Hello from Singapore Airport Londonites… it’s finally happening – I’m heading back to English soil – tired, travel weary and as blind as a bat. The airplane airconditioning dried my contact lenses and they are now clinging to my eyeballs in optic desperation. The computers here also time out every fifteen minutes so if I seem a little bit narky… sue me.

Grumpiness aside, I’ve come out of the ‘Aussie’ experience noticably wiser. There are few certainties in life but after six weeks in Australia, I have emerged with some pretty concrete theories.

1. Sun tans are overrated.

2. Jagerbombs are the work of the Devil.

3. The Duty Free section of international airports are evil.

Honestly, Freud may have been on to something with his “what goes up” malarkey, but I think I’ve struck gold here.

Theory one is a conclusion derived by my inability to produce gorgeous, glistening brown skin. I came home with one aim – to tan and to do it quickly. Australia is, however, the skin cancer capital of the world.

Upon my arrival I found myself inundated with ‘Slip, Slop, Slap’ skin protection campaigns and fliers crying “melanoma!”. England and unsightly orange fake tan streaks here I come.

Theory number two is the direct result of a weekend of over-consumption. In a desperate bid to force my tear-logged peepsers open during yesterday’s ‘Last Supper’, I downed 6 Red Bull and vodkas and finished it off with two Jagerbombs for desert. The result? An insomniac on a long haul flight! Gawd help the poor sod who sits next to me on the way to London.

In case you’re wondering, Jagerbombs are the latest Aussie craze. My first encounter with them occured at a reunion party last weekend. The host, an Australian cricketer called Robb introduced me to the phenomenon that is; a shot of German herbal liquor with Red Bull. The result? A cricketer clad in nothing but pink jocks and an enitire team attempting to plan to sunbake naked on the roof. Only in Oz.

Dorothy and Toto would be proud.

Right, that’s my boarding call… if I totter off fast enough I may just get time to pop into the duty free section. I have a final illicit love affair with Prada to fulfill. Somehow, I think the $2.00 in my pocket won’t get me much further than a bag of banana chips.

Beggars can’t be choosers. For everyone else.. there’s Mastercard.