Hanging on Down Under

As Tamsin and Chris are occasionally partial to a glass of wine, or two, and as a thank you for letting us stay with them for the week, Steve and I decided to send them on a wine tour, whilst we looked after the kids for the day.

So as Tamsin and Chris left - wearing that giddy look that parents get when they have no responsibilty for the day - we made our way to the centre of Melbourne and a science exhibition.

Within seconds of our arrival Archie had sniffed out the SNES Mario game and Ella was trying to feign interest in my stories of 'old' computers. I'd just explained about how her mum and I used to have to wait for hours for the cassette tape in our Atari to load up Space Invaders, before I realised she had walked off to find Steve - and I had been talking to a confused Australian school boy.

We spent the morning exploring the interactive displays - making a Matrix style slow motion movie clip, playing on old computers and generally pressing buttons to our hearts content!

After lunch, Steve left to catch up with Todd. Archie, Ella and I decided to spend another hour or so in the museum. Ella particularly enjoyed playing hide and seek in the pitch black room  (a slightly unnerving experience when you're in charge of someone else's children!) and it took a bit of persuading to get Archie away from the computers!

Following that I made the slightly misguided decision to try and find a playground in the nearby park. After twenty minutes of walking I had two fairly grumpy children who at one point lay on the grass and refused to go any further. Like a good uncle, I bribed them with icecream and we made our way to a park we'd visited the day before.

We spent an hour and a bit creating adventure stories on climbing frames, slides and swings. Ella made me be the monster and chase her, but it was Archie who left with a big sense of pride and achievement. Having just turned seven he found it hard to even reach the monkey bars, however that didn't stop him trying. The previous day, with a little help from his dad, he'd tried time and time again and managed all but one bar before he was exhausted. This would be the day though; he'd done his press ups, he'd got a new haircut and he was ready.

The moment he achieved his goal was a little bittersweet for me - although it was great to see his joy at completing the monkey bars, he had also managed to kick me in a rather tender area on his way down. I blurted out a 'Brilliant!' as I crumpled on the ground in a heap.

As we walked back down the road, with Ella trying to convince me of the merits of her having another piggyback, we heard a big crash. Turning, I saw that a car had pulled out in front of a tram and the two had collided. Whilst it was stopped we took the chance to hop on and rest three pairs of weary little legs - only to find Tamsin and Chris on board.

That night, our last in Australia, we had a barbecue and admired the amazing view from the apartment. Steve's friend, Jack, joined us an entertained with some juggling skills, whilst Tamsin helped ammend his CV, the best anyone can after visiting four vineyards in an afternoon!

We were leaving early the next morning, so, sadly, it was time to say goodbye to Archie and Ella. We read a few stories together before falling asleep on their bed. I'm terrible at goodbyes at the best of times, but with those two it always feels so much harder. Part of the reason - and I know I'm biased - is that they're such good kids, despite those devilish smiles!

Almost as hard is saying goodbye to Tamsin an Chris. It is not an understatement to say that without their help in past few years, I wouldn't have been able to take this amazing trip. I only hope that they know how much I appreciate their support - moral and financial! Thank you guys.

Our time in Australia was only short. Steve had used it to catch up with old friends and visit wineries (not a bad week!) and I had had the chance to watch F1, eat great food and spend time with my amazing family - oh, and see a wombat... Don't forget the wombat!

Awesome Aussie Animals

What is the best animal in the world? That's a difficult question, I realise, there are lots to chose from. When I ask children at school they often chose things like elephants, horses or little kittens and puppies. They're wrong. Until a few years ago I might have made the same mistake - elephants are cool, horses can run and jump 'n' stuff, and kittens and puppies are cute, I suppose. However, I learnt that the greatest of all the beasts is the wombat.

I didn't know much about wombats until my sister introduced me to her friends Robin and Rhinannon. Like me, they had done some backpacking in Australia when they were younger, but instead of the obligatory picture with a koala, Rob and Rhiannon were determined to get their photo taken with a wombat. And they did. Sitting pride of place in their front room, in front of pictures of their two young children, is a framed photo of them cuddling a rather startled looking Australian marsupial!

Robin has become rather evangelical about his love for wombats - telling anyone who will listen about the animal's ability to stick its head in the ground and leave their thick bottom in the air (a genius mode of self defence) - so much so that when Chris, Tamsin and I decided to take Archie and Ella to Melbourne Zoo, there was only one animal the grown ups wanted to see!

Steve, being the classy fellow he is, had joined his friends on a wine tour of the Yarra Valley. So the five of us embarked on our own adventure, through Melbourne on the city's tram network until we arrived at the zoo.

The first few exhibits we visited were a little underwhelming. All of the big cats appeared to be snoozing, prompting Archie to remark, "What's the point of having an animal in the zoo that sleeps all day?" Hard to argue with. The day improved, though, when we visited the sea life enclosure and saw a sea lion and his little penguin friends.

After lunch, we managed to find a few animals that weren't fast asleep: gorillas, monkeys, kangaroos and I even got to see the tigers that had alluded Steve and me in Nepal. We spent a while in the butterfly enclosure and Tamsin was very proud that her husband didn't scream like a girl (too much) as the beautiful creatures flew all around us.

We had left the best until last, though. Deep inside a network of tunnels, Ella and Archie came across what looked like a dead animal. It lay on it's back, motionless. Short stumpy legs pointing up in the dark, but if you looked close enough you could see its furry little chest rising and falling and a big fat bottom! We had finally found a wombat.

Back outside and we met another, this one only slightly more awake as it waddled around its enclosure. Nonetheless, a beautiful sight, I'm sure you'll agree...

We rounded off our day with a Chinese takeaway (something that is almost compulsory when you are with my sister) and learnt all about Steve's day - at least the bits he could remember.

That night, Archie and Ella settled down with a new cuddly toy that their parents had bought them at the zoo. Ella had chosen a lion and Archie a tiger.  I was that close to buying a wombat.

Need for Speed

I vividly remember the first time I saw a Formula 1 racing car in real life. It was June 1989 and my Dad had brought his Nigel Mansell obsessed boy to see his hero drive in the British Grand Prix at Silverstone. We had been sitting in our deck chairs since 6am and chosen our spot with our friends Dennis and Matthew. By the time the F1 cars arrived for their practise, we had already endured frost bite and suffered smoke inhalation from the disposable barbecue we'd 'cooked' breakfast on - but all of those worries soon disappeared when Andrea de Cesaris blasted his way around the famous old circuit. It wasn't so much the sight of the the red Dallara that amazed me as it passed us at Club Corner, it was the sound. The V12 engine screamed as it accelerated away from us - louder and more angry than anything I'd heard before in my life. My Dad recalls me standing with my bottom jaw almost touching the floor. I was in heaven.

Twenty-five years later and I'm still hooked on the sport. I've be fortunate enough to witness some of the greatest drivers ever to have graced a Grand Prix circuit - Schumacher, Prost, Vettel, Alonso - and even watched the late great Ayrton Senna. So when I realised that our time in Melbourne would coincide with the Australian Grand Prix, I jumped at the chance to attend.

Once my sister, Tamsin, had grown out of her My Little Pony phase (I think she would've been about 15), she became equally obsessed with Formula One. Whilst we had been in Qatar visiting her and the family, I had mentioned our plan and she and her husband, Chris, decided to come and join us in Australia too. I was so excited to be going to watch the opening race of the new season with her.

However, before we could watch any motor racing, Steve and I had to make our way from Malaysia to Australia. No problem, we thought. All our airport troubles are behind us, we thought. That was before the lovely lady at the Malaysia Airlines desk asked to see our Australian visas. D'oh!

Steve and I had been so diligent about researching visas and entry requirements for Southeast Asia, but neither of us had thought much about our week in Australia. After all it was one of the colonies, wasn't it?! Surely we didn't need a visa to enter somewhere with our flag on, did we? (In case any of my Australian/convict friends are reading, I am, of course, joking!) Apparently, we did.

Despite arriving in plenty of time, we were now faced with a race to get on board our plane before the departure gates closed. Our first obstacle was obtaining a visa. We had to collect a deli counter style ticket and waited for our turn - we were more than a little alarmed when we noticed that the current number on display was 2125 and our ticket was 3017! Thankfully, there weren't nine hundred people in the queue before us and we managed to get our paperwork done before racing back to the check in desk to drop off our luggage.

We were told we now only had a short time to get through security and make it to the departure lounge. In films this would mean pushing through crowds on escalators and hurdling security gates whilst being chased by security. In reality, it meant lots of stressful clock watching whilst patiently waiting in queues, like the good English boys we are. This was followed by a mad dash in flop flops through the departure hall to find our gate, which of course was the furthest away! We made it, by the skin of our teeth, and as we settled - slightly sweaty - on the plane we hoped we'd get some sleep before arriving in Melbourne the next morning.

As it turned out, our airport experience had been far less stressful than the one Tamsin, Chris and the kids had had to go through: their plane had been delayed by twelve hours and so we wouldn't be meeting them at the airport, but later on in the day. Instead, Steve had arranged to visit some old friends of his, Danielle, Todd and Lucy. 

We'd arrived in Melbourne at quarter-past-six in the morning and even by the time we had reached Danielle and Todd's house in the leafy suburbs of the city, it was still only seven-thirty. Despite the early hour on a Saturday morning, Danielle managed to give us a warm, if slightly sleepy, welcome and soon we were joined by Todd and Lucy.

That afternoon we were treated to a proper Aussie barbecue by our hosts - shrimps 'n' all! Todd and I set up the gazebo, barbie and sofa in the back yard, whilst Steve used his culinary expertise to create some salads in the kitchen with the girls. It was great to meet some new friends and see Steve enjoy catching up with old ones.

A taxi across town would probably have cost a small fortune, but we were in luck as another of Steve's friends, Jack, kindly offered to take us over to Tamsin and Chris' apartment.

After another sleepy greeting - this time from my brother-in-law, Chris - we were grateful for the chance to lie down and get some rest before the big event the next day: the Grand Prix.

I awoke the next morning, half expecting to be clambered on by my nephew and niece, after all, that's what Archie and Ella always do - but their flight ordeal the previous day had left them so shattered that they slept in longer than me. After saying a proper hello to Tamsin and Chris, I went to get revenge and jump on them instead!

Soon we were all up, washed, dressed and ready to go to Albert Park. As we wondered past a multitude of trendy looking coffee shops and patisseries, Archie told me about his progress on the Wii since I'd last seen him and Ella skipped along beside us (for approximately two blocks until she was tired and needed a piggyback!). It was great to be back with the family.

Inside the park there was a great atmosphere; Archie and Ella enjoyed the Pixar Cars themed kids' area, whilst the four adults found the food and bar more to their taste. We located a good spot to perch ourselves, opposite a screen and on a corner so that the cars didn't just scream past at two-hundred miles an hour!

We watched various support races and displays, until finally it was time for the big event. However, as the cars came round for their formation lap, I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed. Long gone were the screaming 3 litre V12 engines that I had fallen in love with all those years ago - this year, regulations required a 1.6 litre V6 hybrid version. Instead of a deafening angry roar, I could hear myself talking above the noise of Lewis Hamilton's Mercedes and Jenson Button's McLaren as they sped past. This wasn't how I'd remembered it!

Despite the lack of noise, the race was still a great spectacle. Unfortunately, Lewis had to retire early, but Jenson managed a podium finish.

As we wandered on to the race track after the race, I wasn't sure that F1 had grabbed Archie and Ella in the same way it had done Tamsin and I when we were their age, but they wore their McLaren t-shirts with pride and seemed to enjoy their day, particularly when it was rounded off with an icecream!

Malaysia Mourning

There was something that hung over Malaysia whilst we spent our two days there. It wasn't just the smoggy cloud that shrouded Kuala Lumpar in an eerie veil. Seven days prior to our visit, Malaysia Airlines Flight 370 had left the city's airport with 239 people on board, bound for Shanghai - it was never seen again.

Kuala Lumpar had the feel of a place trying to come to terms with the tragedy, whilst also trying to continue with life as 'normal'. Our long bus journey from the airport gave us a glimpse into another hectic Asian capital city. Busy roads criss-crossed their way through first dense residential suburbs and then in between the high rises of business zones before finally reaching the narrower streets of old downtown Kuala Lumpar.

Our hostel was a friendly place - no frills, but comfortable and coveniently situated next to dozens of food outlets - always a good thing when you are travelling with Steve! We freshened up, grabbed a bite to eat and then got on the train to go and see the city's famous Petronas Towers. 

Once the tallest buildings in the world, the iconic twin towers stand arm in arm and define Kuala Lumpar's skyline. Even in thick fog they were an impressive sight.

The next day we wandered around the city centre and quite accidentally stumbled over a huge shopping mall. If we'd tried to walk around the complex it would probably have taken us all day, so we settled for exploring the food court instead!

Before leaving the mall we couldn't resist visiting a shop that was ideal for Steve. Throughout our journey, on the strict instructions of his three year old nephew, Steve is taking photos of himself wearing a Superman t-shirt in various places. The shop we walked into had the biggest collection of superhero toys, outfits and memorabilia that I'd ever seen and it offered Steve a great photo opportunity. We found a pair of Superman pyjamas and Steve promptly entered the changing rooms to transform into Clark Kent. 

My job was simple: take the photo. However, whilst I was waiting for the transformation, I started to read the comic strips that were plastered on the changing room doors and there at the bottom was written: NO PHOTOGRAPHS. So when Steve emerged in his pyjamas (which, incidentally, cost over £100!) I tried to surreptitiously take his picture. He obviously hadn't seen the sign as he proceeded to blatantly pose proudly!

We a managed to escape the store without being fined an then made our way back to the Petronas Towers to try and find our bus to the airport. We were frustrated to find the park surrounding the skyscrapers largely cordoned off, but soon realised that the lush green fields were soon to play host to a concert in aide of the 'rescue mission' for Flight MH370. In fact, everywhere you turned there were big billboards that bore the slogan #prayforflightMH370.

I don't think that our brief stay in Kuala Lumpar gave me the time to form a real opinion of Malaysia. The whole place seemed, understandably, somber - collectively holding its breath for news of the missing plane and the passengers. Tragically, it appears that news might never come.

Finding Nemo

Steven Spielberg has a lot to answer for. Yes, he's helped to create a number of brilliant films like E.T., Jurassic Park and Schindler's List, but he also partly responsible for a whole generation who are a little bit apprehensive about going in to the sea. Don't get me wrong, I love swimming or surfing in the ocean - it's just every time the water gets beyond waist height, I'm sure that John Williams' famous score will be begin (du-duh... du-duh...) and that the only thing that could be beneath me is a fifteen foot long Great White Shark. I know it's stupid, but I don't think I'm alone - lots of thirty somethings I have spoken to have Jaws syndrome!

The fear of Speilberg's monster (rather than the actual creatures, which are majestic and awe inspiring) means that when I was asked whether I wanted to go snorkelling, last time I was in Bali, I hesitated. Thankfully, I agreed and ended up having an absolutely incredible experience. So, I decided that Steve and I should return to the laid backed little island of Nusa Lembongan and have another go. I just hoped Steve would be as impressed.

We had managed to barter with some local ferrymen in Sanur and almost halved their price for a fast boat across the Badung Strait to Nusa Lembongan. The captain blasted his way across the notoriously dangerous choppy waters and within forty-five minutes we were watching surfers attempt the ominously named Lacerations reef.

The gentlemen we had purchased our tickets from had recommended a friend who would take us snorkelling. His name, although I'm fairly sure not the name his mother gave him, was Captain Nemo. So into his character, was Nemo, that his friend had put a label on me before we left Bali, which said 'Whale' - at least I hoped it was a literary reference rather than a comment on my weight.

Captain Nemo promptly welcomed us aboard his vessel - painted orange and white, like a clown fish - and took us around the coast towards two spots that he claimed would be perfect for us.

Our first destination was nicknamed 'The Wall', as it was where a neighbouring island met a small reef and then plunged into a deep ravine. Steve and I wrestled with our mask, snorkel and flippers for a few minutes before we sat on the edge of the boat and dropped backwards into the emerald waters.

I'd been a bit nervous about it to be honest, not because of the Jaws thing, but because I had wanted it to be as good as last time. Maybe I had been overly nostalgic and it wasn't as good as my rose-tinted glasses had remembered? I needn't have worried. One glance under the surface revealed an incredible vista; fish of all shapes, colours and sizes swam beneath us. 

For the next fifteen minutes the tide took us first one way and then the other along this extraordinary aquatic shelf. We were reluctant to get out of the water, but Nemo reassured us that the mangroves would offer us just as good an experience. Five minutes later and we were both back in the warm sea and, if anything, the waters around us were teeming with even more life than before. The ocean floor was covered in a plethora of corals - all different shapes and colours - creating an almost other worldly landscape. Adding to our enjoyment of the dive was the fact that Nemo had given us some bread and so the fish swarmed around us and ate out of our hand! A dream-like encounter that we won't forget in a hurry.

Anything we did that afternoon would've been an anticlimax, but we did enjoy renting another moped and exploring the rest of the island. Nusa Lembongan is a world a way from the hectic roads of south Bali and so we weaved our way around numerous potholes in peace until we found this great bridge...

 

...and then made our way to Dream Beach where we ate a traditional Balanese meal of Nasi Goreng and then had one last swim before our boat journey home.

The swim wasn't exactly what you would call relaxing - big waves pummelled us and a we had to battle with a strong current that tried to pull us out to sea. Exhilarating is probably a more accurate description. We enjoyed it so much that we were almost late for our trip back to Bali! Steve even managed to rip open the crotch of his shorts (again) whilst long jumping a gap in the seafront wall. Luckily, our boat was sat waiting for us and we headed back to Sanur.

During our final week in Indonesia, we also battled the elements on an epic six hour round journey to the centre of the island, as well as managing another surf and a few journeys over the brand new 12km long road bridge.

We said goodbye to Bali by sitting down for a meal in a beachside restaurant with Grishka, Meredith and Scarlet. It was a great way to end two fantastic weeks on the island. We'd made some great new memories and some even better new friends.

Baggage Claims

I've watched a few of those survival programmes presented by the likes of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls and so I'm pretty sure I am now prepared to survive a week alone in the harshest environments planet earth can throw at me - Siberia, Sahara, Amazon - no problem. 

Bali isn't one of those places. The island is beautiful and it's easy to see why it entices so many to visit its shores each year; ribbons of white sand line the coast, which is inhabited by surfers seeking the perfect wave and sun worshippers supping an ice cold Bintang and enjoying the laid back lifestyle. Fairly idyllic really! However, if you were to throw Ray or Bear on to the island with only one pair of pants, I think they'd be struggling too. After all, I believe there are only four acceptable ways of wearing your underwear - traditionally, the way the tailor intended - inside out - back to front and inside out and back to front.

Before I go on, I realise that this isn't the most highbrow topic of conversation, but I wanted to convey the peril I was in. As I mentioned, there are four ways to don your underpants. As I woke on Monday, it had been five days since we last saw our luggage in Vietnam!

Thankfully we were due a quieter day - Sally was at work and Ochie at school - and so Steve and I decided, as we had heard nothing from the airline concerning our lost bags, that we would go there ourselves.

Despite nearly crashing into one another on the way there, Steve and I got to Ngurah Rai International Airport in one piece and made our way to the Lost and Found department. To our delight, as we approached the desk, we saw two bags that fitted the description of our own. We let out a rather girly scream before racing toward them, ready to embrace them like some long lost friend! Steve got the there first courtesy of his longer legs and confirmed that he had indeed been reunited with his Vango bag and all its contents. He was ecstatic and turned to high-five me. But I left Steve hanging...

The bag in front of me was nearly right; it was green, like mine, it was made by Osprey, like mine, it had the straps to attach a smaller bag to it, like mine... but something wasn't right.

At school I often watch the children identify their misplaced jumpers by smelling them. Not using visual clues (like the name tag!), but putting the garment to their faces and inhaling. At first, this practice made me feel quite queasy - it was a technique I'd last seem used by a Canadian Mountie on the TV show, Due South, to track down criminals. However, I had been left no choice - if it worked for seven-year-olds, it could work for me. I took a deep breath and sniffed. It wasn't mine.

In hindsight, I should have turned the bag over as it would've revealed a hole that wasn't on my luggage and, more importantly, and name written in permanent marker. My bag was still lost.

We left with promises that they would investigate further and make sure Tiger Air found it. I was dejected, but at least we had one bag and I wouldn't have to wear my creepy shirt and the Union Jack shorts again. I was further cheered up on the way out of the airport when I noticed these signs (below). Is it just me or are the meeting points B and C a little superfluous?

To cut a long story short, it was another three days and two more visits to the airport before my bag was flown to Bali. Six days after I arrived, I was finally able to wear a fresh t-shirt and access my wash bag!

By then, possibly motivated by the smell eminating from her visitors, Sally had flown back to England. She and Ochie were going to spend some time with family and friends in the UK. Her incredibly generous parting gift was to let us stay in her house whilst she was away. I hope she knows how much we appreciated that gesture.

We spent the next few days chilling and familiarising ourselves with the southern peninsula of the island. By the end of our time there we had managed to source many a great place to eat and a few to play pool and watch rugby at. The only disappointment being that I couldn't find a Welshman to whom I could rub in our victory.

We quickly became integrated into the beach lifestyle and even decided to take some surf lessons with our new friend from Cornwall, Grishka. Now, I've done a little bit of surfing in my time, but I usually end up swallowing a large amount of water and face planting into the white wash, whilst those around me make it look effortless. In fact the last time I had surfed in Bali, a year ago, my best friend, Paul, had had to push me back to shore as the swell was too strong for my lacklustre paddling technique! Grishka didn't have a lot to work with. But it turned out that Grishka was not a bad person to get some lessons from as he casually dropped into conversation that he had been European Champion, not once, but twice. What a great opportunity!

There was a catch though. Our new American friends, Amanda and Meredith, had made me promise to surf with the Union Jack shorts on. So out they came for one last outing!

Grishka was a great and patient teacher; soon Steve and I were standing on the board and I was sure I could give Kelly Slater a run for his money. It was one of the first times I had realised why so many of my close friends were addicted to the sport. Mind you, surfing in shorts and t-shirt in the tropical climate of Indonesia is slightly different from the artic conditions of Westward Ho in February!

Grish does surf lessons in Bali and back home in Cornwall during the summer, so if you need a teacher - he is worth looking up (he might even mention that he was European champ once or twice!). You'll find more information at his website - surflessonscornwall.co.uk - we highly recommend him!

That evening we visited a great spot to view the sunset. From the cafés and bars in Ulawatu we watched as dozens of surfers bobbed up and down in the waves. The water looked like liquid gold as the sun sunk lower in the sky.

Steve and I made a toast and saluted the endeavours of those in the sea below us. As I sat drinking a cold beverage I realised that maybe I wasn't ready for the challenge of Siberia or the Sahara after all. Ray and Bear could deal with that - this was more my cup of tea.

 

A Short Story, set in Bali

I'm a loser. Take this however you want, but I mean it in the literal sense of the word - someone who loses things. I am, in fact, a world class loser. I must lose my car keys at least once a week and I've lost count of the number of times my wallet has gone missing. This would almost be something to be proud of if it wasn't coupled with the unfortunate truth that I am also rubbish at finding lost items.

Standing beside the luggage carousel in Denpasar airport I had that not unusual sinking feeling that something was missing. I checked my pockets; passport, wallet and phone were all present. It was only when I looked up again and noticed that Steve and I were stood virtually alone in baggage claims that I realised what it was. We didn't have any bags.

A quick check with the 'Lost and Found' department confirmed our fears that our luggage hadn't actually been transferred to the new flight, as Tiger Air had promised, but was, in all likelihood, sat in Singapore airport somewhere. Wonderful.

Not to worry, we thought, this isn't the first time luggage hasn't made a connecting flight - in all probability it would turn up tomorrow and that would be fine.

We'd arrived in Bali late on a Friday evening and were soon on our way to meet an old friend of Steve's. Sally had wanted Steve to come and visit her for years and so being in the general area gave us a great excuse to pop over to Bali and for me to return to a country I had been to only twelve months ago.

My brief visit last February had somewhat prepared me for the mayhem that was to greet us in Bali's party town of Kuta, but being bleary eyed from another long flight meant that it was still a shock to the system when our taxi dropped us off. The familiar sound of mopeds was drowned out momentarily by Sally's scream as she saw Steve for the first time! Soon we were inside meeting some of her friends, who, in stark contrast to our zombie like states, were very 'awake'. The large majority of the small crowd seemed to be American, who were loud and happy enough to ignore the fact I was barely able to stay awake long enough to hold a coherent conversation. One particularly agile friend greeted Steve by putting her foot on his shoulder. Whilst being fairly impressed by this show of suppleness, I hoped that this was not a traditional local greeting, otherwise it would not be long before I ended up in the local A&E.

Despite our tiredness, Steve and I accompanied the rest of the guys as they moved on to other establishments and eventually we found ourselves in a place known as the Sky Garden. With a uncovered dance floor and seats on the fifth floor it offered a great view of the madness below. Unfortunately, it was at this point I lost something else - Steve.

After conducting a mini search of the top floor I decided that it would be more sensible to sit still and wait for him to find me, which I did. For an hour. Finally, as I was sat on a comfy sofa drifting towards dream world I noticed the tall and slightly annoyed figure of my cousin waking towards me. It turns out he isn't too good at finding things either!

A short taxi ride later and we arrived at our home for the next few weeks - Sally's house - and promptly collapsed into a deep sleep.

The next morning we were introduced to Sally's four-year-old son Ochie, who, despite being turfed out of his comfortable double bed by two strangers, seemed relatively pleased to meet us. It was great to have a shower and get out of the clothes that we had been wearing since we'd left Vietnam, three days previous. The problem was that we still had no clean clothes to change into! It was then that Sally produced some of the most ghastly garments you are ever likely to see in your life. Two short sleeved shirts, a pair of denim shorts and particularly special pair of Union Jack shorts.

We needed to be brave - beggars can't be chosers. We were either going to be trend setters, unafraid to break away from the norm and try edgy new styles that fashion designers would be setting the catwalks on fire with in Paris next year... or we would look like complete muppets. I'll let you be the judge...

Imagine wearing that. It isn't a fancy dress party, that's how Steve and, more to the point, myself, were dressed as we rode through Bali's busy streets on our way to the beach. If going out in public wasn't bad enough, Sally had arranged to meet up with a couple of friends at the beach.

The beautiful golden sands and warm waters briefly distracted me from my clashing outfit, but I was soon brought back to reality by the sound of laughter. Not my own, but that em imaging from a small group of people a hundred yards up the beach. I looked around wondering what the source of their hilarity was, before realising it was me. It was Sally who was stood amongst her friends whilst they gazed at me with a mixture awe and pity. But mainly pity.

Although I'd met Sally's friends, Meredith and Amanda, briefly the previous evening - I think I had been dressed slightly more conservatively and it was now that I was making a bigger impression. In fact my shorts were so impressive that when another of Sally's friends, Grishka, turned up and couldn't find us, he was promptly asked if he was looking for the 'guy with the shorts'!

I had a feeling I wouldn't live this down for a while!

Despite them destroying any self respect I had left by saluting the shorts every time they saw me, we decided to spend the majority of our weekend with Meredith, Amanda and Grishka. Steve and I enjoyed splashing around in the warm water with Ochie - and Meredith's daughter, Scarlet - whilst Sally enjoyed the chance to splash unsuspecting locals by belly flopping in the water next to them.

In the evenings we ate together and I discovered that Amanda was struggling with an addiction to Balsamic vinegar and that Grishka was a Cornish bay from just over the wrong side of the border near Newquay. It turns out that we had some mutual friends.

Even though our luggage had still not arrived by the Sunday - two days after we'd landed in Bali - we were definitely beginning to embrace the island lifestyle. Talking late in to the night and then lying on a beach the next day. I could certainly get used to this. Even in those shorts.