Within one week walking the Australian soil I have managed to catch a dose of hay-fever, burn myself to a crisp, scoff oysters Kilpatrick, fight dizziness in a revolving restaurant, ride on the world’s steepest train, tentatively pat a stinky koala, and observe Russell Crowe’s sunbaking techniques.
Yes, it’s all happening ‘Down Under’ – wish you were here to sunburn with me.
The koala encounters, sun scares and Sydney Harbour cruises are all part of travelling with a British Boyfriend. As are the joys of stubby holder hunting and countless mammoth ‘all you can eat’ breakfast buffets. Sharing a hotel however, with the Gladiator himself was not something we’d expected. I guess it’s all part of the Palazzo Versace Hotel dream. To be honest, I wouldn’t have recognised him if a gossiping cabbie hadn’t informed me he was staying at our hotel. The man is huge. Forget toned, bulging arms and ripples muscles; flab has replaced the brawn… and his stubble is fast approaching forest status. Obviously his days as a wannabe rock star are taking their toll on his tum.
Luckily for all involved, I failed to witness the launch of any mobile phones or other dangerous implements. Personally, I was disappointed – a Russell Crowe induced food fight in the middle of the stunning Versace buffet would have been classic. Caramelised bananas would have made the perfect soggy missiles.
If you ever get the chance to visit the Versace Hotel on the Gold Coast – do it. A word of warning though; storm a bank or cash in on your Grandpa’s inheritance first… the place is costly. Worth every cent, according to my better half with the credit card. Why use an ordinary shower cap when you can use a Versace version?!
It goes without saying; the maids’ trolleys were severely depleted in our devious kleptomaniac souvenir runs. One can never have too many Versace shampoo and conditioners.
The award for the ‘memory of the trip’ goes to- a surprise marshmallow bath with the lot. Think hot chocolate fondue, strawberries and marshmallows. Bubbles galore, a spa big enough to drown in (and I damn well nearly did… I blame the champas!) and a bathroom full of candles. I regret to report that the champagne was also responsible for a lack of ‘lovin’. Let’s just say, after emptying the bath, the romantic Casanova returned to the bedroom to find his maiden zonked out on the bed.
We are now in Adelaide, adjusting to the confusing sight of Santa in the baking sun, icy decorations in the heat of summer and flies in every orifice! Nannas have been visited, BBQs attended, dreadlocks admired and vegemite consumed.
Tomorrow it’s farm time… bring on the milky udders, manure covered quad bikes and wilting Christmas trees. I’m informed that there are 50 bonbons to be hand made and 2,500 bovines to be milked. I think I miss London already…
Have a great and snowy Christmas Londoners… I’ll report next from the cow paddock. Bridget Jones eat your British heart out!