In all the excitement of the BIG TRIP I totally forgot that 23 June marked the 4 year anniversary of this blog. It was on that day that I first started writing this truckload of literary codswallop. Contributing my share of crap to the ever expanding pile of it out there in the cybersphere.

I was inspired by the blog (the first I had ever come across) of my cyber friend Julie, whose writing about her infertility and adoption journey made me laugh and cry and go "shit, yeah! I can so relate to that".

So happy 4th bloggerversary, Deep Kick Girl.

P.S. Thanks to you, my loyal reader/s, for slowing the car and taking a look at this car wreck. Move on, nothing to see here.

I need to have a rant. Sorry. You have been warned.

Homosexual marriage has been raised in the media again because apparently the government is thinking of making it legal (I think). The problem is every time they start talking about it on the radio my blood pressure rises and I start mumbling incoherently to myself, making the children worry about my mental health and their own safety (usually this happens in the car).

Why am I so grumpy about this?

Because I can't understand why this didn't fucking happen (many many many) years ago!! Really! What is the problem here?

I've heard it said that legalising gay marriage will weaken the institution of marriage. Why? How? What the fuck?

What is the institution of marriage? Let's be blunt here, marriage is a legal construct designed to make fathers financially responsible for their offspring. Without bothering to do any actual research and relying solely on my piss weak memory I am fairly sure that's how marriage came about. The church got jack of helping women and their bastard children, blah blah blah, and wanted to make men responsible.

These days we are fed the romantic notion of marriage but let's be honest, it is about a legal and social partnership, the romantic part has a co-starring role at best, possibly only a cameo appearance at the beginning of the film (you know those first few months when you spend your whole time bonking and can't imagine a day when you'd seriously rather clean the lint out of your belly button and/or the dryer than have to do that to his thing). But in essence it's a legal unit which clearly shows to our society that this stuff (e.g. children, house, car, jet ski) belongs to these people (i.e. aforementioned married hetrosexual couple).

So what exactly would be weakened? I am truly confused. If the aforementioned couple both happen to have penises or vaginas instead of one of each how does this model become weakened or changed in any way. Surely homosexual relationships are just like hetrosexual ones (except for what happens in the bedroom; you know, which bits go where). How does this one small aspect of their lives affect their entitlement to not only be legally shackled to each other but to indulge in what us hetros take for granted: the wedding itself. For fuck's sake, didn't our forefathers die in the war for our right to spend more than we can afford on weddings involving OTT fashion, overpriced food and alcohol and functions featuring really, really bad dancing? Why should our homosexual cousins be deprived of this rite of passage just because they fancy someone with the wrong sort of genitalia?

Being a non-believer I can not for a second buy into the religious arguement either. I simply can't believe that the hypothetical creator of the universe (including those pesky gay people) would honestly care should they wish to indulge in a ceremony where they pledge their love for each other while wearing ridiculous clothing.

I mean that old "God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve" has to be most lame retort against gay marriage in the history of lame retorts. What does that even mean? You can't have it both ways (ha ha) religious people; either everything God makes is good and perfect (in which case so are gay people and their marriages) or everything he makes is imperfect and kind of open to interpretation (in which case gay marriage is OK).

Which brings me to the fact that everything we see and live and experience is a man made construct. We take for granted that life is lived by the rules we experience in our time and in our society. But the reality is that it is people (and not God) who create and adjust and manipulate the social rules by which we live (including those found in the Bible and other religious doctrines). It boggles my mind that people still haul out that old chestnut about "Adam and Steve" when I would defy even the Pope to provide me with a coherent arguement about any true and logical reason as to why homosexual people shouldn't be able to marry. [How absolutely hilarious of the Catholic church, or any Christian church really, to be against such unions when they have been busy buggering little boys in their care for a gazillion years. The hypocrisy!)

In the same way we now can't really imagine how there was a society much like our own which thought slavery was a pretty good thing we will progress to a society where gay marriage is the absolute norm. I am 100% certain of this. I just wish we could bloody well get on with it. I feel I've been listening to the same old stale debate since before I was born. It's dull, it's boring, it's stupid. If a consenting adult wants to marry someone of the opposite sex, the same sex or even a bloody cabbage (a consenting cabbage, of course) then I'm all for it. The world needs more weddings, more divorce lawyers and most importantly more wedding reality tv shows such as Bridezillas (oooh, I'd love a gay version of that). So let's get it together people. Come on Kevin 07, you shit me buddy, but if you can pull this off I'll reluctantly have to sneer just a little less when I see your bobbly little head on the teev.

The End.

There is so much to say about last night I am finding it hard to know where to start. I went in with a few expectations, mainly to do with the possibility of bumping into some of my old crowd. I had little expectations for the performance.

Going alone meant I could sit in the icy confines of the upstairs stalls at the Enmore Theatre and people watch in peace. The crowd was pretty much how I imagined it, 40-50 year olds, some with their teenage kids. All of us reliving our past. I was surprised (or maybe not) by the number of adult men revisiting their flattops and their Rude Boy jackets with the red tartan lining. Yes, we all had our Doctor Martens on. One gent even turned up in full uniform: the turned up jeans, Docs, white t-shirt and black braces hanging from his waist down round his knees. Have some dignity, man!

I was looking for familiar faces but quickly realised those faces would now be 25 years older and just a tad wider and wrinklier, just like my own. Surely my chances of recognising anyone were slim. I did see one Sam Lightfoot, a singer in a band I saw once or twice in the day. My brain still won't produce the name of the band but I'm hoping it will come to me eventually.

Sitting there, waiting, thinking, threw me down a deep, dark well of nostalgia. My god, the people who were so important to me in the day. Melissa and Kelly, Katrina, little Billie who you could pop in your pocket, she was so small and elf-like, Cathy George who started as an enemy and turned into the best of friends. The boys, oh the boys! Big Brett and Little Brett, Little Michael, Big Brian and Little Brian (the cold night we shared a pash in the dirt behind the Royal George Hotel), John Duffy (the king of the skinheads), my own sweet, lost Neil (what could have been...), so many others. Fuck the memories are bittersweet, aren't they. What a perfect word bittersweet is. So apt and right for just this sort of traipse down memory lane. Whatever happened to these people who meant so much to me a million years ago?

The concert itself was awesome, beyond awesome. There are no words to describe its total awesome-ness. The boys still have it. I assume they had it in the day but they never toured here so this was my very first (and I am guessing very last) taste of The Specials live. Terry, gruesome as ever, playing the straight man, shuffling around at the front, mumbling his lyrics, just as he should be. Neville and Lynval, the clowns, dancing, jumping, getting the crowd going. All of us young again and having the time of our lives.

It was such a wonderful surprise that the whole audience, all of us old, creaking fogies, were fucking into it. The ska beat is hard to resist and we were all up on our feet from the first note, dancing, singing along. I used to be scared of going to concerts alone, until I went to Robbie Williams and had the best time. When I'm alone I can go crazy and not care. There's no-one around who knows me to judge me. What do I care what the goons next to me think? Is there any greater pleasure in life than yelling out the words to Little Bitch at the top of your lungs along with 5,000 like-minded Rude Boys and Girls?

There was a weird moment for me towards the end. During the encore they launched into Longshot Kick the Bucket, a ska favourite. The crowd went wild and suddenly I wanted to cry, I almost cried. The emotion hit me so hard, it was like a fist in the gut. The day is gone, it won't return, I can't recapture it. Today is another day, a different day, but a little part of me wants to re-live that day. The day when I was so alive, so free, so passionate and spiky, when everything was possible.

My only tiny disappointment about last night was the lack of Stupid Marriage in the set. Yes, they did Too Much, Too Young (would have been lynched otherwise) but for me those two songs go together: a couplet.

But the end was true and real and perfect. Enjoy Yourself, how could they have written that almost 30 years ago?

Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think
Enjoy yourself, while you're still in the pink
The years go by, as quickly as you wink
Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself,
It's later than you think

To the casual observer it may appear that I hate my children. But rest assured I don't. They certainly test my sanity on a very regular basis. Often they make me think that I should have given more serious thought to a life in the nunnery or a Buddhist monestary or simply a cave far, far away. But apart from these moments I spend a lot of time loving my children so much it scares me.

They are both amazing little people and the fact that the universe has somehow placed them in my care is a totally awesome and unfathomable concept. They make me feel stuff all the time.

How can I describe what I feel when I find Marianna dressed in a singlet and undies dancing in front of the mirror in her room, singing Waterloo at the top of her lungs, substituting "bum" for every second word?

How can I describe what I feel when I find Will and Marianna conspiring together in her room. Huddled around her little Dora table, Marianna is issuing instructions to Will who is her scribe. He has written "I love you mummy. From Marianna". They are preparing it as a surprise for me.

Parenting is full of really tough moments but the sweet moments make it all so worthwhile. I am one very lucky mummy.

Fantasy is better than reality (der!):

Example 1: Parenting

In my pre-children parenting fantasies things were very different. My children and I would have a beautiful relationship. They would telepathically understand me and want nothing more but to follow my instruction and please me, because by doing so we would all live in a harmonious wonderland. They would be beautifully behaved and enjoy doing the things I wanted them to do, when I wanted them to do those things. We would be friends, walking hand in hand along life's meandering path.

I saw the so-called parents in the supermarkets with their screaming, misbehaving children and I would think "oh those poor fools, if only they parented correctly, like I will, these horrible scenes would be totally unnecessary". I would see friends eagerly planning their nights out and weekends away sans children and I would say to Jason "if they are so desperate to get away from their children why on earth did they have children in the first place?". I honestly could not imagine ever wanting to be parted from my (hypothetical) children for a millisecond and I could not understand why people lucky enough to have children would not want to be with them every possible moment.

My perfect children would eat only organic food, lovingly cooked each day. They would play beautifully together and with their equally intelligent, well behaved peers. Oh, the fantasies that filled my empty head in those blissfully ignorant days. I was so friggin' smug and contemptuous of the failings of all other parents. Ha! How very little I knew and understood.

Example 2: Men

Maybe it's just me but I do spend more time than reasonably necessary fantasising about (mainly) Robbie Williams, (ocassionally) Jesse White (yes, I know! 21 I should be ashamed and I am...) and (once in a while) assorted others. Don't get me wrong, I am happily married, nothing wrong on that front. Just my mind likes to wander...

In these fantasies it's all glamour, gorgeous bodies (look, they are bloody fantasies OK!), fun and lashings of witty banter.

The sad part is there is no celebrity in the universe whose perceived sexiness translates into reality. You know that life with Robbie Williams would be just as dreary as any other reality. There would be farting in bed, morning breath, insecurity, bickering over stupid things, you get the idea...

Example 3: Holidays

I love planning holidays. I day dream about the beautiful beach, the warm weather, the delicious food, the children frollicking in the sand. Whenever we plan a holiday I spend a lot of time looking at photos of the resort on the internet, drifting off in a mental cloud of pleasure as I transpose myself into these airbrushed pictures.

Because I am addicted to organising often our family holidays are planned up to a year in advance, which gives me ample time to think and dream about the upcoming trip. I love love love this phase of the holiday; the pre-holiday phase.

The reality of our holidays is generally different. The reality involves waiting in airports for hours on end with children who don't know the meaning of sit still for a bloody second. Unpredictable weather, often resulting in being stuck in holiday units with bored children during torrential downpours. Expensive restaurant food which the children won't eat for totally mysterious reasons (but they always eat pasta/rice/nuggets and chips). Exhausting return trips which mean feeling wrecked for a week once we are home again. Holiday? What holiday?

Have you got an example of why fantasy is better than reality?

Imagine my excitement when I received an email with this in the subject line:

"The Ultimate Experience with the Sydney Swans up for grabs!"

Imagine my disappointment when I read the details:

"As a special offer to My Ticketek members, book tickets online to one of the remaining Swans games this season before Sunday 9 August and go in the draw to win a 2009 Sydney Swans signed guernsey, Swans merch voucher, Platinum seating for 4 at ANZ Stadium to see Sydney battle Geelong and a $50 ANZ food and beverage voucher!"

Obviously their idea of the Ultimate Experience and mine are very, very different. No mention of scented body oil and/or a blow up rubber pool full of jelly. I think their marketing people need to get back to the drawing board.

Well I didn't quite finish that off on a positive note, did I? Hmmm...

This is positive though. Before Harry Potter we saw the preview of a film I'm very much looking forward to, Where The Wild Things Are. This is based on a book which I loved so very much as a child and now love reading to my own children. It's a beautiful, magical book; just the right mix of humour, imagination and the scary ideas which loiter around children's minds. The language is intelligent and just a little cryptic, making the child work a bit to "get it" and giving the adult reader a great deal of pleasure.

The film looks amazing and I think Spike Jonze is the perfect director for it. I can't quite imagine anyone else doing it justice. There is even an appearance by our very own Angus Sampson (not yet sure if he's a monster or a human, IMDB doesn't provide his character's title).

I heard a film reviewer say that there isn't much point doing a review of the new Harry Potter film because the people who love the book/film franchise are going to see it no matter what. That is very much true.

Will and I went this morning and I can say that I did enjoy it for it was, a Harry Potter film, but I was hugely disappointed by how very badly it was cobbled together. A lot happens in the book version of HP and the Half Blood Prince and really almost bugger all happens in the film. How is this so? How did they fill up 2 and half hours of cinematic time without really saying much of anything or having much action or progressing the story in any way?

The editing is shocking, one scene bumping into another in an almost comic manner. It looks to me like they tried to shoot the book staying true to the story, realised it would have turned into a 6 hour art house epic, then almost randomly chopped out bits here and there with the aim simply to fit into a limited time allowance.

I left wondering whether people who hadn't read the book were able to make heads or tails of the story. Apart from a great deal of focus on teenage crushes and "snogging" there was almost no mention of Voldermort. Worse still Voldermort's Horcruxes, which are arguably the point of this installment of the book, are explained only briefly, their full significance barely touched upon. Which makes me wonder how they'll be tackled in the Deathly Hallows.

To finish on a positive note I have to say the Quidditch scenes were excellent, the special effects obviously improving from film to film.

I know that Deathly Hallows is being filmed in two parts, hopefully allowing for a bit more focus on the intricate details of the story, but I do despair for it, my favourite of the books, if this is any indication of the contempt with which the production team is now treating its audience.

Feeling down? Not having such a great day?

Go HERE now!

Seriously, is there anything better in life than laughing at bad translation?

If this stuff doesn't cheer you up, I suggest heavy duty drugs.

My movie review of Last Ride (reviewed for www.KidsSpot.com.au):

I enjoyed Last Ride but it is certainly not an easy film to watch. Hugo Weaving is Kev, a petty career criminal on the run across the Australian outback with his son Chook. The backstory is played out in semi-cryptic flashbacks and we slowly come to realise what has brought them to this situation. As they travel along an obviously futile journey, it is the relationship between father and son which drives the story. Very quickly the audience understands that there can be no happy ending.

It is a sparse film, little dialogue and tense drama, beautifully acted, written and directed. I was drawn into every scene, mesmerised. As a parent I found the neglect and abuse of Chook very hard to watch and comprehend. These are the fringes of our society which we don't often see and for the me the situation brought up more questions than answers.

I would not recommend this film as a piece of light entertainment. It is not that at all. But it is a thought provoking, intelligent film which explores themes which are worth thinking about.

I did very much love the ending. While it couldn't have ended happily without ruining the film, I thought the film makers did find a beautiful way of ending it on a note of hope.

I am writing in the hope that the act of writing will inspire me to write something worth reading. Are you with me?

I'm home this afternoon with one sleeping semi-sick child and one on holidays semi-bored child. Marianna awoke this morning with a temperature and a bit of a cough and a bit of a runny nose. Nothing serious (I hope). No curly tail or oinking at this point. Will is home on school holidays. So Big Jay stayed at home for a few hours this morning while I whisked myself to the office to get the wages done. I've been home since about 11 am (at which point Big Jay went to work). So far I've hung out laundry, put away laundry, printed off a tonne of envelopes for the invoices I printed at work last week and packed the envelopes (with Marianna on stamp duty). I've also printed off some maths revision sheets for Will (who was thrilled, let me tell you). I'm about to boil up some pasta to go with the bol sauce I made yesterday afternoon.

Speaking of cooking I have to tell you about the Jerusalem Artichoke Soup I made for lunch yesterday. These little critters are very confusing. They are not artichokes, they are the tubbers of the sunflower and they look like ginger, so by and large people who don't know them avoid them. I really loved the soup I made from them so I would recommend people giving them a go. Very similar to a potato in usage, you could mash them or roast them or pan fry them. I made a cream soup and it was sweet, nutty and delicious.

Tonight I'm off to another free movie care of http://www.kidspot.com/ . This time it's the new Aussie flick Last Ride with Hugo Weaving. It's on at Dendy Newtown so I'll be off to where all the young hip people are, I'm sure to blend right in.

Better mention the girls' weekend I enjoyed the weekend before last. Our playgroup mums' annual weekends away are now a well established institution, this having been the 3rd one. This time we enjoyed the attractions of beautiful Bowral and surrounds, including our now famous long lunch on Saturday afternoon at Centennial Vineyards (where I had previously seen Leonard Cohen earlier this year). The long lunch is a highlight of our weekends away and this one lived up to expectation, especially my rhubarb souffle with walnut ice cream (I wish I had ordered it for entree and main, it was THAT good).

This weekend just gone featured Saturday afternoon at the Swans vs Essendon game. We lost which was disappointing though not unexpected, it's been that sort of year. The highlight (or possibly low light) of the afternoon was the farewell to Barry Hall. Sure he's a thug, but he's OUR thug and we love him. The kids (with a great deal of help from mum) made a sign stating "Bye bye Barry. We'll miss you. Love Will and Marianna". Not sure if Barry saw it but it did come to the attention of one Deborah Hutton who was walking behind us after the game. We had a brief exchange regarding Barry's teary goodbyes and I will count that as one more in my pathetically short and dull list of brushes with fame.

A couple of pics to finish off this bit of useless drivel:

My big girl blowing out her candles at her 4th Birthday Party in May.

Cheer cheer the red and the white...

Nothing better than a hug from a giant baby swan...

Bye bye Big Bad Bazza.

For those who don't believe a four year old can love oysters.

Let's take a little journey back to 1995. A time, pre-children, when I had the energy to care, to give a rat's, to come out fighting, over the big things in life. A recent rummaging through a mystery box of crap residing under my desk at work revealed an odd little treasure: my correspondence with Drum Media, a popular culture free newspaper which may or may not exist these days; I am long past checking what the current week's gig guide has to offer.

This is the review of Red Hot Chili Peppers' My Friends by Ross Clelland which got my blood boiling:

"You know," said one marketing man in a suit to another, "once we got them to wear more than socks over their old fellas, all we needed was the nice ballad, show how cute the boy Kiedis is, and world domination was ours". And now, attempting to repeat the mega success of Under The Bridge, One Hot Minute's acoustic strummy thing becomes the new single that even your maiden aunt won't ask to be turned down when it comes on the radio, (and it will). By no means bad, but Coffee Shop ("we can dance like Iggy Pop") and the non-LP Let's Make Evil kick somewhat more.

This is the venomous spew I sent the way of Mr Clelland by return post (don't mess with my boys buddy):

Dear Drum,

In reference to Ross Clelland's review of the Red Hot Chili Peppers' My Friends in the 31 October issue of Drum Media: Well, excuse-bloody-me, you cynical bastard. While I would be the first one to jump on Mr Clelland's cynicism bandwagon when it comes to about 90% of what passes for popular music, I must voice a protest at this unfair castigation of one of the few truly inspired bands of the last decade. Yes, the Chili Peppers have been around for a decade. They didn't just appear on the whim of some "marketing man in a suit" to make a few bucks on the strength of some mournful little balland and that "cute... boy Kiedis".

For a start, anyone half familiar with the history of the band and their music would know that it all comes from their souls, from personal experiences with death and love and joy and despair and, above all, friendship. If they were simply after the quick bucks surely they wouldn't have waited for four years to come up with a follow up to Blood Sugar Sex Magik (and Under The Bridge).

It can't be that difficult to churn out boring old crap (as you are suggesting this song is) on a predictably regular basis - just ask Michael Bolton, Jimmy Barnes or one of the countless other "rock icons" who drown us in their meaningless blather. Please do not disregard the Chili Peppers as simply one of that lot - they are head and shoulders (and cocks?!) above the mediocre rabble. Next time try a bit of background research before you cast your judgement!

Sincerely
Kathy Blanter
Lisarow NSW

Gee, it didn't take much to get me going 14 years ago! How self righteous and hilarious. I guess nothing much has changed though. I'd still fight to the death for my precious Chili Peppers. I may be a lot older, a fair bit fatter and a great deal grayer in the hair department but it's good to know their music still makes me feel stuff, even when I think my jaded old heart has forgotten how to feel anything at all.

It's a little sad for me that Wilco, a band I have long held in high regard, a band responsible (in a collaboration with Billy Bragg) for Mermaid Avenue, one of my all time favourite CDs, have slowly dwindled into a pile of shite. I've just heard some of their new CD and it's truly bland and self indulgent. Awful. I will hang onto a sweet memory of watching them play at the Big Day Out about 6 or 7 years ago, Murray from The Wiggles standing right in front of me.

I can't believe I've already been home for almost two weeks. To be more precise I can't believe I was actually ever away. Real life has a way of sucking you back in that's truly awesome. Luckily I have photos (which I'll soon be sharing with you, dear reader) and my blog entries to remind me that the big trip did really happen; that I didn't just dream the whole thing.

So what's been happening these past two weeks. Well, the Swans have been loosing, they are getting quite good at it now. It's OK, we have a trip to Melbourne planned for August so we wouldn't want to be going again in September. This week was sad with Michael O'Loughlin announcing his retirement at the end of this season. I feel like I've watched him grow up these last 14 years, as he's grown from an 18 year old rookie to a senior player. He's been such an integral part of our team for all these years that even though I know at 32 he is getting past his AFL prime it will be hard to see him go.

Work has been busy, what with catching up on the work I missed while away and finishing up the end of financial year stuff. As always I am grateful to have a job which pays me more than I deserve to do work I can mainly do in my sleep and which allows me to do all my motherly duties without guilt or penalty. At the moment I am just grateful to have a job.

Jay got a car this week; a cute little Hyundai i30 hatch, Vivid Blue. We've always managed to do nicely as a one car family but it has become increasingly difficult to manage lately. So we bit the bullet and now we're a two car family.

Michael Jackson died and my intial reaction was "one less freak in the world". But then I just felt sort of relieved, like he's been put out of his misery. He was such a Gollum-like creature these last 10 years or so. Tortured, suffering, it was awful to watch. His music will be his legacy and whatever else he was nothing can take the music away from him. I choose to remember the beautiful young man singing Blame It On The Boogie and the sweet young boy dancing in front of The Jackson Five. I hope that the memory of the wretched creature he had become will die with him.

This week Marianna has been at her whining, whinging, tantruming best. It's been one meltdown after another. But in between these emotional train wrecks another side has been emerging. She has become a singing and dancing little dynamo, practicing the songs and moves she has learnt from watching the DVD of Will's school performance of The Lizard of Oz at any given moment. It is too cute to see her earnestly singing A Girls Gotta Dream, doing all the steps and the big arms perfectly.

Well, I'm tired now and my brain has suddenly stopped working. I can't think of a single other thing to write. So goodnight, check back soon for the photos.

Well, as you may have guessed I'm back home. Landed back in Sydney at 6:30 am on Monday morning. The flight home was quite good, I dozed on and off for a great deal of the trip. Managed to sleep through most of all three hours of Watchmen (which was fairly good from what I remember). Watched an episode of Flight of the Conchords (which is a show I could easily love very deeply) and an episode of a great show called Being Human; a British drama/black comedy about a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost sharing a house in Bristol (starts on ABC2 this Friday night).

It's been a tough couple of days from the point of view that I want to sleep early in the evening and then I wake up very early, perpetuating my sleeping problems. Monday I was asleep at 5 pm; I then woke at 4 am absolutely starving and got up for an early breakfast and to watch the final two episodes of True Blood. Yesterday I managed to stay up until 8 pm but then woke at 2 am and tossed and turned until I fell asleep again at 4:30 am.

Anyway, enough about my sleeping problems. Better finish this entry while I'm still awake. Let's catch up on the end of the trip.

I think we were off to Gordon Ramsey's Boxwood Cafe the last time I wrote. This is located in The Berkeley Hotel (where we had already enjoyed Afternoon Tea a few days before) in Knightsbridge. This restaurant has a Michellin star and is therefore a rung up on the ladder from Maze Grill where we had eaten previously. However we all agreed that Maze provided us with a superior experience. I think the problem with Boxwood was the service, it was odd. For example, we ordered a scallop entree to share and the waitress barely had time to get to the kitchen with our order before she re-appeared with the dish. It was a "what the...?" moment. The food was alright, my native lobster main being the standout dish.

After dinner we had a walk around the area, which was full of lovely little streets and Mews, studded with tiny local pubs. Then we came upon Sloane Street which is home to all things Big Name Designer. Shop after shop of the labels you see on the catwalks. Not that I'm a designer girl (unless you call Target a designer label) but thank goodness the shops were all shut. I'm sure that I would have found a pair of gorgeous shoes which would have equated to a couple of months' worth of mortgage payments.

The next day was our last in London. We packed and checked out, storing our bags at the hotel. The morning was spent at the amazing Burough Market. This is a foodie's heaven. Every type of gourmet food you can imagine is all here: cheeses from all over Europe, smoked meats, fruits and vegetables of every variety, gorgeous fresh seafood (including some of the most wonderful freshly opened oysters I've ever tasted), breads, pastries, you name it. Bliss.

Next stop, The National Gallery, for a last dose of culture. Then a taxi trip to the burbs to check out J's little flat in Hammersmith. As luck would have it Hammersmith happens to be not only home to my beautiful sister but also to the brand spanking new Westfield. Of course we needed to inspect this spectacle and after a quick stop in the iconic Fred Perry store we ended with a less than satisfying dinner at the Italian eatery.

Then it was time for the moment we had all been dreading, our goodbyes. I'm a pragmatist, I don't like to wallow too much in potentially painful emotions but it was so hard to say goodbye to my sister. It goes without saying that I love her but above that I just like hanging out with her so much, it so easy to be with her, it's the thing I miss most about her living overseas. So knowing that I wouldn't be able to do that again for quite some time was difficult to face. But we did say our goodbyes and after a short lived drama with the mini cab driver we were off to Heathrow.

Before I finish my entries about this amazing drip a few more tidbits about Odessa. One of the things which kept J and I endlessly amused were the menu translations. Every menu provided opportunities for sniggering and outright hilarity. Here is one of my favourite entries: Sliced Frozen Meats with Soaked Vegetables. Mmmm, doesn't that sound tempting?

You know you're living in a post-modern, globalised world when you are driving through Odessa and seeing posters for the forthcoming tour by Chris Norman from the 70s mega group Smokie. Sing with me now "Oh, I don't know why she's leaving or where she's going to go, I guess she's got her reasons but I just don't want to know 'cos for twenty four years I've been living next door to Alice...".

So on that note I'll put a full stop on my Odessa Adventure. Normal transmission will resume shortly.

A quick update, probably the last, before we run out for our dinner at The Boxwood Cafe in Chelsea. Yes, another Gordon Ramsey restaurant. J took me very seriously when I said I wanted to eat at one of his eateries. If yesterday's lunch at Maze Grill is anything to go by we're in for a treat.

Today started with breakfast at Patisserie Valerie, another chain common around these here parts. It was average, let's put it that way. Then we caught the tube to the East End to start our walking tour of the Jewish Quarter. The tour was lead by a fascinating lady called Jean who had a wonderful way of telling us about the history of this area.

We spent time in the oldest synagogue in London and learnt a great deal about Sir Moses Montefiore and about Prime Minister Disraeli. We finished at the front of Liverpool Street Station at the memorial to the children brought to England from Germany to be saved during WWII.

Lunch was enjoyed at St John Bread and Wine, which is the casual offshoot of St Johns, famous for its snout to tail cuisine. This place is something else, definitely for the serious foodie. We shared small dishes of yummy goodness like beautiful fresh asparagus, just cooked and served with a tiny pot of clarified butter and sea salt flakes, a plate of gorgeous monkfish liver served with something called samphire (a sort of weed) and a plate simply called Tomato which provided a sample of the various in-season tomatoes served with a light pickled walnut dressing. We finished with a bowl of burnt cream ice cream, which was unbelievable. Not for everyone but I enjoyed every morsel.

We needed to head back to J's offiice near Oxford Street to pick up a parcel to bring back home and took the opportunity to drop back into M&S. Mum couldn't find the pants/trousers she wanted but we did get some great control top pantyhose (which I'm sure you're all totally fascinated to hear all about).

Tomorrow J is taking us to explore the Burrough Markets which she loves. I am dying to taste the oysters which I have heard so much about. Sadly I won't be able to bring any home for my oyster loving baby girl to sample. We will then take our bags over to J's house in Hammersmith and squeeze in a quick explore of the new Westfield recently opened up the road from her.

Then it's time for our sad goodbyes and then to head to the airport and come home.

I need to say that I really really love London. I think living here may kill me, if it's possible to die from sensory overload. London is everything I love in life squared or even cubed, distilled to its purest form. Culture, theatre, history, people, food, fashion; everything is here in so much abundance it's hard to contemplate. Sure there is plenty of crap but the multitude of fabulous more than makes up for it. I would surely spontaneously combust if I had to spend a great deal of time here; short visits are much better for my health.

I am so glad and grateful for this wonderful adventure which I have been lucky enough to share with my mum and my sister. It has come with it's share of frustrations but for the most part it has been amazing and eye opening. I will never forget Odessa and the glimpse of what my life may have been; I hope I can carry that lesson with me for the rest of my days. I will never forget these few days of indulgence in London.

Sydney, here I come.

Good evening discerning readers. All is well here in London town. Finally have a minute to catch my breath and update on the last few days (also I have just found where the Business Centre at the hotel is).



Tuesday was our travelling day, so there isn't all that much to report. We spent the morning packing than spent a little time with a couple of mum's friends. At the airport a few more people turned up and it was quite a big farewell.



Odessa airport is not what you'd call the latest in aeronautical facilities. In fact it's little more than a shed. When we lined up to get into the main part of the airport it became obvious that a little door opened and a couple of people at at ime were invited to proceed. So we lined up and waited our turn. Just when we were thinking the Odessa authorities had let us off easy, without any bastardisation to speak of, a special little moment happened.



The door opened and the man in charge told us to come through. J and I went through but mum stopped in the doorway to say her final goodbyes. The fat slob on door duty looked at her and said "well, if you're not going to come in..." and slammed the door on her, literally, as she was standing half way in. Luckily for her (and all involved really) she didn't notice and simply pushed the door and came through. I wanted to belt the moron over the head but I was worried about what may have happend if we caused a stink.



Anyway, the flight to Vienna was uneventful, as was the flight to London. We arrived in London in the early evening and proceeded to sit in traffic for what seemed like four days on our way to Charring Cross and the Charring Cross Hotel where were to be staying.



After dropping off our gear we decided a quick walk was in order as well as a quick bit of dinner. One thing London is not short of is places to eat. There are at least 487 different types of franchised eating establishments and most of them are represented around our immediate area. My darling sister J, being a foodie and all, knows the best places and we were quickly ensconsed in what some say is the best fish and chip eatery in London. It's not flash but it is good.



Having eaten our fill of haddock and hand cut chips, not to mention a bowl of mushy peas (which I have to say are not my favourite thing in the world) we moisied on home, with a gelato in hand for dessert.



Yesterday we started with breakfast at nearby Leon's (a quick, healthy institution around here) and then spent some time in the National Portrait Gallery which is just up the road. How nice to absorb some top notch culture before proceeding to my favourite passtime, shopping. My requested first stop of the Dr Martens shop proved futile. Not only are the shoes no longer my cup of tea but the staff were too cool for school and not very helpful, I guess all those piercings must make it difficult to look like you may be interested in serving your customers.



Good old Marks & Spencers were more receptive to our custom and soon I was happily purchasing two new pairs of pants, I mean trousers (if you say "pants" here people apparently think you're talking about underwear). Being horizontally challenged I do love a shop which provides pants/trousers in short lengths, meaning I don't need to have a foot of fabric taken off the bottom.



Then it was time to sit in heavy traffic on the way to our "surprise", afternoon tea at The Berkley Hotel in Knightsbridge. This place is famous for its Pret-A-Portea Afternoon Tea which is changed seasonally to reflect the fashion on the catwalk. We started with delectable little finger sandwiches and proceeded to a three tiered stand of gorgeous morsels, each made to look like some fashion item, including a green marzipan handbag filled with chocolate cake. It was outrageous but stunning, both visually and gastronomically. Not to mention the beautiful Paul Smith crockery...



After some window shopping along Knightsbridge we took a taxi home for a tiny bit of rest before our next event: Waiting for Godot at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. This production starred Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart, Simon Callow and Ronald Pickup. Let's put it this way, as entertainment this play is really hard work. It was 2 and a half hours of intellectually hard slog. For those familiar with it there is very little action as such, just a lot of dialogue. There were many nodding heads and droopy eyes in the stuffy theatre.



But the acting, oh the acting was wonderful. I can't begin to tell you how good those stalwarts of the stage were. Yes we may know Stewart and McKellen from the X-Men movies and from their various other film work, but this is altogether different. Their power on stage is awesome and Simon Callow, who is one of those people whose name you wouldn't remember but who you would all know from his many films, including Amadeus, is stunning. It was a very special treat to experience them live on stage.



Of course it was now after 10 pm and we were hungry. What better way to finish off a day of London culture and exquisite food then with a late night supper of McDonalds?



This morning we again breakfasted at Leon's because it's just a great little place for an easy, cheap breakfast. Then we set off for The Courtauld Gallery which is just down the road from us in Somerset House. This is a beautiful place in itself and the exhibition we viewed was just an extra bonus. I'm not that much into art but I know what I like, and I liked a great deal of what I saw today.



Then it was back into a taxi for another highlight, lunch at Maze Grill (a Gordon Ramsey restaurant). We were dropped off in Grosvenor Square and enjoyed a meander around the lovely little park before lunch. I especially loved the memorial to 11 September which is located in that park, presumably because the US Embassy, in all its glory, is across the road.



Now I am aware that Mr Ramsey is in all sorts of hot water for insulting Princess Tracey Grimshaw in the land of Oz but as far as I am concerned all is forgiven. Lunch at Maze Grill was a wonderful experience. For £18 each we enjoyed a beautiful three course meal and you just can't argue with that for good value. The service was perfect, the restaurant decor just right and the food was really superb. 9.5/10 my dear Gordie.



Nothing like a bit of exercise after a big meal and we got ours by doing a few hours of Olympic standard shopping. All the big department stores are there in Oxford Street but we made the biggest impressions at Boots and at John Lewis. Oh, how I love a department store.



We returned home exhausted but soon found the strength to pop out for a quick bit of pizza and risotto at Zizzi (another London food institution). The food was OK but the noise level was brain splitting so I won't be rushing back there (the fact that I live in Sydney notwithstanding). A nice long walk around the Embankment Station area and over the Golden Jubilee Bridge rounded off our evening very nicely, thank you very much.



Now it's 11 pm. Mum and J are upstairs, probably in bed asleep. I am very tired and looking forward to another big day tomorrow. It's getting very close to the end of this big adventure and I am almost ready to come home. I miss my babies very much, all three of them.



Hope all is well in the land Down Under. See you all very soon.

I'm a little dazed and confused by other news this morning so I'll try and cobble something together about yesterday. Luckily it wasn't a big day, well not too big.

We had a quiet start to the day and then had a wander around. Coming across the college where mum studied to be a theatrical lighting technician we came across a man who had also studied there, graduating the year before mum. He is now teaching there and was happy to chat with her as we all strolled along to the local market (a smaller version of the prevoz we had been to a few days before). It was strange to see a ginormous Ostrich egg sitting quietly amongst the normal sized hen eggs at one stall. The lady was glad to tell us all about it, how it equates to 25 average eggs; you learn something new every day.

Walking the old streets something which washes over us time and time again is the smell. The smell of decay, the smell of old, the smell of dirty. It is a particular smell and one I can truly say I have never come across before in the same way. Another thing I have noticed is how things are "maintained" here. The doors and windows, even on the buildings which are being restored or which have previously been "cleaned up", are thick with paint, it is caked on, all the finer details of the woodwork covered up. No-one bothers to sand the old paint on the woodwork back, take a little care, before applying the new coat, so that the effect is slapshod and tends to ruin the look of buildings which by other standards may look nice after their renovation.

We return to our apartment for a little rest before being collected by the husband of one of mum's friends (well he's a friend too, as they all went to school together). This the group of people who didn't want to join our previous get together, not wanting to be taken out by the "rich foreigners". They want to take us out and we get taken to an Armenian restaurant in a park near Arcadia Beach. The restaurant itself is nice, outdoor tables under canopies, obviously a party restaurant where people come for large family celebrations.

Our table is already laden with smoked fish, pickles, slow cooked peppers, flat bread, all delicious. Later a large platter arrives with grilled chunks of lamb and pork with marinated mushrooms, country style. It is nice but very rustic, the meat chewy.

Between courses we take a walk in the adjoining park which houses a large cage with some peacocks. The park itself surrounds what they call a Sanitorium, a health retreat of sorts. I can not begin to describe how depressing both the building and surrounds are. If this is where they go to relax I'd much rather stay stressed. The building is plain, old and peeling, dirty, half hanging curtains block the tall windows. I ask if it is still being used because I can not see a living soul in the place and it looks deserted to me. Of course it is still being used, I am told, as if I'm stupid and/or blind. The park through which we are walking is alright, there are tall beautiful trees and we see a single squirrel rushing from tree to tree, but it is unkempt.

After our meal it is decided to go to another cafe for coffee and cake as this restaurant isn't good on desserts. The cafe isn't far and most of our group walk there but we get driven there; you haven't lived until you've driven down a cobblestoned road doing 80km/h with a tummy full of roasted pork and pickles.

I have to say they know how to do a cafe here. There are many cafes and they are all interesting in their own ways. The one we went to, Cafe Fontoni, is mainly set outside and we sit at a very comfortable outdoor lounge setting in our own little pavillion. We order from a waiter called Boris and the exchange is worth filming. The carry on was diabolical and I said to mum most Sydney waiters would have curled up in the foetal position in the corner and cried for their mummy. It was funny but in a worrying sort of way.

As the evening gets darker the lights are turned on. There are fairy lights around the tall trees in the garden we are sitting in, the effect is beautiful. The place fills up with gorgeous young things, long legged girls on the arms of shady types arriving in fancy cars. It was a public holiday here yesterday and people are out and about.

Even though it isn't very late yet the three of us are tired and ready to go home. A few of our group are super loud, even by Odessa standards, and as my dear husband would say "they'd give a Bex a headache". Everything is shouted, everyone talks over the top of everyone else, it is almost impossible to have a proper conversation, every question and decision is argued about. We seem like quiet little mice amidst this bedlam. My Russian is not up to participating properly, I can answer questions when asked directly, I can understand a great deal of what is being said but often I don't get the real gist of the conversation because so much is jokes and word play. It is exhausting and my head starts to thud from the craziness of it all.

It is a blessed relief to come home to the peace of our apartment. I am tired but we don't go to sleep for a while and even when I get into bed I can't settle, tossing and turning for ages. It is our last night and so much has happened, we have seen so many things. My brain struggles to put everything in order, to find a safe compartment for each image.

It's life Captain, but not as we know it. That's how I would sum up my visit to Odessa. My city of birth is an amazing place, like in many third world countries it stretches to the extremes of poverty and wealth. It is beautiful and ugly, joyous and beyond sad, full of hope for the future and carrying the heavy weight of a difficult past. I can not truly imagine living here but I know that it could very well have been my fate and that would have just been the way it was. You don't know what you don't know.

I am so glad and grateful for this experience and for being able to share it with you all. I hope you have enjoyed sharing this journey with me. This is a record I will always treasure. Later today we'll be back in London for the second part of our adventure. Stay tuned.

Yesterday we barely started our day before midday. The late nights equate to sluggish mornings. Our plan was to head to Lanzheron Beach and walk along to Otrada Beach. We collected Lara and her sister Milla on the way and caught the bus from their place which they assured us was clean, spacious and that it was a quick trip. It wasn't. When the bus arrived it was already bursting at the seems. My natural reaction would have been to wait for the next one (or better still get a taxi, I am a princess after all). Their natural reaction was to squeeze onto this bus. Seriously, I know I'm totally spoiled but I don't like this sort of shit; some cultural experiences I can do without. We were jammed onto this bus like the proverbial sardines. It was a 30C degree day and I can tell you the heat in there was awful and the smell was even more so.

To back up just a little, another Odessa scene. As we wait for the bus a car with two men pulls up. There is a young girl standing near us, also waiting for the bus. She is skimpily dressed but obviously more for the beach than for a nightclub or a pick up. The men are obviously very drunk though it is lunchtime on Sunday and one of them is driving. We can't hear what they are saying but they are obviously trying to talk the girl into something she'd rather not be doing. She ignores them, shakes her head, steps further away from the curb. The leering dickhead in the passenger seat continues shouting at her, waving his beer bottle for effect. She steps even further away and tries to ignore him. Please, just drive away, I'm pleading telepathetically. But no, the driver gets out and walks over to convince the girl of his romantic prowess in person. You can feel everyone at the bus stop tense up; will there be a confrontation? I am ready to belt this idiot over the head. Their target looks young and she is tiny, a skinny little waif of a thing. This man is short too, not much taller than me. I'm not very scared of him but I do wish my 6'3" husband was there to at least menace him if not outright throw him onto the road in front of the oncoming traffic. Suddenly our bus is there and we, and the girl, hustle on.

We disembark at the start of Lanzheron Beach and walk down the wide boulevard towards yet another large monument; they love a monument here in Odessa. I imagine that the beach is beyond the low wall but there are only some disused factories crumbling into the vines and bushes. The sea is beyond. We walk along the path, stalls selling drinks, ice cream, blow up children's beach toys and salted fish on both sides. A proper beach starts to unfold on our left. It is a busy summer's day at the beach; young people, old people, families are enjoying themselves on the sand, in the water and sunning themselves in the dirty scrub on the right hand side of the path. The water looks clean and inviting, though it is a very windy day and the surf is choppy.

After a while we stop and have a rest in what may have once been a restaurant, though now it is just a large canopy with some tables and chairs. Mum goes in search of piroshki (the Ukranian equivalent of an Aussie meat pie) but comes back with hotdogs which mysteriously have pickled carrot and mayonaise on them. We walk back on the path higher up, between the trees. We pass a private country club where people can relax by the pool, have a meal, maybe play tennis. Up above us on the hill we can see apartment blocks, tall ones, but I can't tell whether they are new ones coming up or old ones coming down. To me they look like maybe someone started building them ten or twenty years ago and gave up half way through, the gray concrete shells looking sad amidst the encroaching weeds and vines.

Some more friends arrive, friends of friends, and the nine of us head off for a very late lunch or a very early dinner, it is around 4 pm. I see yet another Dacshund dog, the large size, smooth hair variety. I have probably seen twenty of them since we've been here. They must be a popular breed since I would be lucky to see 2 or 3 all year in Sydney. Also I've seen at least three Chinese Crested dogs (you know the small hairless black and white ones with the fluffy heads) which are rare.

We settle into a restaurant not far from the beach and order crab bisque which comes with tiny little profiteroles rather than croutons, chicken cutletki (which is a minced meat pattie which mum is famous for, at least amongst my sister and I), something called chicken fingers (which turns out to be a sweet and sour chicken dish not unlike that which may have been served in a Sydney Chinese restaurant in 1985), pelmeni dumplings with fish and sour cream and yet another variation on Napoleon cake and another cake called Kiev. As an aside on the Napoleon cake, it has become a bit of a running joke. Because I mentioned liking it as a child when we were at the food market a few days ago, now I can't turn around without someone offering me some. Like when I used to collect pigs many years ago and everyone would get me a pig decoration of some sort for birthdays and Christmases until I was thoroughly sick of all things pig related.

Anyway, during the meal mum mentions having met a woman here in Odessa when she last visited five years ago. This woman owns a building company and does many of the restaurant fitouts in this city, not to mention building private homes and doing the interior fitouts in many of the new apartment blocks. No sooner had she started talking than the friends of friends who had joined us said they knew her and were on the phone inviting her to join us. Half an hour later there she was.

Regina is a tough lady, so Odessa she may as well have it tattooed on her forehead. She was very glad to see mum and after lunch/dinner came to a close she offered to drive us around and show us some of the beach areas which are hard to access. This is probably a good time to talk about driving around Odessa. Everything about it is bad: chaos and anarchy I whisper to J as we drive, or even walk, around. The roads are atrocious and the drivers are worse. Much like in Colombia I am in constant fear of imminent death or permanent disfigurement. Our new friend Regina takes it up to a new level. Zooming around in her red Rav 4 I'm quite confident I won't survive the evening. One way streets, tram lines, red traffic lights, nothing seems a deterrant for this lady; worse still she strongly insists we don't wear our seatbelts because you just don't do that in Odessa. Whenever I try to quietly sneak my seatbelt on she catches me in the rearview mirror and yells not to.

We drive around some very strange looking beachside suburbs. There are some huge new money homes being built, big fancy homes, some nice, some awful, just like you'd find at home. But they are surrounded by streets which look like they have just been bombed. Broken pavements, overgrown weeds, junk. We want to drive down to a restaurant by the water so I can use the bathroom and there a young man, with his entourage of hangabouts, asks Regina for a "parking" payment. After a typically Odessa-ish exchange we drive down without payment and I use the loo in a very posh looking seafood restaurant.

Driving back Regina wants to take us to a reasonably new restaurant for coffee. Alexandrovsky Restaurant is a jewel in a sea of poo. It was a wealthy merchant's residence before the revolution and was then turned to crap during the Communist era. About a year ago it was restored and is in now an absolute showpiece, stunning in every detail. Even the cutlery rests on little pewter cutlery stands decorated with tiny gargoyles, the crockery is creamy Villeroy & Boch just like they use in my favourite cafe in Peter's of Kensington. We have tea and share yummy little profiteroles filled with nutty ice cream and topped with vanilla custard.

We head back to Milla's house for a final goodbye with Lara who is heading back to Latvia where she lives. She went there 40 plus years ago to work after finishing her studies and, despite living in various parts of the world, has ended up there far from her family. She says she likes Latvia, apart from all the bloody Latvians (who are famously anti-Semitic and anti-Russian). Everyone is laughing and telling stories and having fun but there is still sadness underneath. Who knows when they'll all see each other again.

Regina tells us about the little boy she almost adopted. The son of a white prostitute and a black student he was "rescued" at the age of 3 and put in an orphanage where she met him around the age of 9. They bonded and became great friends, Regina taking him home for weekends and buying him all he needed, treating him much like a son. She said she wanted to adopt him but a black Jewish boy in Odessa wouldn't have much of a life and being a busy single businesswoman she knew she couldn't be a good mother to him. Eventually he was sent to a summer program in the US and found a family who wanted to adopt him. Last week she returned from visiting him at his high school graduation. Samir is now around 2 metres tall and 18 years old; she is very proud of him and he loves her like a mother. It was a wonderful story and quite strange coming from this tough little nugget of a woman.

Eventually we said our goodbyes and arrived home well after midnight. These late nights are going to kill me.

Last night was magic. It was meant to be the big reunion dinner for mum and her found schoolfriends but it didn't quite work out like that. People are proud, people are complicated, people didn't turn up. So it was the usual suspects, the three of us, Lara, Milla, Zosa and a male friend who keeps popping up whose name I cannot remember.

On Zosa's advice we had booked a table at Klarabara; I chose it from Zosa's comprehensive review of local good restaurants just on the name, don't you love it. Also it is almost on our doorstep, just across the little park from our apartment.

Just before 7 pm we walked across and got transfixed by the park. An orchestra was playing in the large rotunda in the middle. People were dancing in front of the rotunda, mainly older people, mostly couples made up of two ladies. Can you try to picture it? A warm summer evening, a pretty park with a fountain, people walking around in their Saturday night best, the sweet music drifting through the air and these heart-breakingly nostalgic couples dancing.

The restaurant itself is actually within the park, on one side. We sat in the outdoor area where we could see the orchestra and the people. Klarabara is supposed to be modelled on an old style communal Odessa apartment (which had me a little worried to be honest, going by what I'd seen so far). But it was nothing like that. It's more like the eclecticly furnished apartment of your old gay uncle. Gorgeous mis-matched bits of furniture, lovely fabrics, thick curtains I could have killed for (and I'm not even a curtain type of girl) and funny little nick-nacks in the funny little nooks and crannys. A warm ambience I really loved.

A couple of special things about this restaurant. Pretty much all the paintings are large Botero reproductions. What are the chances of finding a restaurant in Odessa, Ukraine decorated with paintings by my favourite Colombian artist? Can you calculate the odds? It gave me an extra little thrill, I have to say. Secondly the restaurant is overrun by cats. One slept on my feet for about half an hour during dinner. Not sure how that would work with the Australian health authorities but I though it was a quaint touch.

Dinner was the usual array of cold starters: chicken liver pate (this version, like my mum's, not like the version you'd buy in the supermarket) which was soft, fluffy and not too rich, eggplant dip and an assortment of toasted breads and pickles, oh (almost forgot) and a gorgeous fried mushroom dish. Oh (and another thing I almost forgot) a dish of fried potatoes; when these were ordered J and I thought they'd be old style fried potatoes like mum used to make us, but when they arrived they were a small plate of french fries, McDonalds style, which everyone fell upon much to our bemusement.

Then we took a walk to the fountain. The orchestra had packed up and left. Now there was just music playing and lights on the fountain. There were lots of young families there, with little kids dancing around the fountain, a joyous sight.

We returned for our hot dishes. Shashlicks (marinated pieces of meat: chicken, beef, lamb) grilled and served with salad and flat bread, pork ribs with a cherry sauce. I loved it all. After another long break we argued over dessert finally settling on a slice of Napoleon cake, a poppyseed roulande and a sour cherry strudle. I have to say the poppyseed roulande was one of the most delicious things I've ever tasted and this morning I wish someone would hand me a giant plate of it right now.

There were seven of us, there was plenty of food, some of us had a mojito, some had wine, some had a liquor with dessert, we all had tea or coffee at the end. Zosa even bought a packet of cigarettes and the bill, with a tip, was less than AUS$200 (mind you we did benefit from Zosa's loyalty discount, which seems to be a popular thing here).

We had a little walk around the park which by now (after 11 pm) was getting a little less family friendly. There were many groups of drunk young men staggering around, looking a tad dangerous to my conservative eye. There were groups of young girls being eyed off by the dangerous looking boys. There were many couples kissing on bench seats (which seems to be an overriding theme here). The rotunda was now occupied by about half a dozen couples practicing tango, young people dancing beautifully, passionately.

Back at our apartment we sat around talking and laughing, planning for today. Finally our friends set off for home at midnight and I staggered to bed. I am reluctantly becoming such a night owl. Who knows how I'll return to my early to bed, early to rise routine back at home...

Let's recap the earlier part of yesterday. After (an increasingly late) breakfast we set off to the little souvenir market in the big park a block or two away. As much as I wanted to I couldn't bring myself to buy the tins of Odessa Fresh Air. But rest assured I am now stocked up on appropriately Ukranian souvenirs for all my nearest and dearest. You have been warned. One of the sweet little things I noticed was the older couple walking amongst the stall holders, selling home made food from containers in their laden plastic bags. "Freshly made at home this morning" they would say and the stallholders would eagerly ask what they had.

We dropped off our purchases and after a little rest headed off for the waterfront. We had decided to stop for coffee and cake at the cafe in the little park near the Opera House. Having passed it a few times in the previous days we had been charmed by the comfortable lounges sitting in the soft sunlight under the gorgeous trees. We had to walk past the marriage registry (where incidentally mum and dad had been married) which is across the little street from the Opera House. Saturday is obviously Wedding Day. There was a line of extra long wedding limos parked along the street and in the cul de sac, all with blinking lights and white ribbons.

As we approached an awful scene was unfolding at the front of the registry. An old man, a double amputee with no legs, possibly a discarded veteran from the Afghan war, who was obviously homeless and drunk had positioned himself in front of the registry doors and was shouting obscenities at the wedding couple trying to enter and the various people milling around. I felt so sick, but what to do. I guess the only thing buttoned down people like us can do, keep walking.

Trying, and failing, to put this awful scene from my mind we settle at one of the few tables left at the cafe. The place is overrun by wedding parties. I guess not everyone can afford (or even wants to have) an elaborate wedding reception, so many couples are joined by a small group of family and/or friends for a snack and a drink here. It is so beautiful, after all; a very suitabl place for such a thing.

Soaking in all the atmosphere we ponder the menu. I wish I could take the time to write down all the funny menu translations we have found here; I could write a book, or at the very least send out a tedious chain email you could all bore your friends and colleagues with. We settle on pancakes (crepes really) with red caviar, but only after mum asks the waiter if the caviar is "good" (only here could such a question be taken seriously and the young waiter and mum discuss this question for a few minutes while I roll my eyes at the absurdity) and chicken liver pate. I get an iced tea with granadine which seems to be the in thing; I am becoming addicted to these and will crave them upon my return home.

We people watch and scoff down our delicious afternoon tea; the caviar is good, very good (which surprises me since I have had a love/hate relationship with it ever since I've had two, possibly coincidental, bouts of severe food poisoning the previous times I have had it), the pate light and morish. My tea gorgeous, served with big chunks of orange and lemon amongst the ice. It needs to be said the newly married couples don't look too happy, generally speaking. One particular bride, who reminds me of a cranky, anorexic drag queen, would terrify the be-jesus out of me should I be the unlucky groom.

We continue down towards the waterfront as we want to go down the famous stairs and checkout the ship terminal. A man is holding a small alligator and a fluffy round rat-like creature is sitting on his shoulder. The alligator's mouth is taped together. Mum asks him about it and he says he is illegally brought from Egypt and that he doesn't feed him properly so he doesn't grow too big. This sounds disgusting and is probably a lie. He wants us to pay to have a photo taken with this unfortunate creature but we walk away. My sister wants to report him to somebody (but who on earth cares about anything here); she loves all animals more than most people and such cruelty breaks her heart.

All along the wide path families walk with their little children and babushkas sit on the benches with babies in prams, a watchful eye over playing toddlers. It's Saturday and everyone seems dressed up, especially the children. I've noticed that children are always well dressed here, the children I've seen seem cherished and coddled. On the other hand there are posters all over the city showing a beautiful young mother kissing a baby's head. I thought these may have been advertising Johnsons' Baby Shampoo or some brand of nappies but mum tells me they are ads asking women not to abandon their babies in the hospital. Oh!

On the famous steps leading down to the waterfront we see a man with a monkey in a stripped jumper and another man with another alligator and a green lizard. An older lady sits on the side with a tame owl, asking a small fee to have your photo taken with it. Later on, when we are returning up the stairs, I see what strikes me as a typically Odessa-ish moment. A couple are coming down the stairs with their son, he is around 6 or 8 years old. The woman with the owl calls out "boys and girls, come and see my owl". The boy turns and heads towards her, curious. The mother coming up behind him shouts "EEDY SUDA" (come here) but it's the harsh way she yells these words, the tone, which makes me think Odessa!

At the waterfront we have our photo taken with the statue of the woman and child looking out to sea. Here is the famous Odessa lighthouse, now dwarfed by the container terminals on either side, the giant hotel and the Russian Orthodox church with its shiny domed roofs which was strangely built right at the tip of this wharf.

It is hot and very humid. We head back to our apartment to shower, rest and get ready for our evening out. It is 4:30 already. The days fly by here.