadenham, then kept going. I was due to begin a job in the village of Holt in northern Norfolk by lunchtime, and this meant driving another two hours to the east.

Norfolk is a large county in the east of England, quite a popular holiday spot thanks to its extensive coastline and numerous sea-side villagers. Holt was about half an hour from the coast, but it did boast a proffusion of Norfolk's other famous feature - buildings made from flint stone. They do look rather charming, and are certainly distinctive. When the weekend rolled around, Dan made the two hour journey from Leadenham to visit me, and we went for a drive through the lovely spring countryside up to the village of Wells-Next-The-Sea where we found a fabulous second hand book shop in what was once a train station, now a lovely convoluted old building with little rooms and unexpected nooks and crannies at every turn. When, after much deliberation, we had selected far more books than was really sensible, we looked around for someone to sell them to us. Eventually we located an old ship's bell, with a dusty sign above it encouraging us to ring it. From memory it didn't tell us what might happen if we did, but equipped with a healthy sense of adventure, we gave it a good hard ring.

A minute or two later a man of mature years 'with a beard you could lose a badger in' (as Dan would say) popped out from one of the aforementioned nooks and in a vague, slightly harrassed way, took our word for the value of our selections then arbitrarily discounted that amount. I love the way proprietors of English bookstores keep doing that. I never attempt to haggle with them, am in fact very happy to pay the full amount, but they always seem to feel ever so slightly guilty about the price and charmingly knock a few pounds off as a matter of course.

So anyway, we scuttled back to Fanny with our armfuls of loot and continued our grand tour. We had lunch in a very pleasant pub just off the village green, checked out the beach (a beach in the truer sense of the word than at Soufend, but still not a place I'd elect to spend more than, say, fifteen minutes - on a good day) and detoured on the way home through Walsingham.

Walsingham is yet another lovely village, this one famous as a site of pilgramage- 'England's Nazareth', in fact, if its website is to be believed. Now follow closely because the reason behind this is a little densely plotted. In the 11th century, a local noblewoman had a vision of the house where Mary was staying when she was visited by the Angel that informed her she was carrying the child of God. Phew! So she decided(rather pointlessly it seems to me, but as it happens I wasn't around to give my opinion at the time) that the building should be reconstructed - where else but Walsingham? Who would have thought, the whole idea was something of a hit, and lots of people have been making pilgramages ever since, even though the shrine was destroyed by Henry VIII during the Reformation. No reason to let a good thing die.

Today Walsingham has its very own Shrine shop on its very quaint town square, together with a great little museum. If you go through the museum and sneak out through the back door, you access a gorgeous garden and wood, the centre piece of which is this spectacular archway, all that remains of what must have been a truly awesome church. Again we have old Henry and his penchant for churning through his wives to thank for the religious turmoil that resulted in its near-total destruction.

Well it's getting late so I think I will leave things there. Just one more picture which particularly took my fancy: the emergency exit in Walsingham's little museum...

2009-04-26T14:13:00.000-07:00

2009-04-26T11:47:00.000-07:00

Cornwall, the last English realm of the Celts, and site of a UN sponsored investigation into cruelty against dipthongs. Cornwall is a beautiful and windswept part of the southern coastline. It made most of its money historically out of mining, and is now renowned as the best place in England for Londoners to go for a long weekend by the sea. And amazingly Cornwall’s ’beaches’ would actually be recognised as such by the majority of fair-minded Australians. Unlike Essex and North Wales, who throw terms like seafront around a bit like John Howard discussing mateship, Cornwall actually has some idea what it’s referring to when it invites the world for a beach holiday. Granted I drove through 3 feet of snow on Dartmoor to get there, but when the weather allowed partial nudity and sea bathing to take place in the absence of hypothermia, I’m sure you’ll all agree that this is a beach that Jack and I could walk on quite pleasantly.

Jack of course would need to make sure that his beach was not being invaded by seagulls. I’m pleased to say I think that Jack could probably best the English Birdlife. Like the children and the pets, English birds are suffering from an obesity epidemic. Top scientists are conducting detailed studies into the possible causes. I blame the McFillet burgers personally.

Cornwall is Beautiful. The people were very friendly, the practice that I worked in was great, and in a prime location. You have seen the TWO pubs visible from our front doorstep here in Leadenham and here is the front entry to the practice in Hayle.

Yep, that’s the Coopers Arms next door to the practice where I was living. Unfortunately, as I said, weather was not great at the time I was down there, but it was still a great time to drive around. Here is me, apologies for the photo quality it was taken by me with a timer, enjoying a pint in The Last Inn in England. A very nice pub. And the St Austell’s brewery of Cornwall make very nice beers if you ever get a chance to try them.

And here is me standing in Penzance. Not a great shot but I just wanted to be able to say,.... I am the pirate King! (He is, he is the Pirate King) And it is, it is a glorious thing to be the Pirate King!

I have two entries into the ’Those funny Englishmen’ category this week. This is the working hours posted for a bookshop, that was unsurprisingly closed when I wanted to visit.

Mmmm, door says noooo!
And, we have all travelled behind trucks on the highway with the speed limited stickers on their rear, advertising that they are unable to go above say 100klm? Well I wonder what this could possibly mean!

Isn’t this guy just going to wind up driving around in very fast circles? Anyway, I’m very proud of the following photos. They’re of a site I know you’ll recognise, and as I was driving past it and England was enjoying its heaviest snowfalls in 18 years I couldn’t resist stopping for some shots.

The Jog in the Fog 2009
One can’t help but notice that the current donations outside of what I have put in myself, currently stands at 0. So either I may have seriously misunderestimated the number of people reading this blog, or I have so far failed to inspire you with the proper amount of enthusiasm for my prospects. As a result I have decided that today I am going to give you two stats that strongly indicate that I am likely to prove to good for Gebrsleassie over the half marathon distance. I am also going to try again to upload a strange creature called a widget at the bottom of this post which will allow you to link directly to the doantions website. If I don't succeed, the web address is a couple of posts back!
The Stats that Matter
1.Training advice- Geb is trained by an international cadre of coaches and advisers on everything from tapering to diet, weather conditions, physiology and a range of other sciences.
Dan- Has had a boozy talk with Chris Stocks over 13 pints in Chester and has watched Rocky I, II and perhaps most importantly, III, on many occasions. The most important point as I understand it is that in the words of Burgess Meredith, I am apparently going to ’Eat lightning, and I’m gonna crap thunder.’ I hope there are toilets provided on the way round! Tip- Dan.
2. Running Equipment- Last week I went into Lincoln and bought a brand spankin’ new pair of Saucony runners, seen below, for the princely sum of 70£
And here, for the benefit of Gebreselassie, who will only see them from this angle.

Geb in the meantime, hails from a poor background, and I think it must be as a direct result that when I contacted his sponsor Adidas, they report that his shoes are specially designed and made just for him. And given to him for free! He can’t even afford to buy shoes off the shelf at a sport store! When I asked about the value of his shoes, I was told that as they are made individually for him, no real retail price could be put on them. So the value of our respective running shoes is £70 vs... nothin’.
Tip – Dan.

Nottingham, Snow and The Jog heats up!

2009-02-23T16:57:00.000-08:00

Robin Hood might be a little disturbed to see what has become of Sherwood Forest. It was once part of a grand domain that covered much of the midlands. But now it would be hard put to hide a mini badger with the happy knack of blending in. The midlands proudly declares itself to be the heart of England, but is more commonly known to those living outside its largely flat and industrialised centres, as the armpit.

A couple of weeks ago Em and I spent the weekend in Nottingham, and to be entirely honest it may have struggled to get its own blog entry if it didn’t provide the setting for the cutest photo I’ve ever seen

This shot was taken at Woollaton Hall. A beautiful house with a strange history. It was built later than you might have expected by a middle class merchant, who tried to make the massive leap from incredibly wealthy but plebian lower classes to landed gentry. In the process of course, he bankrupted his family for generations, but we can all agree it was a price well worth the paying for invitations to society dances.

The house is beautiful and houses an "amateur" natural history collection, because the first thing that must be done upon admission to the landed classes is the complete cessation of all work. Preferably with a side-order of tracking down endangered species and shooting them.

Nottingham has quite a beautiful little central square and a striking castle. The castle itself is built on a massive sandstone bluff, and there are many caves and shops dug into the sandstone below it that have been there since medieval times. In fact we visited a pub called Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, which is supposedly where a lot of the crusaders used to hang out. It claims to be the oldest pub in England,as does at least one other pub we have been to. And given that there is another pub we saw in Nottingham claiming to be the oldest pub in Nottingham I’m not sure we can put too much faith in the carbon dating of pubs in this part of the world.

When we left Nottingham, we went for a short drive North and found the beautiful town of Southwell. Well, that is to say, I’m sure it had been discovered by people before us. But I like to think we put it on the map. Southwell has an amazing cathedral and very cute Tudor style buildings. One of them, The Saracen’s Head, is the pub where Charles I spent his last night of freedom before being captured and later beheaded. The town still makes a big deal of it. With a reenactment every year with Charles riding through the town. Seems a little bizarre. Anyway, we became very excited because as we walked through the cathedral grounds we got our first significant snowfall, and not realising what we were going to get in the coming week, we were quite thrilled.

After we got home, little Leadenham, along with much of the country received the worst snow in 18 years. Infrastructure ground to a halt, cities stopped, the media went into a frenzy, and two Australian locum vets went absolutely batshit crazy. These pics were taken on the road into Leadenham

Here is a snow angel made by Emmy. It sometimes amazes me the things she will do if I tell her too...

And finally, just because we have hundreds, some more Leadenham snow shots

Woops, not quite finally, because here is the snow man we built in the back yard. Because that’s what you do. Isn’t it?

And NOW

The Jog in the Fog 2009

I have now started a donations website. Briefly, anything you donate at this website goes directly to a charity that helps Homeless children. I never touch it, so I can’t even wet my beak a little. This is why Tony Soprano never ran marathons for charity. I’m going to try to attach a ’widget’ to my blogs here which lets you see how much has been donated etc and link right to the site, but since I’m not sure how well it will work, the address is www.justgiving.com/danielpettet

The stats that matter

1 Early training. Geb was known to run 10 miles to and from school everyday, carrying heavy books under his left arm. Supposedly the reason he runs with his left arm crooked out from his body to this day

Dan, known from his earliest running days to have the fluid motion and grace of a jaguar. Was always considerately driven to school to save on the running, but seen here at St John Vianney’s the day there was a rumour the tuckshop was about to run out of sausagerolls

Tip: Dan

2.Current Sponsorships. Geb, Adidas, powerade, G4S. Dan, balance at just giving at this moment, 0£.

Tip: Geb

Yorkshire 2

2009-02-09T13:57:00.000-08:00

Aaaah Yorkshire. The county that has managed to convince the rest of the world that a long haired rat is a dog and a dried out pie crust is a pudding. Still, perhaps these famous exports are no more than red herrings, thrown out there to discourage the ravening hordes from spoiling its abundant beauties. Somewhat like Australia has done with Fosters, and John Howard.

We left Bolton castle and travelled on to Richmond, the northern limit of the Dales. Interestingly, this is the ’original’ Richmond, and the place name has become the most duplicated in the English speaking world. There are over 55 Richmonds in the world. Henry Tudor, the first Earl of Richmond, went on to become Henry VII, and so called the house he built in London ’Richmond’. That region of London became famous and inspired Richmonds from Virginia to Sydney. There are four in Jamaica alone and of course, the mighty Richmond Tigers.

Richmond is a famously beautiful town. The river Swale runs through it and the Norman castle, one of the earliest in the country, was begun in 1071 on the peak of the hill. Richmond means ’Strong hill’ in French, who knew? The French I suppose.

Alf Wight, better known by his nomme de plume (those bloody Frenchies again) James Herriott, tells a story about a farmer who dies and goes to the Pearly Gates. When Peter asks him where he’s from the farmer answers ’Richmond in Yorkshire.’ Peter shakes his head and says, ’Well, I’m afraid you’re not going to like it very much up here.’ It is a beautiful town of grey stone and classical architecture. It was a cold but clear day we were there and the castle, despite being largely a ruin, is still a dramatic spectacle.

It saw action during the first world war as a prison where conscientious objectors were held. Before, that is, they were deliberately and secretly transported to the front lines in France, where their refusal to follow orders in an active theatre of war could be deemed treason, punishable by death. That’s a bit like checkmate, if you’re playing chess against Dick Cheney.

From there we drove on to leave the Dales. All I can say about the following street sign is that if you wanted to see a manlier image, you would have to make a movie of Clint Eastwood, beating Chuck Norris in the Coolangatta Gold and then killing a bear on the podium before being presented with a slab of beer... by David Boon.

From there we drove on to Thirsk. Thirsk has been immortalised as the fictional Darrowby, home of the world’s most famous vet. Alf first came to Thirsk straight from university in Edinburgh, and spent his whole career treating the animales of the dales. Even after the runaway success of his books and the even more rewarding TV adaptations, he worked as hard as ever, and his clients remember it. Well, you would, he was clearly deranged. The brucellosis he suffered as a young man has serious deleterious effects on cognition. At least he had fathered his two children before contracting the disease, as they brain isn’t the only organ that becomes soft and spongy as a result of the disease.

The Herriot museum is a curious mix. It celebrates both Alf himself and the success of the books and shows in approximately equal proportions. For vets, some of the scientific presentations are as funny as the stories themselves.

Sections are set up to recreate the TV show as well. Here is how Emmy would look in All Creatures Great and Small.

In addition to the tributes to Alf Wight, a more general museum exploring the Veterinary profession in general gives you a chance to explore what being a vet is actually like.

Clearly we couldn’t resist. Em was first, and got to imagine she was operating on a dog. She killed it on the first attempt, pretending to remove imaginary keys. That dog will never bark again!

Next there was another surgical test. Suffice it to say, animals undergoing surgery with Em, have a life expectancy equal to the first girl shagged in each James Bond film.

I got to pretend I was examining a goat, but found the experience unrealistic as I was neither covered in poo, nor kicked. I also failed to kill it by taking its temperature or stabbing it with a scalpel blade.

Finally, there was an opportunity to practice worming a dog and cat as if you are a vet. Now my problem with it is this, the supposed dog was 20 kgs and his imaginary feline friend 5. The challenge consisted of taking small round balls, each of which represented one kilos worth of worming and shoving them in the animals’ gobs until they gave a satisfied tablety bark. Complete nonsense. The most shabby of first year vet students, known in my year as Ben Warnick, could tell you that you worm a twenty kilo dog by giving it one 20 kilo worming tablet, not 20 one kilo worming tablets. Em tried to suggest that the goal of the exercise might in fact have been to help young people to learn to count rather than instill in them sound worming practices. Tosh. I can tell you one thing that is going to make it hard for young kiddies to learn to count, HAVING NO FINGERS! And that’s exactly what they’ll have if they try and shove 45 one kilo worming tablets down the throat of an angry Rottweiler.

Moving on from the world’s first masochistic worming experience, we left Thirsk feeling we had fulfilled some childhood promises. Like most Aussies, Brits and Americans who grew up from the 1970’s on, James Herriott was simply, the vet. You didn’t manage to think of becoming a vet without knowing all about Tricky Woo and the other inhabitants of Darrowby. We hope to go back to the Dales and work soon. But I have to tell you, the first time my novel hits the bestseller lists, those cows have about as much chance of seeing me again as Em’s surgical patients do of making it to their first post op check.

Now, what you’ve all been waiting for!

The Jog in the Fog 2009

The stats that matter.

1. Training partners; Geb, Kenenisa Bekele has world 5 and 10,000 meter world records, 5 time world cross country champion, two time Olympic Gold Medallist,

Dan, Em has bewbs

Winner Dan.

2. Representative honours; Geb, 3 time Olympian, 24 world records, and 2 Gold medals. Dan; made the relay team for my house 100m in year seven. Tip; Geb.

The Jog in the Fog 2009.

2009-02-05T15:51:00.000-08:00

Big news of the week, I have been accepted to run in the Great North Run 2009. It’s a half marathon in Newcastle in the North of England, and the biggest half marathon in the world. Over 52,000 runners in 2008, and over 100,000 applicants this year.

Previous runners include both Marathon World record holders, Paula Radcliffe, and Haile Gebrselassie, regarded by many to be the greatest runner of all time. You may remember him as the winner of the Gold medal 10,000 metres in the Sydney Olypmics, probably the most exciting race finish ever.

Never one to shirk a challenge, I have decided to up the ante by challenging Gebrselassie to a personal duel in this year’s race. I have pitched it to his management as one of the great marketing opportunities in sports history. Like the Rumble in the Jungle, or the Thrilla in Manilla, I have done all the hard yards in designating the 2009 Great North Run as Pettet v Gebrselassie, The Jog in the Fog! It works Baby!

By seizing the initiative I have clearly put Geb on the back foot. I have sent emails, letters, gone round to his agents house and offered to have a sit down meeting with him to set-up some promotional photo ops. All I’ve received back is a tremulous message to ’ stop bothering Mr Gebrselassie with these nonsense intrusions, or legal action to force me to desist will have to be taken.’ Have you ever heard a response so filled with fear and self doubt. For those of you enjoying the panorama of great sporting rivalry I’m laying out for you, peruse these images I’m considering for the early promotional posters until we can pose for a more classic fists raised pic to highlight the personal aspect the race will take on for both of us.

Gebrselassie shattering his own world marathon record last year

Me, completing a ten klm race in Canberra two years ago in a time that would best be described as ’sharpish’

As the lead up to the race continues throughout the year, I’m hoping to build up the gladitorial aspect of this man-to-man challenge by each blog giving you some background to the contest. And to ensure fairness I’m going to highlight one fact each blog that would suggest each of us has a good chance of nabbing favoritism. So, for the First time I bring you:

THE JOG IN THE FOG 2009

The Stats that Matter

1. Half Marathon Record; Geb, World Record Holder in 58.25. Has won all 9 of the half marathons he has competed in; Dan, Best time of 2.29.34, and finished 227 of 234 in the Canberra Half Marathon of 2007. Tip: Geb.

2. Age; Geb, Born April 18, 1973; Dan, Born May 7, 1973. Meaning a good 3 weeks younger in the legs. All important for athletes nearing ’a certain age’. Tip: Dan.

Importantly, top athletes like Geb and I never forget where it all started for us. We never forget the little people who may not reach the heights that we have or get the kind of adulation that we take for granted. That’s why we try to give something back. I am going to be running the race this year to raise money for a children’s charity, helping homeless kiddies. Not sure who Geb will be running for directly, I might be able to fill you in when he stops ducking me. Next blog I will let you all know where you can go to donate money to this charity.

I’m hoping that The Jog in the Fog will capture the public imagination and Geb/Pettet will be a combination that will go down in history like Ali/Frasier, Federer/Nadal, Aristotle/Socrates, couldn’t those two get ugly over a disputed aphorism. So choose your sides early folks. I’m in talks (spamming them with junk email) with some top management companies regarding merchandising, and expect Sportsbet to be releasing odds soon. I might even offer some insider tips on what kind of times and sessions I’m putting in at training for those of you who want to have a wager, in return for donations.

Yorkshire 1

2009-01-22T14:08:00.000-08:00

Hello All,

Is anyone getting a sense of deja vu? Of course you’re not, but I am and here’s why. Last night I spent two hours typing a blog, only to lose it all due to a catastrophic power failure on my new laptop. I had apparently kicked the plug out of the wall without realising it. And the computer shuts down with no warning beeps or other signs that it’s about to do what Italy did to Australia in the last World Cup; screw us all over by taking a preposterous dive in the final minutes. So if any of this seems like I’m repeating myself, you should probably see a psychiatrist, because YOU haven’t read it before.

Last weekend Em and I went off to Yorkshire for a drive. Many parts of England suffer a bit aesthetically in the winter. Far more than in Queensland, places tend to be seasonal. And in addition to being bloody freezing and offering extremely limited activities to tourists, most places appear to be a lot less attractive. However, the Dales of Yorkshire were easily the most appealing place I have seen so far. And we could only imagine the increased attraction when trees are in foliage, cows are in fields and the birds and the bees are trying to mate with each other, as is my understanding of it.

After that brief homage, here is Emmy taking us off to Yorkshire. Or auditioning for the role of Homer in the new Simpsons credit, depending on what you focus is

Our first stop was at Skipton on the Southern edge of the dales. Being bright Australians we had headed off for the weekend in basically a tshirt and a thin jumper each over the top of it. The first time we hit the outside of Fanny, Em retreated to the car, my testicles retreated to my kidneys, and we had to quickly duck into a street market and buy the two attractive jackets you will see in the following photos. Here we are at Skipton castle. It is a medieval castle, and has been kept in relatively original condition. They weren’t holding any tacky Ye Olde tourist events there as far as we know, but the walls were plastered and the floors had boards, so you get a real picture of how things would have been in the middle ages. No doubt some people believe that the ongoing restoration that this kind of thing requires diminishes from the authenticity of the place, but then some people find Adam Sandler funny, so there’s no accounting for taste.

IIIIIIII’m a medieval lumberjack and I’m OK, I sleep all night and I work all day.

And here is Emmy, showing how posing in a medieval castle should be done

Looking hot in a castle. UR doin’ it kwite well ackshually. If that quote doesn’t ring a bell please go to icanhascheezburger.com and scroll through endless hours of LOLcats. You will keep it in your favorite sites and laugh until you die. Unless you don’t find it funny in which case you are dead inside already!

People in England are very taken with authentic historical reenactments. So here is me reenacting, on a genuine medieval toilet the tribulations of a people with no knowledge of digestive biology in a time of few fresh fruits and vegetables

Sorry. The other thing the English people really like is toilet humor. See Chaucer through Little Britain.

After Skipton we drove north through the Dales. The scenery in the areas we saw wasn’t spectacular so much as endlessly charming. Small villages, open fields, all completely empty except for a very few sheep, which is strange for someone used to Australia’s rural industries. There was very little snow, but the wind and open spaces put someone very much in mind of Heathcliff and ... I don’t know, whatever the miserable cow’s name was. In fact, the Brontes all lived at Haworth, not far from where we were travelling.

We spent the night in a small village called West Burton. It was very quiet and quaint and prides itself on the epic achievement of having the 6th biggest village green in England. I didn’t want to point out to them that the availability of common land could in most scenarios be directly inversely proportional to the desirability of living in that location. Therefore, a large amount of vacant land would probably suggest to most people.... still, the pub team was recently named west dales dominoes champions, so I wasn’t about to start any trouble. Unlike Fanny Riot, it has to be said, who had a brief altercation with their kitchen door as we tried to squeeze through their very tight original coachway. Suffice it to say that a little ancient timber presents scant challenge to a German hausfrau put together by the people who were responsible for keeping the Luftwaffe in the air.

The next morning we enjoyed our standard English breakfast of anything that makes a noise/noise here, there or everywhere on Macdonalds farm, fried, and went for a slow drive. We soon found a very pretty bridge and stopped for a photo op. We didn’t stay on it long though, as the signs said it was a weak bridge and we had just eaten a very big breakfast.

Walk away from the light Emmy, away from the light!

We drove on to the east and saw a castle in the distance. It wasn’t marked in any of our books, but we decided to drive towards it, and found the lovely Bolton castle. It was actually closed for the winter, but the grounds were very pretty. Remember here, this was the open Northern dales in winter and bloody freezing. Ice in some pictures is real and has not been added for artistic affect.

And here is the rarely sighted and dangerous abemmanable snowwoman

And here she is ensnared, just before I assaulted her... with tomatoes! You pervs.

Now, I’m going to side track briefly. During my days I often have enjoy little episodes, which I mean to write down and add to blogs at some point, perhaps in a little collection of their own. Not about places as such, but about people and the little things that are so different about this corner of the world. But as I never seem to get around to it, and never remember more than one when I am in the mood, I’m going to share one with you now.

Yesterday, in the lazy rotating schedule that is our life, it was my turn to go to work, and Em asked me to pick up her watch from the jewellers across the road, where she had left it for a battery change. So at lunch I wandered over and walked up to the door. The store itself is only about the size of two large desks, and with one large desk in it, doesn’t allow for much standing around. On this day they were two old boys, 80 each I understand, sitting on either side of the desk and chatting. I knocked, because the door is generally locked and they both rose to open it. When they did I briefly stated my business, and one took a moment to mull it over and then nodded and waved me in. I squeezed past him as he locked the door behind me and there was a fair bit of shuffling around as we all rearranged ourselves so that we all had a comfy seat.

"Now, " he began, sitting down with a satisfied air, "where in Australia, do you come from? Because we were just talking about it." This is a fairly standard approach over here. We find. people generally like a chat and these two didn’t look like they had too much on. So I said, "Queensland" and two heads bobbed in unison. The other interesting point to note is that EVERY person in England has either an aunt, a sibling, or a child living somewhere in Australia. In this case, the traveller was a son in Perth. "The thing is," he said then, almost as an aside, "we don’t do watch batteries. I think you want the jewellers at the other end of the arcade." This statement didn’t seem to require any kind of response, so we all just sat and digested it for a moment. I could make no further contribution, and there was certainly no move yet to open the locked door, they had literally acquired themselves a captive audience.

"What I want to know is," mused the gent behind the table, presumably the one of the two who doesn’t change batteries for a living, as opposed to his friend who was just in there, not changing batteries in his spare time, "if you’re from Australia, what are you doing in this dump?" At this he thumped the table enthusiastically almost demanding that I admit he had caught me out. He looked as pleased as Rumpole might have at getting some murderous cove sent down for 20 years. And his friend’s happy smile showed me that there was no doubt in the room that I had been caught up in an unanswerable conundrum.

People from Australia are often accused of having an inferiority complex. And like all good complexes deserving of the name, it shows itself in behaviour which might at first suggest the exact opposite, thus ’complex’, see. Aaahhh clever!

Australians demand of all visitors, how they like Australia, whether Australia isn’t the best place they’ve ever seen, and aren’t they bloody unhappy that they themselves didn’t have the good fortune to be born an Australian. If this truly does hide an inferiority complex, then average English behaviour must be the front for the healthiest superiority complex in the world. Speaking to an Australian visitor to England, every Pom expresses horror that anyone would choose to come to this cesspool. The weather, immigrants, the economy, immigrants, sport, the harmful effects that immigrants are having on the economy and sport, are all put forward as reasons that only the intellectually feeble would choose to come here. Not bloody surprising really, you are, after all, an immigrant.

And where in all this does the complex hide? In the ineffable belief (It’s true, it can’t be effed), that as miserable and abysmal as the situation may be, one can’t help feeling that no-one but the British could have made such a decent rum thing of it. "See here, my good man," they seem to say to you. "only imagine if you will, you poor antipodean peasant, what a scrape you yourself might have gotten yourself into if faced with the great burden and responsibilities those of us manning the fort in the Mother country must confront. Consider the consequences, if you, made of such flimsy stuff had stared down the dismal winters of the North, the howling gales of the west and the unintelligible gibberish of the Scots." Maintaining a stiff upper lip means nothing when the hardest work those lips have had to tackle is subduing the froth of an icy lager or beseiging the virtue of a Minogue sister. "We are bent but not broken," they want to cry, "bowed but not beaten, British and not bloody European."

So, every Australian tourist will be asked why they are here and my friend was no different. " A dump," he declared it and awaited for me to tackle the unanswerable. Em and I have gotten quite used to this approach, and generally are happy enough to reel of a string of great things we like about the UK. The history, the pubs, the fact that we are now clearly the best looking people in 95% of the rooms we walk into. And in particular the ease with which one can undertake international travel using the UK as a base. He was having none of this.

"But why would you want to?" He threw his hands up in disgust. I had been about to mention our recent trip to France and quickly realised my near escape. "The French," Harrumph, "people of unclean habits" he asserted with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And the Germans..."

He leant forward in his chair and I couldn’t do anything but follow his lead. "I was in Germany a few years ago, for the Christmas markets," he confided, and drew a wavering breath. "Some chap, tried to talk to me, and asked me if I had ever been in Germany before!" I waited for him to go on. "’Not during the day’ I told him," I began to feel the story marching like a goosestepping stormtrooper to its inevitable conclusion. Perhaps his German friend had been less insightful. "’What vere you doink?’ he said. I told him I was doing deconstruction work, making carparks." Apparently the German stopped to consider this and then asked, "Ven vos dis?" My friend answered 1944. "Aah, yes these were bad times," the amiable German had said, shaking his head, "Bad times." "Not from where I was bloody sitting they weren’t!" This conclusion, a tale which I suspect had been repeated in that store a few times was accompanied by such a generous chuckling and nodding of heads, I feared we were all beginning to look like a bunch of bobble-headed car toys.

After this it truly didn’t seem much more could be said. At last the door was unlocked and I was released into the street. So the next time you sit to listen to a Pom complain that the sun’s too bright, the beer too cold and the service generally too efficient, buy them a drink, don’t mention the Ashes and remember if it wasn’t them, it might be you.

We need a quick break before getting back to our Yorkshire travels, so feel free to click on this link and play read along with Joe Cocker

read along with Joe cocker

Leadenham and Oxford

2009-01-11T03:43:00.000-08:00

Hello All, Have had our first week in the new job. Lots of fun, nice place very nice people. The only problem is that we don’t have to work very hard. Now anyone who knows us will be thinking they can’t imagine that being to much of a problem for either of us. But here’s the rub. The beauty of being here is getting paid plenty and the extra opportunities that gives us. For example. We could work as hard as we did in Aus, 48 weeks a year or more 5-6 days every week, with afterhours and what we would save up in say 5 years would allow us to go home with more than enough money to say, buy a house. And have a few good golidays in between. Or we could work say 8 months a year, spend the other four having really good holidays and only save a bit of money. The problem is in the new job we are essentially working one full-time job split between us. Now we can support ourselves comfortably on that wage, particularly when you consider we have a housee thrown in. But we won’t be able to save much. And given that we have one full time job, going away for long holidays is pretty much out.

So the plan is to stick it out for the next few weeks and see what happens. Our bosses seem pretty sure that there will be extra work available if we want it. But I don’t really know if that will come through. Our other option is that we could approach some other practices in the area and see if any of them want to give us a job say 3 days a week. Failing that we may be on the move again in a couple of months. Which would be a shame, because our little flat if quite cool. And as the agents tell us location is everything. Here is Em looking sexy in our doorway, and the TWO really cool pubs we could roll to quicker than John Howard can tell a lie.

By the way, that white van parked in front of the flat is Trevor, my work vehicle!

We popped into Oxfor on our way up to Lincolnshire, and I can now say, in complete accordance with general Melchett, that compared to Cambridge, Oxford is a complete dump. Interestingly, we stayed in a little hotel called that Bath Place hotel and wanted to find a pub called the Turf Tavern. Who would have thought they were connected by some weird little medieval archway so we walked from one building, through another to the Tavern. Past drinkers of note include Bill Clinton and Bob Hawke when they were Rhodes scholars.

We also managed to pop into the Eagle and Child where JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis and their buddies used to drink. There were several scenes in the movie Shadowlands set there, with Anthony Hopkins. And just to show you we weren’t all about the pubs, here are some pics of Christchurch College. Very beautfiul, and home of Lewis Carroll. Also used as a set in several of the Harry Potter movies.

And finally, this is a portrait hanging in the Chrsitchurch dining room. It’s supposed to be of the Bishop of Wank and Fiddle or soemthing, but does anyone else think it reminds them of a well know former Aussie PM

And for those of you wondering how we are getting on with the cold. I would say much more comfortably than the horses.

Wales

2009-01-02T10:57:00.000-08:00

I’m going to do a quick blog to update our recent months as I had some technical difficulties posting while still in Cheshire. these have now been overcome and since benny has messed about with my software, I can now have blogs with more than 5 photos and intersperse them with writing so I will update a fair bit of time in one blog.

Firstly Fanny Riot. After we had been screwed around by the unspeakable knobwits of the Willows vet group, Em had some time on her hands and decided to buy a car. So after minimal perusal we chose a ten year old bmw estate (read station wagon for all you aussies), and went to pick her up. What is unusual about buying cars in England is that insurance and rego is quite expensive and are significantly mor expensive on older cars. As a result once cars get about ten years old or so, they economics of keeping them versus ditching them, means that they are sold for virtually nothing by car dealers who get them as trade-ins, even though they are still very sound cars. So we managed to pick up our car, Fanny Riot, named for her rego plate, for 1100£. And so far she seems to be an excellent condition. And to be honest, uncertain of our length of stay we feel we can pretty much ditch her when ready and not stress too much about onselling (But don’t tell her that, you know how sensitive the Germans are. Don’t mention the war! I did once but I think I got away with it.)

So here is Fanny. I tried to get Em to pose for those scantily clad pictures on the bonnet, that seem essential in helping garage mechanics find the date, but she declined. I’m hoping to revisit the topic once the weather warms up

Our first real trip to In Fanny was to Wales. Now I think I have to be honest about the whole wales experience. First of all let me just say that both Em and I have always been desperate to see North Wales. We are both huge fans of the historical novelist Sharon Penman, and have spent years reading about figures such as Llewellyn Fawr, Llewellyn ap Gruffyd, and Owain Glyn Dwr, apologies for the variable spelling for those of you who are not Welsh, or have not had your tongue removed in an unfortunate lightpole licking accident.

We left Cheshire late on a saturday afternoon as I had to work and so got to Llanduddno late in the evening and booked into our accommodation which was very nice. We then walked briefly through the centre of the town, which looked like it could have been used as a training base for British troops about to undertake an urban warfare posting in downtown Baghdad. The next day we woke to the coldest day I have had in Britain and got tp grips once again with the fundamental dichotomy of the english understanding of the term beach. First some photos

Llanduddno is a shithole!

When british holiday makers see a beach, they decide they want to put a pier on it. No-one is really sure why. But like soccer, chips and granny sex phone lines, English men just can’t seem to enjoy themselves without it. We spent many months in Southend, proud owner of the title Pier of 2007, and after our trip to Llandudno, we just have to find which lucky pearl of seaside kitsch snaffled the chocolates in 2006. Here is an indication of the wild times and boundless thrills that can be gained from Llandudno pier

Yep, all aboard the CRAZY TRAIN. At least I’m starting to understand the Welsh. One morning in Llandudno and I would have been happy to eat someone’s liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti, or marry Elizabeth Taylor, twice!

And finally here’s a couple of pics of the beach itself for those who have overheated on the crazy train and want to go for a refreshing dip.

I’m only kidding Wales. No need to break out a massed choir of close harmony singers to chant a curse at me in a dirge 12 verses long with no vowels. After llandudno we went off to Conwy castle which was spectacular. Despite the horrible weather we braved a few hours wandering around the ruins. Here’s Em managing to look both hot and cold in Wales

And finally, because she is such a good wife, here is Em in the armoury, holding an axe. She let me buy a sword. Which is good, you know, in case we’re attacked.

London and New Years

2009-01-02T07:59:00.000-08:00

Well, after leaving France and berets behind we returned to London, and straight to our hotel in Bayswater. This area is very much like the valley in Brisbane or Chapel St in Melbourne, a little bit run down but very multicultural and groovy too. We are starting to get a better idea about London now, so have our favorite spots to return to. We had planned on seeing Westminster cathedral, but unfortunately the crowds were blocking out the entire square. We escaped the rush over to Covent Garden and Soho, but were unfortunately unable to get any tickets to see Oliver. We did go to St Martin’s in the Field to watch an evening of Baroque music, coz we’re cultured we are

And here’s dan being confused by the programme, and Emmy’s very red hair.

After London it was off to Guildford to catch up with Benny and Corinne for new years. We had a great night, along with kylie, another Australian vet. Like all Australians overseas we are legally required to drink Fosters to promote the myth that people actually drink it in Australia. It is a well known fact amongst the ex-pat community that the taste of Fosters (Which comes from the original Killaroi aboriginal meaning this-liquid-my-prospective-brother-in-law-has-given-me-at-my-buck’s-night-and-told-me-is-fermented-hops-juice-tastes-suspiciously-like-wombat-piss), and the belief that they would be required to drink it on a regular basis, is the only thing that stops the entire population of Britain selling the country to the Poles and moving to Sydney.

Here is us having fun and showing how much we lick...I mean like each other

A week in Provence

2009-01-01T04:57:00.000-08:00

OK so Apologies for the dearth of updates in a long time. The last couple of attempts we made in Cheshire didn’t work out due to technical difficulties. In all honesty, as we were working 6 days a week, we did very little, and with the exception of the odd trip to an English pub life was no differnet from what it would have been in Aus. So I’ll give a couple of up to date blogs and then backtrack if yours and my patience will bear it.

The Grieves arrived on 4th of December to spend christmas in the UK and France. They popped up to visit us briefly in Knutsford, but as we were both still working full-time it didn’t leave a lot of time for sightseeing. But as a brief episode to catch up with loved ones it was great. Good opportunity for good meals, both in and out. We managed to make one trip away, to Liverpool. Now you may know that Liverpool has been appointed the European capital of culture for 2008. This is somewhat akin to giving Shane Warne an award for culture and style, or John Howard a prize for public integrity. I like to think of it as something that has been given out to encourage the scousers, poor bloody scousers. As a result, I have no good photos from Liverpool to show you. But this one was taken in a pub in liverpool and I think is very sexy

When we finally finished work on the 19th of december, we packed all of our things into Fanny, about whom I’ll post soon, and headed straight off to London. We managed to navigate our way very smoothly to Georgina’s flat. Georgina is a family friend of the Grieves and is working in London out of a very cool flat, actually overlooking the Thames in Battersea. It can be difficult to understand exactly what some high powered lawyers do in their day. Suffice it to say that Georgina is a Vice president for the European branch of Lehmans Brothers, as they were. So essentially a legal investment banker. But I won’t have any of you blaming her for the financial crisis, as she let us stay in her wonderful flat, and then joined us in France as general interpreter and second sanest person at the gathering.

The next morning we managed to get across London to St Pancras and then onto the Eurostar and off to France. We had to change trains, and stations at Paris. It was all a bit rushed, but was another opportunity for a bit of sticky beaking at our Gallic cousins. Interestingly a lot of French people actually wear berets. I mean really. When you go to Australia, we don’t all get about with akubras with corks hanging off them. Come on France, have a good hard look at yourself!

When we arrived in Provence it was like a different world from the colds of North England we had left 20 hours earlier. Everyday was bright and sunny, and about 15 degrees. People are friendly, although sadly, still French and showing an irrational partiality for berets. The small village of Beaumes de venise was quiet and the hillside picturesque. SO now for some general photos of Provence

The highlight of the trip was of course, the food and wine, of which there was an unending and varied supply. Provided mostly by Suzanne and Julia. We staggered from the consumption of one meal into the preparation and staging of the next. The highlight, was probably Christmas morning. We walked up the ridge above town and sat in a crumbling medieval chapel overlooking the town and had a breakfast of wine, cheese, fruit and pastries. Some photos are appropriate here. Be jealous.

Overall, for us it was a week of relaxation and gluttony, sleeping, smoked salmon, reading, and cheese! One trip we did make out was to wander around for a day in Avignon. It was most famous in the 1300’s when it was briefly home to the Papacy when it was largely a political institution and was in the power of the French royals. It lead to the schism, feel free to research endlessly on the interwebz. Essentailly it means the town is dominated by the awesome Palais des Papes. And the centre of the town is an interlacing of sidestreets and cobbled alleyways. In the midst of all this, Em wanted to find the true essence of its medieval splendour and culture. Some sort of experience that would link her to the ghosts of History and the Mystery and Magic of the Catholic Faith. So she rode on a carousel

And Briefly, here is some photos of the Palace

After leaving France we headed back to the UK, for a few days in London and the catching up with Ben and Corinne, in Guildford. Benny the internet maestro helped me download this programme which has allowed the more copious photos of this blog, and intersperse them with writing. So thank you Benny. ironic that it is through his actions that I will ba able to publish to the world the history of his interactions with that three legged alpaca, next blog.

Cheers Dan

PS, Emma’s Christmas present was an elevation to the nobility. I have purchased her a ten square feet block of land in Scotland which legally affords her the title of Lady Emma Elizabeth Anne Pettet. She would like you to use it KThx Bai

'Gritty' Birmingham, 'Pretty' Chester

2008-10-25T15:10:00.000-07:00

So Dan has bought everyone up to date as far as our foray into Manchester. I think that must have been the first weekend in October... to be honest they all blur together after a little while! The weekend after that was Birmingham. When we told people at work that this was our plan, they generally wrinkled their noses and said, 'Why?' As it happened we didn't see all that much of it, but we liked what we saw just fine. We checked into our hotel on Paradise Circus and walked around Broad St Brindley Place. We stopped for a drink at the Tap and Spile - a rather austere old pub with not much to distract one from the serious business of drinking. We liked it nevertheless. We sat near a window and watched merrily-lit canal boats glide by just a metre or two away. More lively entertainment was laid on by a few of the other patrons who for reasons known only to themselves were kitted out as characters from Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail - complete with coconuts. I thought we had quite a rapor. Dan just thinks I like to flirt with nerds. We had dinner at Bank restaurant, which was very flash, and managed to polish off a bottle of Pino Grigio so we left feeling pleasantly disposed toward the world. Next morning we walked to a French-styled cafe, ate a delicious brunch and read the paper, then headed back up the motorway to meet Aussie friends Laura and Brad who had arranged to stay with us in Knutsford for a few days.

Weekend after that we went to Chester - a lovely town about 45 minutes drive to the east of here. The Britons got the idea of living there first, then the Romans showed up and built defensive walls, then lost interest and drifted away again. The walls have maintained their current position since about 1200, and the historic town centre within them is crowded with charming black and white tudor buildings and gorgeous medieval pubs. We particularly liked the Bear and Billet, near the Southgate, which boasted open fires, good hearty pub meals and unusual beverages on tap such as Belgian Cherry Beer and Black Rat Cider - both of which I can personally vouch for. We actually made our way around several of Chester's fine public houses, as Dan had devised a photography project for himself involving painted hanging pub signs. Never let it be said we don't know how to have a good time!

Actually in one of these little side street pubs, the Marlborough Arms from memory, we unexpectedly came across XXXX on tap! You can't get XXXX in Sydney most of the time! We were most impressed... but to be honest, didn't actually drink it. After all, we were there to experience new things, not re-live Thursday nights at the RE.

On Sunday morning we completed the very charming walk around the top of the walls, and investigated Chester's small and adequately good museum. Then ate a light lunch, stopped in at a traditional sweets shop for supplies, and headed home.

Haven't done much this last weekend as Dan has been working and is now unwell with the dreaded Man Cold. Of course, that may be unfair - after all, judging by the severity of his exhibited symptoms he'll be dead by morning and I'll look like a very bad wife indeed.

Well that brings us up to date with goings on. More soon to follow...

Cheshire and cats

2008-10-05T14:33:00.001-07:00

Well, have had a very busy few weks, which is am opening gambit in a drawn out rambling excuse for not telling anyone what we have been up to for the last few weeks.

After working our last day, a saturday, in Essex, we had to get all of our stuff up to cheshire in time to take over sole charge of a practice on Monday. Of course they had me down to work the first weekend, so until this weekend I had worked 16 days out of 18, with one of those two days spent moving across country. Anyway, we are settled in now and appreciating the startling beauty of cheshire, after the rather more lurid attractions of Southend life. The practices themselves are a bit of a change. Everything here is run on a bit of a shoestring. Wilmslow, the practice where I am based is actually a very affluent area. This brings me to an important digression.

In Australia it is a generally accepted wisdom that you will pay more for real estate in a big city. With the exception of a few upmarket holiday destinations, people are alwys lamenting the premium paid for Brisbane house prices, let alone Sydney or Melbourne. Here, and I think it was either the Downs or Warnicks that first pointed this out to me, the positions are very much reversed. In the UK the emphasis has been on keeping natural green corridors between growing city populations, in what would quickly become one sprawling mertopolis of a nation if they followed the general urban spread we have seen in Australia. So instead density has increased in the large cities like London, obviously, and smaller cities such as Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool. Where we are for example is no more than half an hour from the centre of Manchester, which in relation to an Australian city of similar population would be in the heart of suburbia. Instead we are in a very quiet little hamlet, with swathes of open country around us and at least 15 mins on the motorway needed to get you into the packed outer suburbs of Manchester. This is done by very strict building regulations that are designed to keep country areas just that. So even in little towns and villages it is common to see quite small cottages keeping a population of 5,000 in an area that would house an Australian country town of 200. It means that space is used much more effectively and services are extremely localised.

Interestingly it also means that with the exception of some very upmarket suburbs in places like London, housing is actually much more expensive in these outlying towns than in the cities themselves. Because people can still commute very easily and escape the urban problems of high density populations. This leads to the movement of money out of the cities and the problem increases. Knutsford, the town we live in, about 15 mins drive from Wilmslow, and twenty from Hartford where Em is working, a couple of years ago had the highest average house price of any town in the UK.

The Wilmslow area houses Wayne Rooney, Soccer star, aesthete, and all-round renaissance man, Kerry Katona, of some all girl group and now tragic reality tv obsession, think UK's answer to Britney, several other soccer names, known to people around here, and, I'm reliably informed at least two stars of Coronation St, which is set in Manchester.

So, around here houses are beautiful, worth around 1.5 million pounds, and everyone is very friendly and treats you a bit like the simple-minded antipodean gardener. Not that I mind in the slightest, as long as they pay me and don't expect me to pick up their poodles poos.

In another note. Some of you will know already about my life-saving heroics at Southend when Tom and I managed to temporarily revive a dear old gaffer who had a heart attack in the waiting room there. Sadly he survived another week in the hospital before passing away. Which just goes to show that if you're going to have a life threatening attack, you're better off in the hands of the local vet rather than the NHS.

So yes, that's it. We have arrived in the lovely Cheshire and started to settle in. We went to Buxton, a town in the Peaks district national park last weekend but I think I'll save that for another post, as we have some great photos to post from the trip. Hope you are all happy about your approaching summer. Em and I went up to Trafford centre yesterday. It's a huge shopping centre in Manchester, very much like Indooroopilly, or another Westfield, the first thing like it we have seen in 6 months. We have started to stock up on winter clothes now. As I sit here I am wearing actual pyjamas. The first time I have owned such an item since I was about 12. And I also got a good northern cloth cap as well.

Which reminds me. We stopped in for a pint at a local pub last week, and as we sat there we actually heard someone call out, "Aye up, lad!", pronounced like one of Monty Pythons Yorkshiremen. However Em thinks it may not have been authentic and might be a plant put in to bolster the tourism trade. Speaking of which. I hope you are all as sick of hearing about the credit crunch as I am. If the number of bloody peasants getting in my way at the shopping centre yesterday is any indication all I can say is the bloody poor people are taking it quite well.

The only evidence we have seen of it here was when Em left the loungeroom the other night and left half a chocolate bar sitting on the couch between the two of us and returned five minutes later to find it all gone. I tried to explain the turbulence of the current world chocolate crunch to her and how lifetime chocolate savings could disappear almost instantly and no-one was really to blame, but she was having none of it. Like the US house of congress I was shuffled off to the convenience store next door to rush through a last ditch chocolate bailout package to restore confidence in the shaky chocolate market. Credit crunch my goolies!

Cambridge and St Albans

2008-08-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

Hello again,
We have been continuing our stay in sunny Southend, although with school holidays upon us the mudflat front has been particularly crowded with the holiday makers determined to buy British and avoid the mass migration to Spanish seaside resorts. Hopefully this will mean an influx of trade to the chav locals - all those extra cars to break into and shoppers to mug, the financial flow-on should be endless.

A little while ago we managed to spend time with Liv and Downey in beautiful Hertfordshire. We had lunch at ye Olde Fighting Cocke, which proudly calims to be the oldest pub in the UK. Apparently there are several that make this claim, but an article from the times on the wall inside suggests that the Cocke's claim may just be the best substantiated.

There is a beautiful church (as always!) and there appeared to be some sort of great clerical meeting with little Anglican priests runninng everywhere about the town. Perhaps they were there to attempt to dispel the antichrist, not willing to wait for him to be voted out in November. Otherwise it was a lovely quaint little town, much as you might expect from an England of fields, history and scones, where the only crimes that ever take place are brutal murders, ably solved in a two hour period by an unconventional and yet quintesentially British detective with a comic foil sidekick we all know is never going to be the boss man in his own right.

Our next trip abroad was to Cambridge, which was almost ludicrously magnificent. It is simply impossible to imagine 'going' to Cambridge in the sense one 'goes' to University of Queensland, Sydney Uni, or Ithaca Tafe College of Hairdressing. It probably didn't help that the weekend we were there was in the summer holidays and so crowded it looked like a university town that might have been taken over by the Disney coorporation.

Everywhere you look are buildings so magnificent that they look like houses of parliament, and you find out these are simply resident houses for students. I've stayed in resident houses for students mate, and this ain't them. There are helpful signs up asking you to avoid walking on the grass, but then admitting in small writing underneath there are exceptions. They then detail which orders of an anally retentive society you have to come from, in order to walk on the grass, eg a fellow's family visiting him In residence, In term-time and while wearing a hunting jacket.

The river Cam is as full of punts as an Indian camel driver's jockstrap is of fleas. We watched for a while, desprately hoping to see someone fall in. Boatloads of unescorted Japanese girls screaming every time a duck swam past were our best bet but no luck. Overall it is impossible to mask the magic that is Cambridge. I am engaged in a battle to get Em to support me for a few years while I study medieval history. I'm not sure which college to apply to. Quite frankly I could stay in The College of St Oswald the Arse-wiper, and it would be simply incomparably more beautiful than Emmanuel. My three favorite things about Cambridge,
1: While Em was setting up for the staged photo of the opening scene from Chariots of Fire, I was desperately scrabbling at the bottom of the apple tree which is supposedly descended from the one that assaulted Newton and then allowed him to claim he had 'invented' gravity. I thought if I could eat 15 to twenty in the few minutes I had I might be able to claim 'inventing' vomiting.
2. Getting a photo of the entrance to Cambridge Vet School with a bunny in the background. Run Bunny! Run far and run fast!
3. Finding a book in the bookshop about the thickness and weight of my head, called Understanding Minimalism.

Oh well, we may see other universities but few to match this, and none in England, because remember, out of Cambridge, Oxford and the Ithaca Tafe College of Hairdressing only two are great universities. In the words of General Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett, Oxford's a complete dump!

Bath and Salisbury

2008-08-03T12:24:00.001-07:00

On our first weekend off in our new Job we were able to drive to the incredible beautiful Bath and Salisbury and while there catch up with Em's cousins Katherine and Steve and their children, the equally beautiful Thomas and Zara.

The drive was a long one but our first in the English countryside and so exciting for that alone. Driving through England I am constantly struck by how compact everything is. You pass very quickly from bustling city centres into verdant countryside without the urban sprawl that is evident outside all Australian cities and large towns. Perhaps aware of the spce limitaions and the demands that a grwoing population place on the environments English planners have been very strict in confininh growth to relatively high density centres and reducing the tendency to create vast wastelands outside city hubs. So driving through the South of England which is incredibly densely populated by Austrailian standars you still see huge swathes of farming land. Even though as is often the case, costs make farming it completely impractical, the space is supported by huge government subsidies to remain what people expect, rural England.

Bath represents pretty much all of the ages of England rolled into one picture postcard. Estbalished before the Romans by the Celts it was turned into a tourist hot spot by the Romans who built a massive bathing complex over its naturally occuring hot springs. These were neglected and were hidden for centuries, and the place became a society hotpsot under the Prince Regent in the early 19th Century. Jane Austen was a resident, although interestingly not a fan, which is unfortunate as the town certainly makes the most of its great literary connections. Its popularity subsided after sea bathing became all the rage and while it strives to make the most of its regency glory, it is now a vibrant little place very popular with hens and bucks nights.

In fact while we there I was approached by a game hen who asked if she could have the favour of a photo and a kiss with your correspondent, which I didn't have the heart to refuse. I took the opportunity to point out to Em that as I was clearly still in hot demand she might do well to keep on the top of her game. She pointed out to me that she was more likely to need a replacement man as my age, gender and insistence on opening up my mouth and speaking all made it likely I was going to die sooner than her, quite soon in fact. Well played Em... well played!

There is a good photo above which captures the ages of Bath with the Roman baths in the foreground the medieval church in the background and the invading hordes of tourists throughout. I like the idea that 2,000 years ago Roman tourist like us were visiting the place and worrying about where to park the chariot, whether the new swimmers they had packed would make their ass look big and having to update the blog when they got home, which meant carving it into rock and you know how much good slate costs nowadays what with those huns driving the prises up!

After getting a very quick peek at Stonehenge on opur way down we saw Salisbury Cathedral on our way back. The biggest cathedral in England you can imagine the awe it must have inspired in those who saw its creation in the middle-ages. "Bugger me," they must have thought, " this god bloke must know what he's about and no nonsense. Best just stump up my four groats quick smart and get back to mucking out the pigs".

We had fantastic weather for the whole weekend and an opportunity to spend days in the sunshine with family and barbecues English style. the architecture was a brilliant reminder of the history and culture of where we had come and really made us happy to have realised a dream to come and get to spend a fair bit of time, getting paid well to travel and see an amazing corner of the world.

Mad dogs and Englishmen, and English dogs and madmen

2008-08-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

Difficult to believe we have now spent more than two months in Southend and will be going after another 7 weeks, away from the maritime splendour that is Southend. So before we go on to describe any of the wonderful weekend trips we have had away, I thought we might try to acquaint you all with the magic that is "Saahhffend".

Southend is based on its Seafront. Which is actually an estuary fron, which is actually a tidal section of the river Thames, which is actually mud flats. However, there is sand and there is water and so as soon as the sun makes an appearance for long enough to prove that Posh Spice does not in fact create any shadow (Or a reflection in a mirror; true story), Southend mud flats are overflowing with pasty Londoners with no shirts, melted choc ices and outfits that suggest the 80s are back, only this time Cyndi Lauper didn't make it as a pop star and had to support herself as a prostitute in between working as a clown at childrens parties.

As the weather still means that only a miniscule percentage of the people who flock to the seafront every day will actually enter the water, the whole area has thrown up an amazing array of alternative entertainment venues. There are a huge number of neon lit "arcades" that offer not the latests video games, but a strnage mixture of parlor and skill tester type novelties straight out of a 60s carnival. Every stall offers candy floss, donuts, hot dogs and fish and chips, along with the essentials for a beach/mud flat holiday, such as spades, floaties and a strip show most lunch times.

Moving back from the seafront itself the town of Southend has an uncomfortable feeling of a host who has woken up with a hangover, realising his house has been trashed and all his good silverware pinched by guests who left 25 years ago. Whenever you meet locals and get into a discussion about what you are doing here what you get most is shock that people move to Southend as opposed to backing away slowly. And while making allowances for any locals' natural tendency to overstate the contemptability of familiar surroundings, it does seem to have a pervading sense of why-would-you-bother.

Our first working placement has been very positive. the Downes Veterinary group has three branches so Em and I have the beauty of working for the same group while having the marriage sparing convenience of spending most days in different locations. Our veterinary colleagues are mostly antipodean locums, with a few local associates thrown in and the 4 main partners. the nurses are all highly trained although sadly not paid any better than they are in Australia.

Our clients are a generally caring and conscientious lot and through a combination of insurance and a different sense of care most of the time animals are able to be treated without too much concern over financial limitations. Pleasingly I have encountered just enough quirky eccentricity to make me feel there is an All Creatures Great and Small: Esex spin-off just waiting to be told.

Soon after starting I had a consult with an elderly gentleman and the conversation eventually turned, as it often does, to where I was from. "Queensland", he grunted "There were that fast bowler from there not so long ago, weren't there?"

"Craig McDermott," I offered, "Andy Bichel, Michael Kasprowicz" all while he shook his head dismissively.

"Naah, nasty bastard he was," he continued to muse, "Glenn McGrath!" and he grinned having remembered his man.

I couldn't stop myself and helpfully pointed out that Glenn McGrath was actually from NSW, "The Narromine miser they used to call him," I said with a chuckle.

"Right." he said with a distinct ring of disappointment. "Ricky Ponting then," he asked, "he from Queensland?"

I explained that Ricky Ponting was from Launceston in tasmania and that I had actually met his family and seen some of his greyhounds on a professional visit to the Launceston Dogs. Now, as I was still holding the client's dog, I had failed to see the look of horror that had passed over his face. When he was able to speak again he stuttered, "What. He's not a ...gypo is he?"

I looked up and had my first sense that the conversation may have gotten a little bit away from me while I wasn't paying attention. Unsure of which way it was now headed, I cleared my throat and said, "Umm, sorry?"

"You know," he prompted, "a Pikie."

Now, those who are familiar with Guy Ritchie's work, before Madonna did to his career what George Bush has done for international diplomacy, will know from the movie Snatch what is meant by the term Pikie in the UK. Along with travellers, tinkers or gypsies it's a term used for the itinerant Irish/romany based group that can be found throughout the country and have unfortunately become synonymous, rightly or wrongly with theft, shiftlessness and interestingly, greyhound racing.

My friend was appalled that I had revealed that the Australian Test Cricket Captain, a position far more widely known, respected and understood in England than that of our Prime Minister, was in fact a gypsy!

I hastened to reassure him that Ricky did to the best of my knowledge live in a house with solid foundations and would be unlikley to turn up on his doorstep to fix his saucepans or pinch his garden gnomes. He stared at me for a while and then made sure he had recovered possession of his dog, and checking his wallet, quickly backed out of the room.

I was left pondering the likelihood that in 18 months when Ponting is again clutching the replica Ashes urn having wolloped the poms the length and breadth of the country, and the inevitable cry goes out to give the winners the genuine trophy for a change, somewhere there'll be a muttered objection, "What? Gi' the actual Ahses urn to him!... A fookin' Pikie!"

London Calling

2008-06-22T08:10:00.001-07:00

London at last and the welcome feeling of a return to civilisation. Despite what people have told us to expect the overwhelming feeling upon confronting London was how friendly and helpful everyone was to us. After our time in India, it was amazing to see that whenever you asked for help or service it was invariably rendered competently, usually even with a smile. We saw a couple of occassions when heat up customers chose to stand and give some poor employee a bollocking, but invariably over tragically minor matters that were completely beyond control.

Interestingly we did finish our week in London thinking that the only English accents we heard were from those of West Indian appearance. Almost all the service staff you see in London are either antipodean or eastern European. Similarly most wandering around were Aussies or Yanks. Nearly all the staff at the airport and on the transport systems appear to be of South Asian descent. I guess that when you are a traveller it is unavoidable that you get thrown in amongst others in the same boat, but there was a very international feel about the English capital!

So, getting through Heathrow and into London proper was very easy and manageable. Em and I sat and stared out of the windows, commenting on how immaculately clean everything was. We didn't see anyone squatting down for a poo on the railway line, damn stuffy English. Interestingly we did have one poor piss artist stagger onto our carriage and come up to us with a wheedling "Have you got 10p?". I assured him that yes, thank you, I was well placed for money but certainly wouldn't object if he wished to give me more. I mean really, as an attempt at begging it was a pitiful effort for anyone who has just been to India. I mean the man was fully dressed and curently in possession of all his limbs!

Anyway, made it to Victoria station and strolled off to find our hotel. Then we set about arranging the one thing that we had discussed and fantasised about more in India than anything else. Yes! There is Nandos in London and we have since put a sizable hole in the chicken population of the UK. As we think it may be a few years before we front up for another curry, this is the only likley source of spice we are likley to get for a while, unlessGeri and the girls make a comeback.

Our first few days in London were a very pleasant mix of business and pleasure. On the business side of things we got our Royal college memberships, meaning we are now both MRCVS. I will give a prize for the best acronym version of that. Then we spoke to Allan Gibson and set up our private locum company. this means that we are now no longer Just the same old Dan and Em, vets, who left Austraila. We are now, Company Directors and the entire board and shareholders in Pettet & Pettet Ltd, Veterinary consultant services to the stars. We have the financial world at our feet. Veterinarians around the world will fall at our feet and we have the business giants of Barclays at our beck and call. In fact we becked them just 5 weeks ago and we are expecting them to call any day now.

Interesting note, there is always much angst made in Australia when rumor suggests that changes in resource based economies means that some agency rating is considering downgrading Australia's or some banks credit rating from AAA to a suspicious AA. Given the recent ructions in world banking I can only imagine that such a move is something akin to an AFL club coming out to assure the media that an embattled coach has their "Full Support", ie "We have someone chiselling the bastard's name off his parking space as we speak". So you can imagine my delight to hear that Barclays, our business bankers and therefore the financial lifeline of the future BRW TOP 50 Behemoth that is Pettet & Pettet Ltd, has just been downgraded from a rating B to a C.
I'm not up on the latest high finance jargon but I believe this equates putting money into Barclays roughly with jamming fistfuls of it down an Uzbekistani transvestite strippers G-string in terms if security on your returns. So if the credit crunch worsens we may be in dire straits. Luckily, my alternative investment strategy should only be affected if Checkthenuta Ifubenderova suffers from an unexpected goolie crunch.

Otherwise Lonodn was a very pleasurable week of wondering around. We took in Oxford circus, Buckingham Palace, the Tube, the British Museum (I have included a photo of the Battersea Shield which has been a great favourite of mine since the days of my studies in medieval history). We didn't go into Westminster Abbey as the lines were huge and we decided to go back in non school holiday times.

We caught up with the irrepressible Ben and Corrinne and just tried to repress them with all our might. Can't be done! The greatest cultural events to occur in the Uk this year should be Liverpools reign as the Eurpoean Capital of Culture for 2008 and the impact Ben and Corinne will have on the West Midlands. And while Liverpool will lose its crown in just 6 months. The Warnick's effects will settle like primordial ooze into the sediment of the ages. To be pumped up and used to power the vehicles of alien life forms at 2,000 dollars a barrell millenia into the future.

On Sunday we left London and headed down to essex, and Southend, which deserves at least its own blog page, if not it's own reign as a capital of European culture. Although it will be hard to top the heady days of Southend-On-Sea's pier being named the English Pier of the Year in 2007... Aaaah, we stand on the shoulders of giants

In which we all get blessed and Em has a pants off moment.

2008-06-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

After Bundi, we took an interesting train journey to a place called Bijaipur. It has recently been converted to a modern hotel and was a luxurious break. It was strangely isolated, surrounded by nothing but a small village, which we were bizarrely told was too unsafe for us to visit without a guide. Strange that such a warning had not been given in the terrorism struck Jaipur or the riot plagued Bharatpur. Needless to say we promptly ignored the warnings and all enjoyed wanderings through the village, where we barely managed to fight off 12 year old girls demanding to know our names. It was hairy for a minute there let me tell you, but then I never complain!

There was a fantastic pool. Incongruously, given the palatial surroundings, no A/C, but fortunately the weather did seem a little kinder there. The architectural highlight for me was what can only be described as an epiphany seat (Scrubs fans will understand.) On top of the main building of this beautiful hotel there was a completely stand alone fully functional western style toilet. Set up presumably by a plumber who dares to dream of being an astrologer. Or perhaps an astrologer who does a good sideline in plumbing. At any rate, admire it and all you home handymen, just think nothing but you, bogroll and the stars!!!

The second photo comes with a challenge. One of these two people is not wearing pants, can you guess which! I'll leave you all to think about the answer and just say that Em and her little friend got on smashingly. Perhaps we all need to smile a little more and wear pants a little less.

After Bijaipur we went to Pushkar, our last stop before we went back to Delhi to leave. Pushkar was a real favourite with all of us. An intensely religious place with a population almost entirely made of of the priestly brahman caste it has over 550 temples and counting, including one of only 5 temples to Brahma himself, in the world! This spirituality means that the whole town is completely dry and strict vegetarian. No meat alcohol or eggs! Sure it may sound harmonious, but think about this; the world's most famous vegetarian, Adolf Hitler. I think there's soemthing in that for all of us, don't you. Actually there is an attitude to extreme fascism which is a bit difficult for many visitors to India to take. Bose, India's wartime Fascist leader who failed miserably in his attempts to raise an Indian army in support of Hitler and the Japanese is still regarded as a National hero in Calcutta, where the main stadium and the biggest streets are named after him. In ganagtok there is a prominent building named after a local who was named Hitler after the little leather short wearing maniac. And Shah Rukh Khan, the country's biggest Bollywood star, lists Adolf Hitler and Genghis Khan as his greatest heroes on his personal website. Just can't help but wonder how Hitlers and the Indian definitions of an Aryan race would have gelled.

At certain times the collection of priests who roam the town, some genuine and some bogus can make life hell for visitors until you agree to pay one to have your blessings done. After this ceremony you have a small red string tied to your wrist, which then should shield you from the worst of the haranguing. For this reason the strings are called Pushkar Passports.

Our guide Lucky arranged for our blessings to be done by a friend of his. Now, I have no doubts that our man was the genuine article, but unlike many of the straggly gurus walking round clad in no more than mysticism and a stench that would wake the dead and then finish them off again, old mate rocked up on his motorbike, with sunnies in place and looking pretty sharp. I expected him to kickstart proceedings by backhanding a tune out of the jukebox and producing the Tuscedero sisters.

Despite appearances our blessing were done with every semblance of holiness and efficiency. I have one confession, at the point at which we were told to toss our blessings into the holy lake and wish for whatever we wanted, I became a bit distracted. After Em told me the heartfelt desires for the happiness of others she had managed to secure (you can all thank Em for the boundless happiness coming your way) I had to admit I had been too busy hoping that my bits of rice weren't going to be eaten by the disgusting carp gathering around us, and that my saffron wasn't going to be blown straight back onto Gupta Fonzarelli. Careful what you wish for...

After Pushkar it was back to Delhi and a typically frustrating last 24 hours. Having finished our trip and arriving back on sunday morning we found everyone wanted to do nothing but sit around and wait, counting down minutes until we left. In our case about 24 hours. The hotel staff assisted us by giving us a last minute reminder of India. As Em and I had to leave at 2.30 am and Suzie would be staying in the room until about 7am, we went down at around 7pm the night before to pay for our room in advance. The fist guys took our cash and then when we wandered outside to say goodbye to to others followed us and handed it back, saying they were actually far too busy to take it right now and could we please pay it a bit later. No worries. We walked back inside, past the two recpetion desk guys, both sitting on their arses doing nothing and wandered upstairs. We went back at about 8pm and were told by the guy we awoke from a catatonic coma there that we could come back and pay it at 9pm. We went back down at 9pm, sure that we were about to be conned by some elaborate scheme involving delaying our payment until it was too late for us to argue as we had to leave for planes. About three guys got their heads together and finally managed to take our money. It wasn't a con, it just really was that hard to pay our bill. For a laugh at that point we asked again to make sure that our cars were booked for the airport. Of course they weren't despite two other guys having assured me they were.

So, finally, like our last Indian photo, we packed up our camel and departed into the west. We left thinner, wiser and possibly just a little bit holier, if only that bloody carp didn't eat my sacred offerings...

Ranthambore, Raja's and Railways

2008-06-08T12:34:00.000-07:00

Well, much time has passed under the bridge, drinks have been called, the whistle has been blown and metaphors have been inexplicably entwined.
We have now departed India, with a polite handshake and a boisterous hoik and spit into the path of oncoming pedestrians, it is unlikley any of us shall return. It now just remains to recap you all on our final madcap adventures around Rajasthan, where the official currency is the camel turd and dentistry text books are filed, in the official governmanet offices, under scince fiction literature.

After leaving Jaipur we went to the National Park Ranthambore. The strange and depressing story of Inida's "Project Tiger" over the last 20 years can be easily accessed elsewhere, suffice it to say here that even the tigers' most optimistic supporters now hold out little hope for their survival in India. Despite Millions having been spent it seems a predictable tale of corrutpion and wastage. One minor point: many greenies and animal activists will quite rightly rage against the ongoing use of tiger body parts in "traditional" chinese medicine to treat everything from impotence to HIV. This trade has wiped out generations of Inidan tigers. You get less coverage though of the fact that most animals killed by poachers today are used to provide pelts to nepalese and tibetan tribes who still use them as status symbols in their traditional attire. Presumably because we all like the underdog these groups are allowed to kill as many tigers as they want because we all feel a bit spiritual when we think about those hip vibes buddhists have sent out through celebrities from Led Zeppelin to Richard Gere. While the Chinese medicine scam is a disgrace, what the Tibetans and Nepalese need is "education". Well, here it is; Lesson 1: Stop Killing Fucking Tigers. Wearing their skin doesn't make you look virile and dangerous. It's the eastern version of a 55 year old man getting an MG convertible and a combover. Arseclowns! Lesson over.

Anyway, Ranthambore was a little bit funny but quite beautiful. It was a Maharajahs hunting reserve until the late 1970's, which is strange because it has been a National Park since 1970. Still (insert head wobble here)... We did manage to see two tigers and a host of other wildlife incluidng birds, boars, crocodiles, deer etc. I have included two pictures of a local variety of magpie and one of a young male tiger that had just made a kill. I guess anyone who is trying to decide between supporting Richmond or Collingwood, pretty much all you need is right there.

Incidentally, while in Ranthambore we had our first working air conditioning and our first pool of the trip. It was 45 outside but inside it was as cool as the other side of the pillow! We left Ranthambore and travelled by jeep to Bundi. I have included a photo of a monkey I took while we had a short leg stretch break. He seem quite worked up about something. I don't know the full story, but I think the smaller monkey said "OOOkk" and it turns out that that is just what the bigger monkey was about to say. Anyway, one thing led to another, no-one likes to be upstaged after all.

We went from Ranthambore to Bundi, where we visited the local palace and step well which provide what I like to think of as my "Artistic phase" of this photo collection. In reality they are probably just the closest I was going to get to home grown Indian porn. Incidentally, this palace belonged to local hindi rajputs, unlike all the places put up by the invading Mughals we have seen so far. Just goes to show, those Hindi boys may not be able to clean a street or eat a food group other than carbohydrates, but there's two things they like, and their both boobs.

Madogarh and Jaipur

2008-05-28T03:06:00.001-07:00

After Agra we went briefly to Bharatpur, whic a few days after we left became the scene of race riots between the local police and the Gujjars from neighboring Gujuarat. Sadly this was to become a feature of our tour, as while still in Agra we heard of the bombs that ahd gone off in Jaipur at 8 locations.

Anyway, we stopped briefly at fahtepur Sikri, where there is another Fort built by Akhbar the Great. Similar to the Red Fort it had to be abandoned in favour of the later site after a drought os several years duration saw the complete loss of its water supply. Thsi was the site of Salman Rushdie's new novel, the Enchantress of Florence. Our guide was mad as a bicycle but a very friendly old Muslim man.

Interestingly, Akhbar the Great is an Indian tautology. Akhbar means great in the urdu language the Mughals used, but his Hindi subjects added a great as well. I like to think of him as Great squared.

We then went to stay in Madogarh fort, which is now a renovated hotel, but was once owned by Akhbars brother in law. Em and I got to stay in the room that was actually his. Incidentally the room is used in the film Jodhaa Akhbar as well! We got to dress up in madogarh, as can be seen in photo one. I think we manage to look quite the rajputs and rajputanas, which isn't quite as filthy as it sounds.

I've also added a photo of the unique dual use toilets that can be seen in some parts of India, which is probably exactly as filthy as it sounds. Now I know that many of you are probably thinking "Dual use", and quickly figuring that you can yourselves put your toilets to at least 4-5 uses, maybe 8 on a good day. But this is all a question of style. To accomodate both those filthy westerners who are happy to put their bums on a seat that has been used previously, and the Indians who want to squat and touch nothing at all, except of course for wiping their arse with their bare hands, this toilet comes as your basic porcelian commode, but with flared side steps for squatting on. So you can sit woth feet on the ground, or balance and stand on the edge of the bowl, and either-or arrangement. IMPORTANT WARNING: while this means you can do both, you are not advised to do both at the same time! Having one leg up and one down throws of your centre of gravity and introduces vectors of propulsion and gravity you may be unprepared for. On a completely unrelated matter, Indian housekeeping staff accept bonus tips in ruppes US$ or visas.

At Jaipur the Amber fort is another beautiful palace/fort, built in a style similar to others but interestingly held by rajput or Hindi allies of the Mughals. The day we visited was dry, hot and we were probably getting to the end of our temperaments. I now have a greater understanding for why the word temper is so closely related to references to the weather. It was an interesting experience to note the different reactions of individuals on different days to the overwhelming hectoring and badgering that is an inseperable part of being a caucasian tourist at any site or town where there are local merchants. Beggars, touts, conmen, panhandlers and guys selling evrything from sitars to elephant rides descend and simply talk, grab and stare until you are back in your car or in your hotel room. On some days it is irresistably funny and others absolutely maddening. I think every member of our group eventually reached snapping point at some time during the tour. Even Jeff one of the most easy going people I have ever met had a day or two when he wanted nothing more than to give the finger to every person who wanted nothing more than to stop and stare or better yet take photos of all the females in our group.

Richard believes that the role of Ghandi may have been overstated and the English may eventuall have left India simply becuase they wanted desperately to neverhave to refuse another crappy bangle as long as they lived.

Finally, Suz and I managed to get tickets to an IPL game while in Jaipur. Shane Warne led the Royals to a great win over Rahul Dravid's Bangalore. The most notable thing about the trip for me was the keenness of Indian men to get a good feel of the grapes of yours truly. We were frisked at about 5 different points, several times at some points. There was usually a bit of a production line where you would be handed from one policeman to another each running his hands, appreciably, over as much as he could reach. And strangely I began to notice that while the conveyor belt of mushtachioed perverts would usually consist of 2-3 when I arrived, by the time I got to number three, there were usually another two or more, previously standing in the background, who had come forward for their share of handling the Pettet plums.

Every tour giude in India will laughingly assure you that the tendency of Indian men to walk down the street holding hands, lounge all over each others laps, and share seats when there are plenty empty, in no way indicates homosexual leanings, just a generous bon amie. Well, I've worked in Newfarm for 5 years and spent a few evenings at the Beat, where I sadly received nothing like the fond attentions from men I have in the past few weeks in India. Your average Indian male is camper than a row of tents, the moustaches are in place now we're just waiting for Kylie to tour.

Agra and Bharatpur

2008-05-28T02:41:00.000-07:00

Agra, possesses unquestionably the two most beatiful attractions we saw on our trip, the Red Fort and of course. the Taj Mahal, according to Rabindranath Tagore, India's nobel prize winning poet, a teardrop on the face of eternity.

The red fort, photos 1 and 2, was the actual palace used by the Mughal rulers, specifically Shahjahan and his son Aurangzeb. (I think also Akhbar, so brillianlty played by Hrithik Roshan in the Bollywood blockbuster Jodhaa Akhbar, if any of you get the chance). Even 400 years ago clearly the North of India allowed little privacy and the general 45+ degree heat encouraged open architecture and beauty of flowing design rather than the more enclosed spaces of European styles. One can imagine the royal family and retainers wandering along walls and through geomterically designed gardens.

The Taj mahal is, quite literally a monumental achievement. The one must do on any tourist trip to India, it is understandably swamped with tourists, overwhelmingly domestic. The idea that stays most clearly in the mind is the symmetry of the thing. It has no interiors to speak of but stands starkly against the sky and demands attention, although it certainly lacks the intimacy of the red fort. Photos 3,4 and 5 are of the Taj. Pay close attention to 3. After spending the week in Goa we resisted the temptation to simply stay on the beach for another two weeks only by knowing there was no way we could leave India without a photo of us at the taj. So I want you all to download it and take it STRAIGHT to the pool room.

Finally Agra itself. Sadly, Agra is routinely voted the filthiest city in the world; a judgement that is hard to argue with. Alongside the tourism, which pretty much demands every visitor to the country will find there way there eventually, Agra has become an Industrial town, producing huge amounts of petrochemicals. Otherwise the streets are full of uncollected garbage, and even the grounds of the Taj and red fort themselves are pretty much full of the crap dropped there thoughtlessly every day. There is no lack of appreciation for the amount of tourist dollars that these attractions bring in; a foreign visitor pays 500 ruppees to visit the Taj, a local just 5. But nothing is done to stop you leaving the place thinking that your overwhekming memory is of some beautiful buildings slowly drowning in mountains of filth and apathy. I used to be outraged by the level of apathy but now I find I just don't care!

Delhi.

2008-05-28T02:08:00.000-07:00

In London now and finally have access to inernet connection that works, and service staff of which the same can be said. Today I will be creating several entries, largely because I'm only allowed to add five photos to each entry and I have so many good sightseeing ones. Also it will assist those who have found the earlier entries a bit too "wordy"; you know who you are! (For everyone else, it was Ben)

Delhi is predictably chaotic and an assault on the senses, but comparatively it is a mild assault, a kind of casual grope of the leg on a bus, compared to the violent rodgering that is Kolkata.

We met our guide and tour group, which was an assorted group of us, Poms and Canadians. Bhupati (Lucky) our guide, I can now see had the life slowly drained from him over two weeks finishing two weeks later a shell of thwarted suicidal tendencies, but more of that later.

Briefly, the group consisted of Richard and Drotta, a very funny English/Polish couple. Jeff and Debbie, a world travelling young Canadian pair. Jocie, a Canadian nurse who seems to have spent her whole life single handedly tackling poverty and disease in some of the world's most inhospitably remote locations, kind of a cross between Jean-Claude Van Damme and Mother Teresa. Finally a small group of four girls I like to think of as the Lobotomy sisters. To be fair they certainly deserved the name to differing degrees, but suffice it to say the could use the word "Like" more often in a sentence than an Indian could produce a non-commital head wobble. This combination produced a few conversations on the trip that redefined, or obliterated, the meaning of communication as we know it.

So Delhi, Lucky took us to a couple of great sites. The Friday Mosque is the biggest in India and like all great classical architecture in Northern India it was produced by the Moghuls of 1600-1700s. Still in regular use it is stark and austere but still very beautiful (first photo).

After that we wlked through the streets of Old Delhi and saw the alleys and bazaars, had Chai and saw some crazy monkeys playing with the even crazier wiring (Photos 2 and 3). Finally we went to visit a large Sikh temple and had a talk from an elderly Sikh chap. For those not familiar with Sikh philosophy, he won many adherents when he began to tell us about the role of Sikhism in bringing all religions together and their belief that the most important thing that religion can do is teach understanding and that arguments over supremacy of gods etc are really just so much human contention and should be dismissed. The Sikhs also run canteens in every temple where all people regardless of religion can always get a free meal and all are encouraged to assist in the cooking. Emma showed that perhaps her contribution might need to be financial or moral supprot rather than based directly on chappati making (photos 4 and 5)

Sadly when Jocie brought up riots occurring in Canada over Sikhs' insistence that they be allowed to carry knives to school, the spirit of collaboration kind of vanished and he shouted over all objections that only Sikhs are preparing effectively for the fall of society and he would rather carry a weapon than recognise any rule that compromises his right to do so. After that dust up he became quite a resentful whackjob and we beat a hasty retreat.

The Goan experiment.

2008-05-09T23:18:00.000-07:00

Aaaah, and so our week in the lovely Goa ends, with us all feeling refreshed and enheartened by the beach, the amazingly friendly Goan people and a lot of well cooked steak.

Before expanding on the Goan theme Em has asked me to backtrack slightly and relate the functionings of the Sikkimese post. An institution dedicated to the service of tea to all its employees at all times.

I first fronted to the Sikkimese post office before we left for Tashiding with some gifts and other items to mail home to Australia. The office itself is resplendent, with signs welcoming visitors, assuring them that the customer is ALWAYS right, and that the office is open seven days a week and little brings its denizens the same joy as simply having members of the public drop in for a cheery hello.

The lady behind the desk took one look at my box of assorted stocking fillers and told me that I would have to have them stitched into a cloth bag before they could be sent. Of course, the post office itself didn't provide this service, but I was assured any tailor in town would. I had a brief look up and down the road, but as a friend was waiting with me I decided to leave it for another day.

After returning from Tashiding, we decided to give the whole affair another run, so set off into town to find a tailor. We soon became disconcerted when at least seven tailors we stopped at definitely didn't do the job themselves and looked at us as if we had in fact asked them to stitch their own heads inside their anuses into the bargain. A request which I contemplated more enthusiastically with every passing moment. All had suggestions about which tailor would do the job and happily sent us off to their competitor, with our perverted enquiries. That we were having the piss taken was confirmed when Emma managed to locate two tailors on either side of a narrow alley, both of whom refused the job but assured her that their fellow a metre away would do it. As Emma was in a position to stand in the one spot and point out to both that they were contradicting each other, both shop owners came out and made theatrical faces at each other until we simply walked away.

After giving up again, I happened to find a small random artisans workshop with guys sitting at individual machines mending pants who did the job for me, with a deal of confusion and a great deal of time. Despite his mystification at what I was asking and the language barriers, with a lot of smiles he got the job done and earned a considerable tip.

With our two stitched bags we returned to the Post office, sure to delight the employees, who sat under signage telling us their only goal was our satisfaction.

A group of 5-6 sat in a circle drinking tea when we returned and steadfastly refused to meet our gaze when we got back, presumably hoping that like Tyrannosaurus Rex our sight is linked to movement and we would be unable to see them if no-one moved. As we were ready to wait out this stalemate, one eventually dragged herself over and told us she couldn't help us as the post office was closed. Emma pointed out that the doors were open, they were all present, the sign on the wall said they were open until 5pm and, tellingly I thought, it was 2 in the afternoon. Presumably forced to concede that in this instance the customer was in fact right and they were actually open she then glanced at our parcels and said she couldn't help us anyway as our stitched bags were closed with stitching and should have been sealed with sealing wax, and we did not have completed customs forms. Asked whether they had an sealing wax, she answered with no detectable sense of irony that no, but we should ba able to get some from "any stationery store." We left the post office with our bags still under our arms and just for a giggle stopped in at a very friendly stationer who of course had no sealing wax.

The next day, like lemmings thrusting their tiny bodies towards a precipitous cliff and the endless embrace of gravity, we shouldered our bags and headed out again. This time we found sealing wax at our first stop, filled in the random and nonsensical questions on the customs forms and headed back to the GPO. We sat in the entrance foyer with a lighter, candle and wax and slowly dribbled the wax over all seams. Temporarily setting fire to one bag it's true, but I'm happy to say that whatever the endless security employed to sit in the foyer of every public building in Sikkim are intended for it's not Western firebugs as no-one took much interest in our burgeoning pyromanina.

Fronting up to the counter again the same woman from the previous day looked us up and down, examined the forms and bags before grudgingly accepting the packages, presumably because she realised that continuing to find more reasons to reject them was clearly going to take her more work in the long run. I have no idea whether the bags will make their way to their destinations and little interest at this point, but I am no longer carrying them and that is enough for this little lemming!

So, our trip from Sikkim to Goa was a full day affair, rising at 4am and getting into Palolem beach at 9pm, but all links and arrangements went off without a hitch. Both Spicejet and Deccan air were amazingly efficient and friendly all the way. Since arriving we have taken the very relaxed attitude that we have seen plenty in Sikkim and will soon spend two weeks intense sightseeing in Rajasthan in 44 degree heat, so have done as little as possible all week. The people are without doubt the friendliest we have encountered. While taxi touts and eager shopkeepers abound their shouts are always bright and warm and some chat even after you have refused their services.

The tourist population is much more western orientated, with the guests in our shacks all seemingly US, UK, Russian and European. There are still some domestic visitors who gather looking slightly lost on the sand, still in full saris and business shirst and pants. They have a bizarre obsession with foreigners. Eyeballs sprung like a Warner brothers cartoon characters leap out of their heads when they see women in bikinis walk past, and they unashamedly walk up to groups of young women on the beach and whip out mobile phones to take photos of revealing poses. But it's difficult to tell whther this is simply sexual gratification or amazement at what they weem to think of as cultural perversity. Emma and I have been stopped by locals as we walk up the beach and asked to pose for photos with their young children, as if we were exotic dancers, just when we are wearing shorts and light shirts. Yet the fact that there are herds of cows sitting on the beach doesn't register a blink.

After first arriving from Sikkim and knowing the temp and hassles we would be facing in Rajasthan we all toyed briefly with th idea of staying in Goa until it was time to leave. Food is cheap, accomodation is comfortable and relaxed. Temperatures are high, as is humidity, which has been particularly rough for Suzie, used to the dry conditions of Bungers, but both of those problems will be worse in Rajasthan.

However, we have decided to go on, to see the sights of North India, rather than hide out in what we are assured is the least "Indian" part of India. To stay here enjoying what is in essence just a much cheaper version of what we could have gotten in NSW or Qld seems a dreadful waste. Who knows we may regret the decision in a week, but as we read on a postcard in Sikkim, you are never truly happy until you admit there is a little part of you that loves to be miserable.

Briefly, for those interested. Just as all non-vets interest in the profession extends only to wanting to know how often you have your arm up a cow's arse ( the answer is quite rarely for strictly work related reasons) , most enquiries into our trip have been focussed on how our bowel movements have been going. So just to let you know, I am recovering from my first bout of gastro and can proudly inform you all that Suzie has identified me as the loudest spewer of her acquaintance. I can only respond by saying that as the last to experience projectile vomiting on the trip, I cared enough to give the best. As for the photos, the first is the picture of the stone at the Tashiding monastery, simply to look at which erases sins. I imagine several of you will want to print it off and stick it to your fridge. The next three are of Goa, including the high fashion toggs Em bought as she had not brought any from home. A whole $8, but what is cost when beauty is involved. The final picture is of the friendly Lepcha man whose pig I saw to. He was happy to have his photo taken with his granddaughter, after trying to poison us with Chun Millet beer.

Hope you are all well. Tomorrow we will be in delhi then off around the north. Think of us.

Chapter 3: In Which Much Happens, And Much Does Not

2008-05-06T00:04:00.000-07:00

Oh dear me. I has been weeks since our last update. We are becoming less productive than Indian Government employees – a prodigious feat indeed.

So Dan has covered our mini-break from Jorethang to Darjeerling. Upon braving the goat-track winding back down the mountain through the tea plantations, we arrived back in Jorethang for a few more days desexing in our little shed-cum-surgery. Two interesting things happened during this time. One was a knock on the door from a policeman (accompanied by his half-dozen inevitable hangers-on, who are just there to see what’s going on, standing around and staring being a treasured national pastime) on the afternoon of our return. Clearly no one had bothered to explain to anyone else in the government guest complex we were staying in that there was going to be a group of westerners hanging around. Passports and explanations were produced and laboriously copied down (everything must be recorded in triplicate – this is the critical step. After that most documents seem to be rolled and tossed on a shelf somewhere to collect dust – seldom actually filed). And eventually all seemed to be in order and we were left alone.

The other marginally interesting occurrence was a group of journalists showing up one day while we were all knuckle-deep inside dog abdomens. They hung about for a while, took some pictures, spoke in Nepali to the Government Vets we were working with, and left again. End result – I got my picture in the paper and Dan and I got a mention each – Dr Emma and Dr Dan from Australia, working with the SARAH program, etc etc.

We made our escape from Jorethang before the week was up thanks to the fact that our Inner Line Permits (like a VISA for Sikkim, required so they can keep track of foreigners traveling in the vicinity of the Chinese border) were expiring on Wednesday. Now while these permits can be issues from several offices around the country, they can only be renewed in three places. We were told (in true Indian fashion) that we would have 'no problem', we just had to get a jeep back to Gangtok via Namchi, one of the few towns that could reissue our permit. Fine. Dan went into Jorethang to book said jeep. Impossible, he was told. Why? A typical vague, frustrating, completely unintelligible head wobble was his only reply. This can generally be taken to mean: "I acknowledge that you have asked a question but I choose not to commit myself to a definite response."

So we booked our jeep via Melli, figuring that we should arrive in Gangtok in time to visit the Foreigners Registration Office anyway. There were two check points on the way. We passed through Melli without a problem. We reached Rangpo. Here the check point guard took down all our passport and ILP details, as standard, but then refused to give the slip of paper representing the ILP back.
"Is cancelled," he said.
"I know it’s expiring," Dan objected, "But we’re going to Gangtok and we need to renew it."
The guard shook his head and waved a hand. "Is cancelled," he repeated, without much interest.
So we shrugged and got back in the jeep, figuring this must be standard procedure when an IPL is about to expire and figuring we would be able to get a new one simply enough. The short version of the story is, we were wrong.

First, our jeep got a flat tyre shortly after leaving Rangpo, so we didn’t make it back to Gangtok before our permit technically expired. When we fronted up at the FRO next morning, we waited in a dingy office for about half an hour before a young woman acknowledged us. One of the SARAH vet's cousin's sister-in-law (!) worked there and was able to explain who we were and what we were doing, so the fact that our permit had expired wasn't problem. The fact that we could not produce it was. Eventually the young woman told us we should leave and come back between 2 and 3pm. When we did, an older man who was clearly her superior was killing time behind his desk. We explained our situation and he frowned in concern, and went off to call the Rangpo check point. This happened several times, and each time he came back with a different story. They were saying we had never passed through Rangpo. We showed him the stamps in our passports. Then they said we had been there, but with our driver, and our driver had taken the permits, and we had said we were on our way to Siliguri. We explained that our driver had not been present, had never laid eyes on our permits, and we had never been to Siliguri. The older man shrugged and said infuriating things like 'Well how do we know who's lying?' !!!!

Eventually, after much fruitless frustration, new ‘restricted’ permits were produced and we trudged off, grinding our teeth. We think, after much discussion, that the guard at Rangpo assumed (since our permits were expiring) that we were on our way out of Sikkim, and that he did not understand or perhaps did not listen when Dan said we were going TO Gangtok. Apparently part of his job is to specifically ask which way people are traveling, and this he was not interested enough to do. So when he got the call from Gangtok, he first denied that we had been there and then made a up a very strange lie about us, to save himself a reprimand for lax execution of his duty.

The next day we presented educational seminars for a group of Sikkimese vets – I spoke about the causes of and treatment of seizures in dogs, as apparently these are seen frequently in Gangtok. Dan spoke about cattle obstetrics. Beth’s advice was to pitch these talks at a technical level ‘as if you are talking to clients’. We have been baffled many times as to what it is the Sikkimese vets actually do. Not even in a facetious way. We’d just really like to know what they do with their days because they seem utterly incapable of … well, anything. Some of those that are working with the SARAH program are very good at speying. But that’s about all we’ve seen. It is mind-boggling.

An example: on Saturday in Gangtok Dan received a call asking if he could go and see a pig with a prolapsed vagina. This is a pretty simple condition, so we weren’t at all sure why one of the government gets wasn’t sent out to see to it, but we haven’t see them do anything useful yet, so we agreed. We arrived at the clinic and were told by Beth we should find ‘a driver’ to take us to the pig. This was typically vague. Which driver? Who would know were the pig was? Should we ask people at random if they could drive us in the direction of something porcine? Eventually a driver and a ‘para-vet’, or assistant, were located. We set out. The road ended. We got out, and began to climb down steps set in a steep mountainside. Outside a concrete block of flats the para-vet called something out, and we were joined by an older man introduced only as ‘the Veterinary Inspector’. No explanation was offered as to why he was coming along. It’s just the way things are. Even shoveling gravel on the road can’t be done without at least five guys just standing around watching him.

So we carried on down the mountainside until the steps gave out and we were trekking through wilderness and through outlying villages. Eventually we reached a little cluster of farm shanties, and were introduced to the pig, who glared up mistrustfully from her little wooden sty. Her prolapse was minor. A ten minute job.

Dan turned to the para vet, the Inspector, the farmer, and an unidentified teenager who were all hanging around expectantly. "Right, I need a few guys to get in there, catch the pig, cast her, and then sit on her so I can inject some local and repair the prolapse."

He was met by looks of horror. "You want us to catch her?"

This would seem to be a fairly elementary step in delivering any kind of medical intervention at all, so Dan confirmed that yes, he would like the pig to be caught. There was some discussion in Nepali, and the farmer trudged off up the hill back to his little hut. The rest of us stood around looking at one another for about ten minutes.

Dan finally asked, "So what are we waiting for?"

The Inspector replied "The pig owner has gone to fetch some help for us to catch the pig."

We looked up the hill again. The farmer was sitting outside his hut, watching us with interest.
About then, the persistant drizzle of rain became a full blown down pour and we were forced to retreat to a nearby thatched open-sided shelter. Our frustration was considerable. We were now cold, wet, and no closer to finishing a job that should have been completed already. And now we had no way of knowing how long we would be trapped here - the rain could hang around for hours.

In the end it was about half an hour, and when it stopped the help was successfully rounded up and the pig pinned to the wall of her sty while Dan injected local anaesthetic and performed the minor surgery.

Mission completed, we were invited into the grateful farmer's hut for Chai and local biscuits. This was followed by an offer of millet beer - the local drink of fermented millet seeds served in a bamboo flagon and drunk from a bamboo straw. We agreed to try it. It was poison of course, but culturally authentic poison nonetheless. Our companions consumed a Hit beer each (tallie bottles of 'not less than' 8% alcohol beer - apparently no one's really sure what's in it). Then another.
We finally managed to extract ourselves from the keen hospitality of our hosts, and began the climb back up the steep track to town. The Inspector, who must have been in his 50s at least, scampered back up without any sign of breaking a sweat. Dan and I struggled up red-faced and puffing. When we reached the Inspector's house, we also had to join him for tea and more biscuits, and prawn crackers, oddly enough.

Everyone was very kind of course, but the whole thing wound up taking about four hours when it could have taken one.

Well, anyway, quick summary of the next few days: Sat night we had a party at the guest house, Sun we were supposed to go and see the leopard but could not summon the energy or inclination to get caught up in another four hour trial (which is exactly what it became, according to those that did go). Mon was 'World Vet Day' for which the Sikkimese vets had organised a Pet Care Dog Show, weirdly enough. Dan was a judge and I manned a 'medical check' tent, and in the end things went OK but the bigger picture was simply an education in the farcical lengths to which Indians take meaningless beaurocracy and self-glorification. That night was a 'Happy World Vet's Day Dinner' for which we girls all got dressed up in our Indian costumes, but ended the evening having to escape home to evade the inappropriate attentions of drunk Indian men.
Tuesday we took a four hour jeep ride into the wilds of Sikkim to spey dogs and cats in and around the town of Tashiding. A lovely town in a spectacularly beautiful locale, but aside from this, an entirely wasted trip.

First of all, the night we arrived we were met by Dr J, already smelling rather strongly of alcohol. The next morning, at about the time we were due to meet him to travel to the mobile clinic together, I received a phone call from one of the vets back in Gangtok informing me that Dr J had fallen off the roof (!) late the night before, and had been taken to hospital (a bone jarring four hour jeep ride back to Gangtok which I would not like to attempt with even the most minor injuries). He was hoping to send us out another vet by that afternoon, but in the meantime we were on our own.

So we decided to walk to the Tashiding monastery, a little way out of town then a 'steep fourty minute climb' according to the Lonely Planet guide. This doesn't seem nearly forboding enough, as the effort nearly killed us, but there were certainly some beautiful buildings at the top, including some monks doing their music practice, which I tried very hard to appreciate but which in the end I had to concede was just dreadful. There was also a monument which apparently is so holy you need only look at it to have all your sins washed away. So we looked good and hard, and took a picture so that we can look again later if we are ever feeling particularly sinful.

On the way down from the monastery we received another call saying there were 'four dogs with open spey wounds and one dog that has been hit by a car' that needed seeing to at the local vet dispensary building. We hurried down to find no dogs, but one small cat who had licked out one of her sutures. Hmm. So we scavenged some drugs and materials from a small storage shed, and repaired her minor wound. Inevitably, since we were working more or less in the open, we attracted a small band of Starers.

As we packed up, Suzie turned her back on her bag for about twenty seconds. When she returned to it, she noticed that one of the Starers, a small scruffy boy, had hot-footed it off down the road. Familar enough with Indian custom to know that no one abandons a good staring opportunity until well after any possibility of interest is extracted from the situation, she immediately felt in her bag for her wallet. It was gone.

After a bit of cursing, we realised with a jolt of hope that Stacey had happened to take some photos of the Starers. Among them was an image of the kid we suspected had taken the wallet. So we all marched down the hill into town once more, and found the local 'police station', an open-fronted concrete room on the main (well, only) street.

It was manned by a single man in a khaki uniform, and he was hard at work snoring in a cot bed in the corner.

Rather tentatively, we woke him up, and began to explain our problem. He listened in silence for a few seconds then turned on his heel and left without a word. A little non-plussed, we watched him cross the street, enter a shop, and emerge with the shopkeeper in tow. He returned to us, and indicated that we should begin again.

We addressed our story to our new interpreter, and he translated to the policeman. We produced the photo. The shopkeeper became quite excited.

"I know this boy," he exclaimed, "He is very bad boy. I know where he is." And he set off up the road.

We had already attracted a small crowd, and by the time the shopkeeper returned a few minutes later dragging the scruffy boy by the arm it had grown considerably.

Next began an uncomfortable episode for us all. The policeman took hold of the boy and began cuffing him tightly about the head, shouting in Nepali. The boy looked miserable but said nothing. The policeman reached into his baggy pockets (his pants were far too big and nearly falling off) and extracted a handful of Suzie's credit cards and her licence, together with a rather pitiful paper bag of rice. The cards and licence were all Suzie really wanted back - the wallet had only contained 300Rs - and she tried to tell the guard this. But as soon as he knew that there were still items missing - the wallet itself, one debit card, some cash - the interrogation continued. It produced some more money, and after a short march down the road accompanied by the policeman the wallet was located. But the final card was still missing - more than likely dropped accidently somewhere as he ran since his pockets were open and the card was of no earthly use to him.

By the time a cane was produced a huge crowd had formed, pressing forward through the open front of the room. Every now and then the policeman would bark something at them and they would fall back, but then swarm forward again just as quickly. In the end it was Stacey who intervened, asking the beating to end, insiting once again that we had all we really wanted, and the last card didn't matter. She seemed to make her point, and we left, but saw a short time later that the boy was still being led around the streets of the town, presumably being told to retrace his steps as they searched for the card.

We wondered later why the door was not simply closed on the voraciously curious crowd, but figured that the public administration of justice is probably better for police-civilian relations than keeping the proceedings hidden behind closed doors. Besides, no one in the crowd seemed at all concerned about the child being searched or caned, and had the door been closed I really believe that what they would have resented more than anything would be being deprived of their entertainment.

Next day we joined our new local vet, Dr Furbur, and several of the vet-aid boys on a two hour journey up unpaved roads - much of it undertaken standing in the back of a ute - into some of the most remote country in Sikkim. I saw some of the most amazing scenery I've ever seen in my life. Once there, we had a cup of tea, gave a talk about rabies to some school children who didn't understand English, and drove back. I won't go into the reasons why - just mind-blowing lack of organisation and forward planning once more.

Anyway, on Friday we journeyed back to Gangtok, where we caught up with Suzanne and Dave who had managed to escape their elective in Delhi to visit us in the north. On the Sunday I joined them for a trip to Lake Chongu (lots of spellings so I'm just using the most phonetic) mostly to see (and ride) the yaks.

Finally coming up to date! On Monday we left for Goa, and desite me developing my first serious gastroenteritis since arriving in India in the early hours of Mon morning, we managed to make our very tight connecting flight in Delhi and are now on the beach, dissolving in bliss and humidity. We have a lovely hut right on Palolem Beach, we ate real food last night (Dan got his steak!) and for breakfast this morning there was fruit, porridge, eggs, coffee... Just wonderful. We have seen prawns going past on trays that look the size of small cats, so we can't wait to try the seafood. Everything is just fantastic so far.

We should have much better Internet access here, so write us lots of emails, we are loving any news of home.
Signing off....

2008-04-18T21:32:00.000-07:00

Greetings from Darjeeling,
We arrived last night in Darjeeling, within sight of Everest, the top of the world, assuming the weather stays clear for our trip to Tiger Hill tomorrow morning. Our last ten days have certainly been eventful. We are building up a store of memories, wonderful photos and cheap tourist clutter as we go. Unfortunately you may all need to wait a little while for the photos as we don't have the technology for uploading from the camera until we get back to Gangtok. And if any of you think you're getting the cheap tourist clutter, well, you'll need to be prepared to get past me and an authentic Gurkha khukuri dagger to score yourslef a t-shirt with a line of yaks on it and a quote underneath saying "yak yak yak yak...".

Gangtok is a nice little town. A world quieter than Calcutta and everything gets done in exactly the time it takes to get done. Mere human direction can have no effect upon these things so no attempt is made. Armageddon may well come to Gangtok one day but it had better be prepared to use its horn, and explain what it's about to the 12 guys who will pull up some pavement and find they have nothing better to do than watch what it's up to.

The SARAH program itself has been applied so successfuly in Gangtok tat there are very few dogs left to desex. We spent several hours in the clinic looking after dogs that had been admitted for various conditions, and also dipping a toe into the cut and thrust world of Sikkim Veterinary Bureaucracy. Our most exciting evening came when we all stopped at the Tibet Hotel and sat on the balcony to try the momos and local Hit beer. For those who don't know, momos are very appealing dumpling type things which come in pork, chicken or vegetarian varieties, although chicken is notably scarce at the moment as AI led to all birds in West Bengal being destroyed a few weeks ago. Hit beer is a local Sikkim production, brewed from diesel fumes and the boiled scrapings of Sherpas' jockstraps.

After we ordered three tallies (the only dosage available) the waiter returned to our table to warn us that it is "very strong" and we should stick to the milder Dansberg brew. Fiddlesticks, we harrumphed and demanded he bring the drinks and be damned sharpish about it. After one beer each we picked up a few takeaways at the local hole in the wall and wandered back to the guest house. After polishing those off, and sitting and chatting with Beth for a while we finally had several of the spiritul epiphanies we were all hoping for in Sikkim. We decided that Western style economic rationalism will probably not be as successful here given the rigid social structures preventing the flow of social and monetary mobility. We discussed the nature of post-colonial societies and the difficulty in assessing the types of infratsructures that need to be kept or discarded to move on while at the same time embracing aboriginal cultural values. We marveled that Wily Coyote, who seemed to have a fortune to spend on weapons of mass destruction from the good people at ACME, didn't just buy a takeaway chicken meal and avoid all the inevitable backfiring cannons and anvils on the top of the head.

The next morning, Beth had, totally independently, decided we probably needed to be gone from Gangtok ASAP. We were packed into a jeep on monday morning and made the 3 hour trip along dirt roads to Jorethang, where we met the local vets Dr Sham and Dr Mridal and were transported to lodgings at the State Institute of Rural Development. I guess there's probably relatively little to say about Jorethang. The best that cold be said is it's quiet. The town itself is undescribably filthy. It's hard to summarise the feeling in the town. It's not simply poverty, although that is there in abundance. I have just finished reading The inheritance of loss by Kiran Desai, which won the Booker prize in 2006 and was set in Kalimpong very nearby. She describes the poverty there and not the quaint type that tourists ike to photograph, but modernity proffered in its lowest possible form. There is a public toilet in town, which you have to pay to use, a guy sits out the front and collects coins. Yet the cubicles are all filthy and faeces flows out of them and across the street. Garbage lies down the centre of each street and I have yet to see a single bin, although for a town about the size of 4,000 people there are countless traffic police, Sikkim police, military police and soldiers, lounging on every corner. Added to this is a clear and voluble resentment of anyone who is a foreigner. The first restaurant we tried told us plainly that we should go somewhere else, and the one time Suzie and Emma walked into town on their own they were subjected to endless cires and yells from young men who have nothing better to do than sit in piles of garbage it would take them two minutes to move.

There is a frustration there for all of us that we can see India as a country that does have a lot of infrastructure and money to spend on government projects. But every government employee we have seen sees their position as an end in itself. Most come with food acommodation provided and represent the end goal of hard work rather than the beginning of it. There may be np answer and we certainly haven't hit on one yet.

So, moving on. On friday we finished at about 12 pm (the dog catchers and local vets won't catch more dogs than will leave them free after lunch each day. We aalked into Jorethang and waited a couple of hours for a jeep to Darjeeling. The road was advertised as steep and hilly, which surprised us as none of the other roads we had been on had meritted that description. What we got was an amazing 90 minute drive through what seemed a 45 degree angle through tea plantations to what seemed the top on the known world. Unbelievably we are only at about 2400 metres. Kanchenzunga which we have seen several times now reaches 8,500 metres and Everest of course is 8,800. Darjeeling so far is a beautiful and relaxed place. We are just egtting used to epople smiling back at us when we smile at them and showing soime interest in helping us when we walk into their shops. We will update more when we return to Gangtok after another few days in Jorethang next week. SUffice it to sday that we have begun considering the allure of a few days on Goan beaches before we hit Delhi.

I've thought of it! A positive about our time in Jorethang. Each day after we finish work we are served lunch in a government canteen by a small Nepali man known affectionately as Banga, or uncle, in Nepali. Yesterday for lunch he served us a type of beef and we almost cried. For 5 days we had been served vegeatable curries for breakfast lunch and dinner. Lunch every day consists of Banga smiling and bringing out a variety of plates, mostly rice, curries and dal. Every day they seem different and are served in steaming quatntities. Suzie has informed Banga that she is taking him home with her sto start a restaurant on Bungendore that will be known simply as Banga in Bungers. The vets are not entirely sure what her designs on Bnaga are but we are reliably informed he is looking into getting a passport!

Chapter One: In Which A Great many Things Happen Indeed

2008-04-11T22:40:00.000-07:00

Well, despite a few shaky periods we have arrived in Gangtok with life, limb and intestinal linings intact. We were scheduled to leave Brisvegas at precisely one minute to midnight on Sun, but were inevitably delayed and wound up leaving at about 1.30am. Dan, already a bit run down from diarrhoea contracted before even leaving the airport (!), took two phenergan and two valium, shuffled on board and passed out in my lap for 9 hours. Even so, we arrived in Bangkok feeling surprisingly bright, but the energy was rapidly sucked out us by stifling humidity and determined gem-store touters. We retreated to an air conditioned shopping mall, and had a surprisingly delicious lunch in a food court there, after which Suzie and I decided to get 'facials' at a posh beauty salon. Although they had their pleasant moments, they turned out to be rather violent affairs, involving a lot of slapping scrubbing and gouging which I am not convinced are truly the path to beautiful skin, but what would I know. Anyway, we survived to board our plane to Calcutta, departing Bangkok at 11.15pm. There was one other caucasian face on board, the last we were to see for some time as it turned out.

We arrived in Calcutta in the early hours of the morning. Not a nice time to arrive at any place, but I'm pretty sure there is no nice time to arrive at Calcutta. As our first taste of India it was pretty confronting. mere language is not equipped to describe it adequately. The filth that blankets everything and fills the air with nameless and unnameble grit, and the masses of humanity literally living their entire lives squatted amongst piles of dirt, garbage and sewerage... If nothing else, it is a lesson in perspective. Things that were major worries and concerns to me day-to-day back home suddenly seemed not just petty but ridiculous.

Anyway, after a harrowing night where the hotel clerks at our dodgy dingy little hotel tried to take our passports for the night 'so they could make copies in the morning', we slept badly then shouldered our backpacks to spend several hours tramping the fetid streets of Calcutta. To give the Bengalis their due, we were hassled very little, and rude stares were kept to a minimum. But nothing could really redeem the experience and when we finally found our way to a clean, quiet, air conditioned hotel bar, we thought we'd found heaven. The beer helped too. As might be imagined, we stayed sometime, and only emerged again when it came time to find our way to the train station.

As we searched for our train, Dan made the mistake of handing a few beggar children hanging around a few rupee each. Suddenly we had two very aggressive little boys and a very determined cripple crowding our every step. We sought refuge in a crowded cafe, where security guards on each door discouraged the beggars temporarily. They simply retreated a short distance then sat down to wait us out. We ordered some food and drinks - and out waited them.

When we thought the coast was clear, we made a dash for our train, found our private berth, and collapsed into it nearly crying with relief and tiredness.

The overnight train journey was, in retrospect, rather pleasant, though we still didn't sleep that well. I'll enjoy it more next time, now that I feel a little more confident in how it all works.

We rolled into New Jaipalguri at about 8.30am, and it was due more to luck than anything else that Dan managed to locate our pre-arranged driver in the huge, teeming station. The driver's name was manukumar (sorry, if you've been paying attention you may have noticed that this keyboard doesn't like capital ms for some reason... ) and he was young and keen to please. He also did a spectacular job of manouvering our vehicle up the steep, rough, narrow roads which wind up through the Himalayas. Jeeps and trucks manically over-take one another with casual disregard for the countless blind corners, one-lane roads, and sheer drops at the road's crumbly-looking rim. more than once I felt the car's wheels hit the soft shoulder of the road and looked down out of the window to see nothing but foaming pale blue torrents of water hundreds of feet below. When car sickness forced me to lie down in the back seat, I found I was at least more relaxed by my lack of vision. Dan, in the front seat, spent most of the journey trying to crush himself backwards into his seat as inevitable collisions were miraculously averted time and time again.

Well, as I pretty much gave away at the start of this blog, we made it to Gangtok. After the squalor and ugliness of Calcutta, this is a lovely place. High in the Himalayas, lovely people, cheap food, cheap alcohol, and just at the moment, not much work to do. When I get the chance I will post again with more reflections and pictures of Sikkim and the work we are doing here. For now, Dan and Suzie have already abandoned me to head on down to the 'marg' (the main street of Gangtok) for shopping and other jobs. Everything is either 'up' or 'down' here - the whole town is set into a mountainside and by the time we leave here we are going to have the firmest gluteals since... well, ever.

Signing out...

All our love to all back home and around about...

Em and Dan

Prologue, in which nothing really happens at all.

2008-03-24T05:07:00.000-07:00

This is likely to be a short post since nothing has actually happened yet, but all that (that is, all that nothing) is about to change very shortly indeed! If all goes according to plan, this page ('Blog' as I believe the kids are calling it these days) will soon become a thrilling and intriguing insight into The Adventures of Emma and Dan, the Internationally In-Demand, All Singing, All Dancing, Travelling Veterinarians.

Now let me see if I can work out how to ad a picture...

And we have lift off!