We’ve all seen it; this simple statement cross-stitched and pinned up on walls worldwide. But what if your heart can’t quite make up its mind? What if the poor blood pumping blighter never quite mastered the art of decision making? My arterial epicentre has always been a bit on the confused side and now, more than ever, I’m finding it hard to decide on where I want to call ‘home’. It’s first column of the year fodder if ever I saw it.

It should be easy but for some it’s not as simple as a roof over one’s noggin. I’ve lived in a variety of places; rural Australia, with grandparents in Adelaide, in an environmentally friendly uni house, amongst the snow-covered forests of Southern Germany, and more recently, a lengthy stint in London. I’ve lived with boyfriends, family, a fiancé, an ex-fiancé, on couches, on the floor of a band’s instrument room, in muddy festival tents, with friends, with lovers and in a house share with complete strangers. Still, I haven’t quite found myself willing to lay out a welcome mat and notify the Yellow Pages.

Now, for the first time in six years I find myself at a crossroads. I’ve kicked off 2009 jobless, homeless, penniless fiancé-less and according to some, heartless. Save the violins though; I also had one of the most enlightening years of my life. Fresh starts are the ‘in thing’ these days daaahling. The bad luck has also landed me in a six week trip home to Australia where the plan is to turn over a gumleaf or two. More surprisingly; since landing on Aussie soil, I’ve experienced the first urge to actually move home in almost a decade. No one ever said the life of a creative writer was supposed to be easy but has my time in the UK come to an end?

ET had it easy you know; the bloody extra-terrestrial only had to point his finger and it lit up and showed him the way. I tried it and landed myself a collection of weird looks. Most people use a TomTom when they can’t find their way. If I tried that sly move it’d end in a technical meltdown to rival Arnie’s in Terminator II. Nope, this is an internal battle… the worst variety.

So troops, as I job hunt my way through the next five weeks (London and Australia) I’ll keep you posted on the findings. As I type I’m on my way to the family farm to see my mum for the first time in a year. Maybe she’ll have the answers. More likely, she’ll hand me some ‘farm clobber’ and tell me to feed the roo and help deliver some calves. If I’m lucky I might even land the ‘placenta removal’ job. We’re in the midst of a heat wave here in Oz; and farm life is bound to throw up a few monstrous spiders, early morning cow dung avalanches and a drama or two. I’ll report back on each gumleaf turned, each character and creepy crawly encountered and the ever-present pull of London and the special people there that have somehow become my family away from ‘home’.

In the meantime, Dorothy, if you’re out there… I’d quite fancy borrowing that Yellow Brick Road. You can keep your ruby slippers though babe, we do thongs ‘round here.