November 2011

[Sweder]

Having negotiated the best part of 24 hours in the air, broken only by an aimless meander around the duty free emporiums of Hong Kong’s International Departures area, we landed in Sydney to be greeted by a most disappointing veil of mizzling greyness. All those posters and TV ads promising untold riches in the land where the sun never fails to shine can kiss my saggy, jet-lagged arse.

In stark contrast Australian immigration and customs could not have been more welcoming, a refusal to search my luggage for contraband (my puny portion of Chia seeds would hardly have troubled the SMH news editor) meaning I had to shelve my apocryphal Ian Botham ‘Didn’t know it was still a requirement’ gag for another occasion. Two fairly straight forward train journeys later our small yet perfectly formed attack force landed on the bepuddled platform of Gordon. Emerging from the elevator we spied a bespectacled local, resplendent in Stranglers T-shirt, grinning from ear to ear and extending his hand. Old friends first met, a curious anomaly of this wonderful RC universe.

We spent the day fighting the urge to sleep, a brisk walk in the light, cool rain initially helping our cause until we alighted at the barely open Greengate Hotel. Here we met Messrs Toohey, Boag, Cooper and Squire. We moved swiftly onto luncheon at the charming aptly-named waterfront eatery The Boat House. The fish and chips, served tempura style, were delicious, as was the beer. On the forty minute drive back to Gordon SP and I studied the insides of our eyelids, followed by a further forty winks in our rooms. I rose as the dead, walking hands outstretched, staring down the barrel of fighting the inevitable for the next few hours. There was nothing for it; I needed a plod.

I strapped on my Garmin, shorts, Almeria (black) vest and set off into the surprisingly hilly ‘burbs. I wove a careful pattern through leafy lanes past a pageant of desirable properties, ubiquitous Jacarandas providing a purple canopy for my gentle plod. Turning into Forsyth Avenue I copped a mighty whiff of what appeared to be a swimming pool full of nasal decongestant but was actually some freshly-sawn eucalyptus. Somewhere nearby some unseen critter emitted a sweet, high-pitched warble, reminiscent of the chirruping collared dinosaur in Jurassic Park just before it spat blinding venom into the eyes of the duplicitous Fat Controller. I quickened my pace ever so slightly, stoically refusing to look around as I scurried on up the pavement. I marvelled at the similarities between suburban Sydney and the affluent leafy lanes of Surrey and Sussex, chuckling quietly to myself. We’re not so far apart, we peoples of different hemispheres. So much of this area smacks of home, but all in a good way. The traffic on the left, the familiar traffic lights and pedestrian crossings, Woolworths alive and well and trading in all manner of consumables, even (today at least) the grey skies and persistent drizzle. There’s little sign of Britain’s recent degeneration highlighted in Andy’s superb piece in the main blog. Long may that be the case.

After thirty minutes rumbling through Mr Midlife Crisis Man’s Undulating Neighbourhood I grabbed a shower and joined the others on the veranda. Here we sat late into the Antipodean night, sampling the delights of the famous MLCMan wine stocks (including a rather agreeable ACDC Highway to Hell Cab Sav) discussing Life, the Universe and Everything and munching on Kangaroo fillets smothered in homemade chocolate sauce. Ripper.