It's nearly time for everyone's favourite night of the year! WOOOO

It's nearly the end of 2010. And with that comes the annual stress of working out how to see in the New Year.

Having travelled the globe and expanded my mind etc, I've come to the conclusion that a trouble, argument and stress free New Years Eve relies on the following: rolling solo in Australia, ditching the Boring Germans you're stuck with and putting yourself at the mercy of a couple of Irish alcoholics.

Failing that, this year it's me, the Boyfriend and four other couples in a flat in West Hampstead. Which probably sounds a lot more debauched than it actually is.

However, I'll be seeing in 2011 with a Boyfriend who demands my time on such a night, and with mates who don't insist on driving everyone to tears over which Pizza Express we eat in. In fact, there will be no Pizza Express. There will be only Strongbow, cheap champagne and M&S nibbles.

So hurrah for that. And hurrah for 2010, which saw me travel the world, survive a long distance relationship, get a decent job doing something I love (i.e. faffing around on the internet) and move out of home (well, strictly speaking, that's next week). Not bad for twelve months.

Happy New Year everyone...

Have a good one x

Mission accomplished

All in all, I reckon its taken me three months to fully adjust to life post-travelling.

It takes a few days to restart your running commentary on the British weather, and a few weeks to accept the parental's house rules; long forgotten while you tended to polo ponies and fell off surf boards in Australia.

You spend a few more months fine tuning a CV that now includes the words

2009 - 2010: Lying on beaches, tending to hangovers, sunning oneself, seeing countries etc etc

...and hoping someone still wants to hire you because (or in spite) of the gaping hole in your work history. Finding a job is relatively easy. Trying to stick to the promise I will not, not, not, not get another admin job as long as I live, is harder. But in the end, the oft-uttered statement "Yeah, well, the economy is bad, and err, I'm going travelling to have a break from it, and err, you know, decide what I want to do" is now actually true, and not just the bullshit excuse I imagined it might end up being.

To be honest, once the job was sorted, the next thing to panic about was my social life. Upon returning home, every girl and your dog will want to fuss over you, but don't expect it to last. Social lives need careful cultivating, and they don't grow themselves while you're out of the loop for eight months. It didn't take long to realise that the busy social circle I'd once been a part of was now AWOL, and I didn't know how to get it back.

Truth be told, I spent recent weeks worrying that it was just me being left out before the penny dropped: things had just changed. A few friends had left London, others had moved abroad, some had gone travelling. The unemployed had got jobs, the bored got busier, the singletons got attached. C'est la vie.

Given all that, last weekend was the first time I felt truly settled since getting home. Employed, attached, and surrounded by friends who had finally managed to get their arses out of town and in the same vicinity for an hour; I stood in a chilly park in St Albans watching a massive fireworks display, with my Boy behind me, and a group of six good mates laughing in the background. The clincher? A text message from ex uni housemate the Stingray, newly engaged that night, and asking me to be her bridesmaid.

So, exactly a year after I left - am I glad I said 'sod all that' and went travelling?

Hell yeah. No doubt. Ipso, facto.

Best thing I ever did.

Island life

Thanks to that Stupid Volcano zapping a week off our travel time, the Boyfriend’s first and my second experience of Australia’s east coast has been a rather hurried affair. Not wanting to miss the good spots, but being on a tight two week schedule; we were realistic about how far we were going to get before having to turn around. So knowing that the usual stop offs were too ambitious (a 4WD adventure on Fraser Island, sailing cruise around the Whitsundays and drunken debauchery / scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef in Cairns), I had to rack my brains and dig up memories from my 2003 adventure for the lesser known spots further down the Queensland Coast.

I wanted to show off the side of Australia that got me hooked on my first visit in 2003. The huge expanses of nothingness bordered by some of the clearest water I’ve ever seen, the unusual wildlife which hops, laughs and slithers its way across the barren landscape – or if you’re unlucky – in front of your car. I wanted to take him to the best surf beaches, then go further north and underwater to the beginnings of the world’s biggest coral reef.

What I got was beaches packed with tourists, towns where Hugo Boss shops sat next to expensive cafes and signs to zoos fronted by the children of a deceased Aussie legend, which cost upwards of $50 per person to enter. Drivebys included Surfer's Paradise, which still looked like something out of a bad 70s film: all garish high rises which block the sun from the beach after 3pm. We stayed on the highways for hundreds of kilometers, dipping in and out of campsites, roadside rest stops and friend's houses, waiting for Australia proper to come through.

Eventually, it did.

I can't pinpoint exactly when the road became a dividing lane between yellowing fields which stretched out for miles, when regular towns and petrol stations were replaced by roadhouses and obscure localities, or when refuelling while you still had half a tank became essential if you didn't want to get stuck mid-journey.

Our destination was a place which had been one of my favourite stops in 2003. It was quiet, secluded, and for reasons utterly unfathomable to me, didn't attract the hoards of backpackers which other East coast beauty spots seem to. It was stunning back then, and all I could hope was that after 1,587km of driving and big ups on my behalf, it hadn't turned into a touristy compost heap in the meantime.

The minute we stepped off the boat onto Great Keppel Island and were met by the hostel's 4WD, I was all 'woo yeah, Jo done good'. Being two of the only guests at the holiday village, we were immediately upgraded from the bunks we'd booked into a permanent canvas tent housing a double bed with our own little wooden veranda. Then we went to the beach. The Boyfriend had never been snorkelling before, so after showing him the ropes we went underwater and found ourselves swimming over coral reef with multicoloured fish and on our last day, alongside the biggest turtle I've ever seen.

If this all sounds like a bit of a plug for the place, then yeah - it is. Because this island is deserted. We were the only people on huge stretches of beach, the only paying guests at a simple but comfortable sandy little holiday village, run by some of the friendliest hostel staff I've met so far. Not that I want hoards of people there, no no no, but I want the place to still be running the next time I come for a visit. So if you're heading to Australia's east coast, then for gods sake - get the boat over to Great Keppel. Give Geoff at the Holiday Village some moolah in exchange for a room. Chase food theiving possums off the kitchen table, laze in a hammock, shit yourself at lizards, get the free snorkel equipment and go find my turtle. Or grab your boyfriend, take him to the beach, watch the sunset, get bitten by mosquitoes and dig dams for the incoming tide to flood. Then leave a few days later and begin the long journey back to Sydney, utterly chilled out.

East Coast of Australia? Possums, kangaroos, deserted beaches, crystal clear waters and err, sunburnt skin (him)?

Almost done.

Road trippin

Most people would probably agree that driving ranks among the top 5 most stressful things you can do with your partner. Shopping expeditions are probably up there too, and thinking about it, my parents would probably rank skiing down a mountain pretty high up the couple stress-o-meter (dad goes for the speed factor, mum likes to “take in the view” – cue arguments and a lot of ”Well I might as well have come on my own!”.)

And I have to admit, when I wasn’t thanking the lord that I wouldn’t be touching a backpacker bus this time around, the idea of a three week road trip up the East Coast of Australia avec Boy did make me feel a tiny bit apprehensive. I mean, in the time we spent together at home, the closest we got to a long distance car journey was three hours to Hull. And at least the M1’s got Marks and Spencer. All Australia’s Pacific Highway has by the side of the road is road kill, mostly made up of kangaroos, possums and annoying passengers.

Thankfully, the car hire place gave us a few vehicles to choose from. To maximise potential striking distance and minimise cost, we opted for a no-frills van. Not a campervan, as they seemed to work out pretty expensive. But luckily, due to that wonderful ‘not what you know, but who you know’ thing coming into play, we scored a camper-sized van for the same price as a car with a few free days thrown in to boot. The Boyfriend’s Aunty sorted us out with the essentials: a mattress, bedding, cutlery, map, bodyboard and a cool box. The Boyfriend picked up a bargain surf board. The East Coast Adventure in Dave (‘the home of witty banter’) could begin.

There’s just one thing.

What with him being 23 and me being 25, I was the only one allowed to drive.

At first, I saw this as a problem. But today, as we reached day three of our three week journey, I came to the conclusion that the most stressful part of a road trip isn’t so much getting there, which I actually don’t mind doing, but the arrival at your destination, which requires a joint effort.

So far, we're both getting along fine. But bickering does tend to occur around Let’s Find Somewhere to Stay O’Clock. So far, overnight spots have included a beachfront carpark in Port Macquarie and a five star campsite in Grafton. Today we arrived in a typically manic Byron Bay, a beachside town famous for hippies, surfing and backpacker parties, and found ourselves in a traffic jam arguing about the whereabouts of a campsite we’d looked up earlier that day. Tempers had frayed. I got ratty.

“Was that our first argument?” asked the Boyfriend, rejoining me in the van having sorted us an unpowered pitch for the night.

“No, that wasn’t an argument. That was bickering.” I replied, “It’s just, look. If I’m driving for a while, I switch off a bit, go a bit braindead. Then it’s like we get somewhere…”

“…and I’m asking you to make decisions?”

“Exactly. It makes me ratty if I drive, then you need me to decide what to do as well.”

“Ok. Cool. I hear ya”

Personally, I give that particular resolution a day. But if his need to clean and tidy up the van every morning before setting off, and going out in the rain to buy and cook me bacon and eggs when we're hungover keeps up - I give the relationship a lot longer...

Plus One

As you may have guessed from the complete lack of blog action over the last few days, I am no longer a lone traveller. The Boyfriend arrived safely into Sydney on Sunday night, set down the bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne he was holding, picked me up, carried me across arrivals and hasn't really let me go since. It's been fantastic.

We haven't been sickening the Sydney public too much with our public displays of affection though. This is partly down to the reservations manager at our hotel, who mistakenly booked us into a room for three nights instead of the two I'd already paid for. Now, I'm not one to question errors in my favour, but the last thing I wanted was to be landed with a hefty bill upon checking out.

"Well, my boss made the booking, sooo..." said the young bloke behind the reception desk when I tentatively questioned the length of our stay, "I won't say anything if you don't."

So three nights in a nice, centrally located boutique hotel it was. Aside from the obvious plus points of acquiring a Boyfriend, the break from backpacking has been a welcome one. Monday was spent drinking more champagne on his aunties boat in the bays surrounding Manly, North Sydney, followed by my first non-pasta / pesto meal in weeks at her local boat club.

Eventually, with the Boyfriend's 5 day journey catching up with him, we made our excuses and got the ferry back across the harbour to Circular Quay. We sat on the outside deck and watched as the lights from the city and Harbour Bridge came into view, before getting the train back to our hotel.

It was when we were going up the escalator; me making up the foot height difference between us by standing on the higher step, having a little kiss, that it happened.

"Haven't you two got a room?" came the shout, and I turned around to see a well dressed 30-something woman on the adjacent 'down' escalator.

"Give us a break" I yelled back, "We haven't seen each other for five months!"

"Oh" said the woman, "Right"

Yeah. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Then we did go back to the room.

De Ja Vu

While I’ve been sunning myself on Bondi Beach this week, the Boyfriend continues his epic mission across Europe. In fact, his current travel plan sees him cover more countries in five days than I plan to on my entire trip. How's that for progress.

So, the update. Instead of waiting for his Monday flight from London, he decided to try and fly out of somewhere in Europe. He took the Eurostar to Paris, where he discovered that all trains to Spain and other airporty places were full, and got interviewed by BBC Radio 1. He then queued up to buy a return ticket to the UK, and by chance, got talking to someone who told him that he could get a coach instead. After an overnight stay and 16 hours on a coach, he arrived in Madrid.

You with me? Right. So today, he’s got a flight from Madrid to Cairo, Egypt. After an hour there it’s onto Dubai, where he’s got a fourteen hour wait, then another flight to Singapore for another little stop. He’ll finally arrive, completely exhausted and malnourished from an airline food overload, in Sydney on Sunday evening.

Part of me is expecting him to arrive as planned. Another part is fairly convinced that something else is bound to go wrong. A third part is going “Shit the bed, Jo. This bloke must really like you to make all this effort. You better look hot, and buy a proper box for the presents you were just going to wrap in newspaper”. Oh, and the fourth part is quietly hoping that my freshly waxed bits stop resembling a plucked turkey by the end of the weekend.

Still, if this whole episode has taught us anything, it’s that you really can’t control Mrs Mother Nature. Well, that’s what I’ll be telling The Boyfriend anyway, when the predicted 26 degree heat on Saturday inexplicably drops to rain and cloud just in time for his arrival. Ha.




Fingers crossed again please: for weather, for imminent arrivals, and my red bumpy waxy bits. Ta.

Noisy Bastards

Leaving a hostel room quietly in the morning is a simple yet delicate art. It requires just two basics: preparation and consideration. Unfortunately for me, last night's room mates were shit at it.

"We're leaving early tomorrow, I hope we don't wake you up!" said one of the girls, part of a trio who we'd just discovered not only came from the same London Borough as me, but lived about five minutes from my house.

"Oh, it's cool" I said, because after 5 months, I'm well used to being woken up at silly o'clock by dorm entries and exits. "Don't worry about it. I'll probably just go back to sleep."

(This was going on the assumption that, what with us all being British, we all understood 'It's cool, don't worry about it' as meaning 'Look, I'm not some grumpy German who's going to tut and strop the minute you start shuffling about at 6am, but don't take the piss, right?')

Alas, this morning my three new dorm friends, with an 8am bus to catch, woke up at half past 6. Well, I say they woke up. Their alarm went off, then they switched it off and went back to sleep. And by switched it off...I mean put it on snooze. Twice. Yeah, that's what I thought.

A bit of backpack zipping commenced when the girls finally got up. Door opened and shut. Then it went quiet for a bit. Have they left? No. Door opened and shut again. Door opened and shut once more. Then the rustling started. You'd have thought that anyone who insists on separating everything in their backpack into plastic bags might have the foresight to do so the night before. Not so. The sound of Australia's entire supply of plastic bags being folded, opened, squashed, packed, removed and (I suspect) used to spook imaginary killer horses outside the hostel, was amplified by the fact that it was still only 7am. It cut through my ears until I could hear nothing else. Nothing, that is, until the zipping, un-zipping and re-zipping of three backpacks joined in, and continued for the next half an hour.

Now, a bit of rustling and zipping is par for the course. Annoying, but usually short lived. Not this time. And to add insult to injury, the girls were considerate enough to whisper their conversations. Well, it was a bit like three deaf OAPs playing Chinese whispers, but the thought was there.

As the relentless noise continued into it's 45th minute, the "whispering" got increasingly louder, and the previously carefully shut door was now just allowed to slam, I felt myself losing it. As the door slammed again, I pulled the covers off my head and lent over the rail of my top bunk.

"F***ING HELL. You lot really weren't joking when you said you might wake me up, were you?"

Awkward silence has never felt so good.

"Sorry" came the reply from the meekest of the three, the one I'd had the longest conversation with the night before.

"I mean, SURELY you could have done all this the night before?"

And with that, I replaced the covers over my head and turned my back on the three most inconsiderate room mates I have encountered so far. The noise continued for another five minutes, and then, with a muffled 'Thank f*** for that' from yours truly, finally ceased altogether.

In hindsight, perhaps "Shut up, I know where you live" may have been a more effective silencer.

Seriously, who breeds these people?

How to score big points with your girlfriend

On second thoughts, perhaps my choice of drink on tonight’s flight to Sydney – although a rare treat these days - wasn’t the most sensible one given the circumstances.

“Gin and Tonic, please”

“Certainly. Double or single?”

A split second passed.

“Double.”

Gin’s a wonderful drink, refreshing, tasty and even better when it’s free, delivered to your seat on request and consumed at 44,000 ft. It does, however, have a tendency to make you feel slightly less than chirpy. Which was perhaps the one thing I didn’t really need to feel as the flight made it’s descent into Sydney International Airport.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen. As they say in England, it doesn’t rain, but it pours” said the Captain as the plane came to a slow halt just in front of the airport.

Tell me about it, I thought.

“There’s been a power cut in the airport, so we’ll be waiting here while the ground staff get it sorted. Sorry for the inconvenience, we should be on the move shortly.”

When we finally disembarked the plane, it was along with every other flight that had come in during the last half an hour, too. The realisation – and the gin – hit me, there were the passengers from the unaffected Singapore leg of his flight queuing for customs alongside mine. I found myself looking around, half expecting to see him and felt pathetic disappointed tears in my eyes when I didn’t. Then my phone buzzed. A message reading:

Madrid here I come!xx

...was swiftly followed by…

Just to let you know, I’m on route to Paris then hopefully over to Hong Kong with luck should be there by the weekend.xx

Then, immediately after,

Paris here I come!xx

And finally…

Not sure about this now…ahhh x

As far as I can gather: there is no plan, he is just winging it, and I officially have a Boyfriend who is currently en route to Australia via London, Eurostar, France, Spain and Hong Kong. Or something.

The boy's scoring big. I think I need another G&T.

(Ps. Ellie, if you see a tall bloke wondering around Madrid looking lost, just give him a beer and point him towards the airport please. Ta.)

Alternative methods of transport

In the face of Volcanic defeat, the Boyfriend has been looking into more, well, alternative methods of getting to Australia.

"But" I said, one hand on my phone, the other tapping on my newly "Alt+F10" rejuvenated netbook, "You're not seriously considering this though, are you? Like, really-really?"

He'd been talking excitedly for about five minutes while I tried and failed to re-download Skype on the intermittent, but free, internet connection at my quiet little Auckland hostel. I tuned back in to hear the rough itinerary for the latest plan, which involved getting a train from the UK through Europe, and eventually flying to Australia from - of all places - Moscow. By changing trains just twice.

"I could do it Jo! There's a train leaving in...in..." click click click, "an hour! I could be there by Wednesday! It would be an adventure."

"And if you get half way there and then hear that flights have resumed in the UK? Or you get to Moscow and find that the ash cloud has beaten you to it?" I ventured, suddenly aware of the curious looks my roommate was giving me.

"Yeah. Hmm. Well...but would I need a visa for Russia or could I just turn up, do you reckon?"

"Boyfriend, I know as much about getting into Russia as you do about horses."

"I know loads about horses. They have long faces."

"Yeah, four legs and a tail, too. You're not getting the train to Russia."

After at least fifteen minutes of seriously contemplating Operation Moscow, holes were beginning to appear in the plan. One, the expense. Two, the time it would realistically take. Three, the fact that it was a fairly ridiculous idea to start with. Eventually, and with no resolution in the pipeline, we both rang off in order to eat (him: breakfast, me: dinner). An hour later, my phone beeped.

Text Message
From: The Boyfriend
To: Me

:( have rebooked my flight for next monday 26th. She said when it clears they will put more flights on so might be able to get one end of the week if it does. Have fun without me :( If it carries on tho, train it is. I will get to you no matter what! Miss you xxxx

All being well, he'll arrive here a week on Wednesday. All not being well, I'll be shipping him an ushanka and a bottle of vodka for the ride.

And oh, hold the front page. Seconds away from clicking publish, and there's another phone beep.

Have a new travel idea. Gonna make a few calls may be en route soon x x x

All aboard Puff the Magic Dragon, perhaps?

Nada.

I can count the amount of times that I’ve felt really down since leaving the UK on one hand. Heathrow departures, a lonely day or two in Perth, the days before and after I stopped working for the Polo Player… and right now.

Try to understand. For five months, there’s been one constant date to look forward to. I’ve spent hours thinking about it, imagining the scenario, trying to guess at what might happen in that moment. At first it was months away, a dot in the distance. Slowly it’s crept closer until it was two weeks, then just a few days ago, when it was only seven days away. Finally, the talking that we’ve been doing since November has some relevance, we were now discussing plans for next week. A few days time. I imagined walking into arrivals and looking around for a familiar face, not just walking through a sea of hopeful relatives and cardboard holding cabbies, heading for the exit and finding a way to my hostel. I’ve spent hours wondering how I’d feel on the plane there, what we’d say to each other, and the next two days spent holed up in a Sydney hotel room.

Knowing that in all probability this now won’t happen, at least not on the date or with the ease it should, has been a pretty big blow. There’s nothing worse than looking forward to something for so long then realising it’s not going to happen the way you imagined. That you’ll be arriving at the airport as usual, and checking into your lovely but non-refundable, non-changeable hotel room alone, instead of with the person you’ve been waiting five months to see.

Yesterday morning I woke up and checked the BBC News website, only to see that the flight ban will continue long into the weekend. Today I checked Qantas and saw that his flight is indeed cancelled. Then I cried, because there’s nothing I can do about it. Hundreds and thousands of people are out there, delayed, stranded, feeling frustrated. This ain't reality TV, and a sob story won’t get you through.

But more than anything, I look at the headlines in amazement. We live in a world where terrorist attacks and light snow ground planes. Not ash, glass and rock from sodding volcanoes. In an obscure twist, for the last couple of days I've been killing time in Taupo and volcanoes are visible from every window I look out of. Yesterday I walked around part of New Zealand’s biggest lake and there three of them stood, huddled together in the distance.

I can't even direct my anger at anything, because all these stupid volcanoes dotted around the world are really bloody beautiful.

It’s like trying to get angry at a large, potentially lava spilling Labrador.

I know it could be worse. I know he'll get to Sydney eventually. But it won't be Tuesday April 20th, and that's why I'm sad.

Final words on a 2 month learning curve

When you live, work and socialise with the same people for any length of time, certain things that at first you might think strange, become normalised. It's only when I look back that I realise how certain situations I've recently been in might seem...a little odd... to the outside observer, or people back home. Or blog readers.

Like readily hopping into a car with a horrendously drunk driver at the wheel, which I did despite my refusal to even contemplate it at home. But here, it seemed not only acceptable, but necessary: simply because of our remote location and lack of other options.

Or when conversations regularly involved hearing explicit details about the 'hairy wombats' (ha, love that) of the boys' various conquests. The threesomes, couple swapping and way TMI about previous grooms that the Polo Player had slept with. If you'll excuse the pun, Jilly Cooper got the scandalous side of polo bang on. The polo set are more promiscuous than a footballer at Fresher's Week. The closest I got to any action, though, was in the truck on the way to Melbourne. I'd responded to 'Do you want to watch some porn?' with the challenge 'Oh, go on then. Find me the most disgustingly awful thing you can'. So he did, on his iPhone. And I nearly vommed. But hey, Australia's got some long, very boring roads.

I've also socialised with the Polo Player's patrons; the people who pay him to play in their teams. They are successful businessmen with expensive ponies and disposable incomes, who spend a minimum of $10,000 a weekend to play or be associated with a game where the only prize is prestige. Polo isn't driven by cash rewards, it's purely entertainment - a bottomless pit of expense. You might go to the pub to watch a game of football; players and patrons put up thousands of dollars, get a team together and gallop back and forth across a flat field.

One such man was responsible for giving me a bloody good send off from the polo world. The Polo Player had far from forgiven me, but still said goodbye over a couple of Baileys shots, Jagerbombs and a hug before going to meet friends. This left me to spend the rest of Sunday night with his Patron, two other grooms and an Argentinian Polo Player in the bar of a plush hotel on the outskirts of Sydney. Several bottles of champagne replaced dinner, and by the end of the night a $750 bar bill was signed off with the Patron's drunken scrawl. With an early start ahead of them, the others went to bed leaving me and him to finish off the final drops of the good stuff.

After a few minutes of chat about the imminent arrival of my boyfriend and onward travel plans, the pleasant, polite and well-spoken 50-something Patron turned to me on the sofa. He looked me steadily in the eye, and asked

"Do you want a shag?"

in much the same way as you'd ask whether someone would like a cup of tea.

"No thanks", I replied, in the same casual way, tipping the last of the champagne down my gullet. "I'm quite tired actually. I think I'll just go to bed."

And so, un-shocked, un-embarrassed, and completely un-surprised given all that I've been exposed to (literally) over the last two months, that's what I did - alone.

So that's that. New Zealand next, where I will resume travels in the real world.

Dans le dumps

The last few days have been a stark realisation of how difficult life can get when someone doesn't get what they want.

Leaving when I did meant forfeiting $1000 and an air fare to New Zealand, which I now understand wasn't heading my way "when I left" as he'd said all along, but more when the Polo Player agreed that I could go. ie., Not now. The money's nothing though, it would have been nice, but it's not what I worked hard for.

You little comment box fiends are all completely right. My Boyfriend's right, my sister's right, Matty and Annie are right; I'm entitled to leave whenever I want. Nothing was simpler than the fact that for some reason, whatever it was, I just didn't want to continue the job. This is my trip, the one I've saved and worked my arse off in the most boring secretarial positions imaginable in order to do. Perhaps I'd underestimated how much the Polo Player valued me. Whatever it is, I can't stand letting people down. As he called me from the truck on the way to Sydney upon hearing I'd been crying, said "Believe me. No one's more upset than I am that you're leaving", I knew that's exactly what I'd done.

But in a way, that's just it. It's always about him. Even when guilt trips came in from his mum, who I got on with incredibly well, the focus was on how important this was for him. If there's any possible way I could just do these two weeks, it would mean so much to him. It's so important for him. To which I replied that I fully understood how important it was, but that my round the world trip was important for me. And no one was looking out for me, except for, well, me.

As the time that I left them all got nearer, I became more detached. No longer on the receiving end of instructions, I could sit back and observe how they were issued. And realise how for the last two months, I've been completely, unknowingly absorbed into a little Polo shaped bubble. Even now, sitting in the centre of Sydney writing this; clean, not a horse or farm in sight, miles from the Polo Player, his family and the horses, I still don't feel fully away from it all yet.

The last few days have been a bit of a shock to the old system.

Let's not leave things like this

Travel plans, time, communication issues. I could come up with any number of reasons why today, as four of us rode down to the field with all the horses, I said

"Polo Player...I don't think I'm going to go"

Annie made a sound resembling 'eek' and pushed her mare into a faster walk, leaving me and the Polo Player level. He fixed me with a glare.

"Right. You're not coming? I can't cover you Jo." His assurances the day before that if I really didn't want to go, then he'd use Matty to groom and use someone else to run the horses out to the field were seemingly forgotten. Instead, "This will f*** us. You're leaving me in the lurch."

I could feel tears planning their escape, so I did that thing where you look in the opposite direction at an interesting blade of grass.

"I'm sorry. I just can't commit to both weeks and I don't want to get all the way up there and let you down at an even worse time."

And then, having heard my plan to come with them to the final game in Sydney, he rode off. We started trotting around the familiar track and my tears made a run for it. my four horses, the perceptive little scamps, slowed their pace and fell into line.

Even though I knew it was the one thing I shouldn't be feeling, guilt panged in my chest.

Blogging is good for internal dilemmas

Ahh, remember when leaving a job was easy?

When you could just say 'Hey, boss! I'm leaving! Seeeee ya!" and bugger off to lie on a beach somewhere in, ooh, I don't know...New Zealand?

Yeah.

See, when I told the Polo Player my plans to scoot next week, I wanted to leave in the middle of the Big, Posh Polo Tournament. This is because The Big, Posh Polo Tournament requires relocation. For two weeks, three grooms, thirteen horses (there has been a casualty) and one polo player are moving to arguably the best polo facility in the world, 6 hours away in the middle of absolute nowhere. Owned by Australia's version of Rupert Murdoch, this place is the pinnacle of polo. It's the big cheese, the secluded compound where you're more likely to see a helicopter making a drop off than a car.

But I've been feeling a bit blue; worn down by on-the-job clashes with Matty, which were spilling over into play time. Plus, with three of us now looking after the horses, it's been a case of 'too many cooks' down at the yard. The idea of taking these problems to a place where I was unable to get away or even get mobile signal made me unhappy. So, the other night, I declared myself out.

Unfortunately, the Polo Player wasn't about to let me go that easily.

Basically, if I'm not posting on Monday, it means that I've decided to succumb to the Polo Player's lengthy and scarily persuasive chat on how everything will go to pot if I'm not there. And I need to be there for the whole time. Not a few days, not one week, but two. His words, not mine.

If you don't hear from me in the next two weeks, it's because I'm in the middle of nowhere. Grooming, possibly having the time of my life, possibly being driven mad, possibly being miserable, possibily wasting 2 weeks of travel time, possibly wishing I was elsewhere, possibly loving it, possibly hating it. Who knows.

Oh, I don't know what to do.

Do I go with my selfish instinct, the same one that made me book this trip in the first place, and spend the last month of alone time travelling around New Zealand? Or do I choose to make life easier for someone else and continue doing something I'm already questioning?

Arrghh.

I'll decide tomorrow.

Yeah, it's now...isn't it?

Time is flying.

Despite what my most recent posts seem to suggest, this grooming lark is a good buzz. It's hard work, my emotions pretty much fly from Africa to the Arctic every day, but I'm slowly realising that the best experiences while travelling aren't necessarily the ones which make you convulse from laughing. You've said it and I know it: when all this is over, I'm going to look back on these last seven weeks and feel like I've done something that backpacker buses, bunk beds and tour guides wouldn't even come close to. Then I'm going to sleep in until 11am every single day for the next four months.

I was going to write about Saturday. How I was single handedly in charge of sorting 14 horses for a whole, four person team; my only help coming from Annie, who is as clueless about polo as I was six weeks ago. How I failed to get one horse out to the field in time for the entire match. How, although it was forecast to rain, we instead had burning 30 degree sunshine, 60% humidity and more flies than a long-drop toilet. How, despite all that, the Polo Player still thanked me profusely for my help, blamed someone else for being unorganised and gave Annie and I lots of beer. But enough of me rattling on about the ups and downs, I think you probably get the idea.

Instead, I think it's time to wrap it up. I've spent my day off lying on the sofa with the Little Blue Dog nestled against me, watching Hollywood's Most Vacuous give eachother gold statues and verbal hand jobs live on TV. While some perma-tan silver fox waxed lyrical on screen, I told the Polo Player that I'm thinking of making a move soon. The initial reaction wasn't great, which was to be expected as I've possibly picked the worst time to go in terms of polo. "We could do with having you until the end of the month. Have a think about it", I was told. So I did - again.

The Polo Player returned to the living room later, where I lay with my feet tucked under the Blue Dog, and my arms draped over the Jack Russell on my lap.

"Don't worry about it. If you need to go, we'll sort something out" he said, as if he'd been thinking about it too.
"I'm not about to leave anyone in the lurch, and if you need me to stay then I will."

But assured that something would be organised, my two weeks notice was accepted.

There's just one more place to visit before I go.

Misery loves female company

I reached the edge again on Tuesday. A twelve hour day, hamburger for lunch and then nothing until...well, nothing. Until we got home from the Local Pub where we'd gone straight after work and I'd boycotted dinner and gone to bed. The logic being I can eat, but not sleep, in the morning.

The Polo Player had spent the day stressed about money issues (ie. severe lack of it), Matty was stressed from having to ride 21 horses in a day while the Polo Player sorted said money issues out. I was stressed from the stress of being around a stressed teenager and a 32 year old who was increasingly acting like one.

"What's wrong with you today anyway? You've hardly said two words" I'd asked Matty that morning, as his silence while I tacked up horses while he rode had begun to grate.
"Nothing. I'm just having a quiet day."
"Well as long as it's not a bloody stroppy day." I'd replied over my shoulder as I threw a saddle on yet another horse.
"Yeah. Stop sulking. Only women get PMT, buddy" the Polo Player chipped in helpfully.

Tensions had risen with the alcohol levels later in the pub. Hungry, tired and failing to win any argument we had, whether the subject was horses or celebrities, I sat in the back of the Ute at 11pm on the way home, with silent tears streaming down my face. This was it. Finito. The End. I don't need this shit on holiday.

I took myself to bed and cried while doors slammed outside. The Polo Player drove off to collect the new groom, an Irish girl who was to replace me when I left in a few weeks time. Perfect timing, I thought. I'm outta here.

The next morning, my mood low, I was down on the yard as usual sorting out the horses. The Polo Player pulled up, and out got him and the new groom.

"Hi, I'm Annie", she said.
"Hey. I'm Jo. Nice to meet you" I replied, shaking her hand.
"Right, JoJo will show you how we do things, I've got some stuff to sort back at the house. Go and, err, chat or something."

And we did. We chatted, and chatted, and chatted. And I thought, this girl's quite cool. We talked boys, we talked horses, we talked nails, make up and Home. We talked about her frankly horrendous experience on another farm which made my time here look like playgroup. I realised it was the first good female conversation I'd had in a long time and that potentially, this friendly Irish girl could keep me sane.

By the end of the day, we were back down at the pub; the two of us curled up on the sofa, laughing while the boys played pool and making plans for our next day off.

"I think me and you are going to get on well, Jo" she said, as we ordered another G&T each on the Polo Player's bar fund.

And so the pattern continued, and my abusive relationship with Polo Grooming took yet another turn for the better.

Friday Night

If I hadn't just googled it, I'd just describe the area where I've been living as well, farmland. As in, it's not a village, as that would imply there's something there. It's just, well, fields and stuff.

The nearest place for your basics is 17km away in Town. Town consists of a few quiet streets, shop fronts with wooden verandas and stencilled signage straight out of the 1920s, a train station and a supermarket. For chain stores and shopping centres, you'll want the city of Wagga Wagga, which is over 50km away. For special occasions (or polo matches), Sydney and Melbourne are both reachable after a five hour drive on a long, straight road where there's nothing but sheep and cows on either side.

But where I am is none of these things. Google calls it a "locality", a blink-and-you'll-miss-it section of road to somewhere else; population 190. What it does have, is a central hub. And by this, I mean pub. Which is also a hotel. Which also doubles as a post office and general store selling only the essentials (coca cola, bread, milk and beer).

Although the Polo Player and his family frequent this Pub regularly, Friday was my first time in there. The Polo Player took Matty and I for a meal and some drinks before our weekend of polo began. "Woo, Friday night" said Matty, who, on his fourth visit, had a hint of sarcasm to his voice. "It'll be going off"

Now, clearly I'm not the average patron of this particular Pub. For one, I didn't know absolutely everyone by name, as the 30 or so other people in there seemed to. Secondly, I wasn't sporting a beer gut, beard, plaid shirt or work boots. In fact, for the first time since bootcut went out, I walked into a drinking establishment and was the only girl dressed in super skinny jeans and a Zara cardigan. Which as any European girl knows, is a pretty rare occurrence.

While families sat eating and chatting in big groups, the usual lone suspects sat at the bar, swapping brief comments with the barman, ordering schooners and middies of beer, or cans of mixed spirits. Conversation was focused on local, not worldly issues. We got stools and sat around the bar, while the Polo Player greeted those who walked past and talked about farming in a drought and other subjects a million miles away from my London life.

As the night wore on, the families went home. I could tell the night was really about to kick off when some wild thing put Guns N Roses on the jukebox.

It wasn't long before a chubby blonde 30-something trucky, who later told me he'd left school at 14 and "can't read or write too good" but thankfully "can count alright!", sidled up and offered to buy me a drink. Having politely declined, he commenced the 'getting to know you' chat, much to the amusement of a smirking Matty who was earwigging in between pool shots.

As it ticked onto midnight and our 5am wake up crept ever closer, the three of us called it a night. At this point the bloke I'd been chatting to earlier shuffled up and put a piece of paper in my hand. "Err...umm...this is for if you're ever in Sydney" he said, before disappearing back to his side of the bar.

I got into the car and unfolded the paper.



It's safe to say that Hayden won't be getting a phone call, but for all the amusement it gave me, I reckon the Local Pub is definitely worth another visit.

Saturday: It hits

Polo grooming is a bit like an abusive relationship. You get all the bruising, sweating and aching, swearing that it'll be the last time you suffer through it. Next thing you know, you're back on the proverbial horse as if none of it ever happened.

See even though I was having the worst day of my short polo grooming career, I was stubborn about not wanting to quit. My work history at home has consisted of me finding something I love, doing it for free, before gradually getting disillusioned and losing interest. Time and time again the going gets tough, so I get going. Granted, a lot of it's to do with the non-payment. If you're working for free, you expect something in return. I've stuck this job out so far because in return for my hard work, I get free accommodation, food and a lovely family to live with. My bank account has remained practically untouched since January. Ultimately, it means I can travel for longer and experience things I otherwise wouldn't. It's just slowly, the hours have upped, the time off has heavily depleted. It was time to weigh up what I wanted.

I woke up on Saturday feeling resigned. I didn't want to quit, but I didn't want to spend my time away being miserable and knackered. There were two games to get through before we could pack up and head home. Two games that Matty was playing in now too, so I'd be doing everything myself. It was a decider in more ways than one.

The routine begins. Saddles first, followed by three bridles, then the plaited tail gets folded up and taped in place, top, middle and bottom. Girths are tightened and I walk the first pony out to the Polo Player. The game horn sounds.

First horse plays half a chukka, comes back. The next goes out.

Then, panic.

The pace switches. Suddenly, you're throwing tack off the first horse onto the truck, unravelling bandages and ripping the tail free of the tape. Headcollar on. Taking the heavily breathing, sweating horse, it's veins visible through the drenched fur, and running with it towards the nearest hose. Cold water sprays and mud splatters up your legs, the horse throws its head in the air, spins in circles, unable to stand still. Now soaked, you run it back to the horsebox, fingers fumbling with the rope as you tie it up. Three minutes gone. The second horse is already back. The third is out. Your breathing is going mental. Fuck, shit, bollocks where is the sodding...ah, there. Ok. ARGH. Remember the second horse is going out again in the fifth chukka. Right. Keep it's bandages on and tail up. The fourth and fifth horse needs saddles on. Wash the third. Tack up the first again.

Then... just like that, adrenaline hits.

The pace is the same, but you've got everything under control. You're enjoying yourself. It's calm all of a sudden. You're smiling, even. One by one, the horses go out and you're experiencing a rush of happiness. Quit? This? No, no. I'm grooming for a whole game on my own for the first time. Think how much better I'll be next week! Why would I give up now?

Twenty minutes later, the Polo Player appears in his car. My legs are streaked with brown watermarks, my hat shields the sun from half a grubby face. There's black under my nails and my white t-shirt is stained with horse sweat, leather and dust. There's blood, not mine, on my arm.

He hands me a bottle of Victoria Bitter and a packet of crisps and says 'JoJo, you look like a polo groom'.

Adrenaline makes my decision for me. I'll give it another couple of weeks.

I'm easily won.

Friday: Welcome to the Edge.

Ahh, those demanding days at the office. You knowwww...when your tolerance levels are pushed and one thing piles on top of the next. E-mails constantly flood in, your day consists of you standing in the toilets, fanning your eyes and trying to pull yourself together. You eventually get home after a fatigued and lonely commute, and have a cuddle, cry or wine bottle or three, and go to bed early, feeling rubbish.

God, what I'd do for one of those.

Tell you what, let's swap. Try getting up at half past 6 and doing physical, muscle-achingly demanding work until gone 1am in the morning. Your eyes are shutting of their own accord on the journey back from Polo Practice, but getting through the gates at home doesn't mean your day is finally over. It means that 14 pent up horses will have to be unloaded and walked down the pitch black track to their various paddocks before you can even contemplate your duvet. Then there are 14 individual feeds and two bales of hay to make up, pick up and distribute. It's two o'clock before you get to sleep, then your phone beeps. It's the rural equivalent of the office e-mail, containing an extensive list of jobs and horses to sort for the next morning, concluded with the words 'go fast'. You're back down on the farm by 7am, feeding, riding, cleaning, preparing for another six hour trip to Melbourne and another two days of grooming at polo tournaments. Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

So come Friday evening, after three days of exhausting work in 30+ degree heat, legs and arms streaked with dirt and a packet of crisps since breakfast to keep me going, it's fair to say I'd reached the edge. I'd slept on my discontent the night before and instead of feeling refreshed, had woken up to an even worse day.

Not only was this the hardest physical work I've ever done in my life, but my decision making skills were coming under fire, too. Having been given more work and more responsibility this week, I found myself either completing jobs in the wrong order, or just not the way the Polo Player would do them himself. See, when you're looking after someone elses horses, the right way is their way. Not yours. And that's that. So there I stood in the horse box, my office toilet on Friday evening, making up feeds and taking deep breaths of ammonia and manure scented air. Stressed, hungry, and tired, I knew I'd be laughed at if I complained, let alone cried about any of it.

Instead, I chose Create Message.

To: Boyfriend
I'm going to lose it in a minute :(


Message Sending Failed.

In times of need, you can trust Vodafone to be on hand, reminding you that frustrated texts don't work when you're in the middle of nowhere.

When I flew back from New Zealand, I'd made a deal with myself: that I'd carry on doing this for as long as I was having fun. Unfortuntely, I went to bed late on Friday feeling like the lows were far outweighing the highs.

But my alarm was set for 7am, and there was another day of polo to get through before any decision could be made.

I had no option but to sleep on it again.

Return to Oz

"All sorted Jo Jo. You're getting picked up from the airport. See you when you get here."

It was all a bit last minute. Flights were booked late on Friday morning, and by 9pm that night, Qantas was whisking me back over to Australia. I was meeting the Polo Player, Matty and 14 horses in Melbourne, but as yet had no idea where. Despite three days of rest in Auckland, I felt shattered and slightly nervous about my latest decision to postpone New Zealand and continue working in the elite, slightly alien world of Australian polo. My three week dalliance as a groom had become a season-long commitment, unpaid for the moment, and I wondered if I'd made the right choice.

I thought about it all the way through immigration and passport control, where I got my fourth visa stamp of the week. I pondered it through baggage claim, into arrivals. I jittered about my decision as I stood outside Melbourne Airport, backpack on a trolley next to me, waiting for a lift to god knows where. I considered my change of plans right up until the chauffeur arrived, picked up my bags, opened the door to a blacked out car and told me we were going to Melbourne's newest five star boutique accommodation.

Somewhere between being asked if the car temperature was ok, and arriving at this spotless contemporary building which was more art gallery than hotel - I decided I'd probably done alright. Reassurance kept coming when I walked into our room at 12am, found the Polo Player eating a complimentary chocolate souffle in the lounge area, with Matty and the Hotel Director sprawled over two queen sized beds watching the flat screen TV and drinking Corona; a bottle of which landed in my hand as soon as my bags hit the floor.

With two large beds and dividing curtains, there was no confusion about the sleeping arrangements this week. But as the Polo Player yelled 'Hey JoJo! Look!" before pressing his arse, then balls against the walls of the frosted glass en-suite bathroom on Sunday morning, and when my shower was interrupted by shouts of 'We can see you naked! WOOOO!', I had a feeling that we'd all be getting pretty well acquainted over the coming weeks anyway.

As far as my latest travel choice goes, I'll take the odd stay in a posh hotel over privacy any day.